The Chase of the Storm

The wind tore through the cliffs, carrying with it the salt-slick smell of the Waste. Dren crouched near the edge, eyes locked on the massive storm twisting in the distance. Below, the jagged terrain of the Waste spread out like a broken map, but it wasn’t the landscape that held his attention.

“That storm,” he muttered, squinting against the waning sunlight. “It’s turning. Like… it knows something.”

Anora stood a few paces back, arms crossed. She followed his gaze, watching as the storm bent unnaturally northward, curling toward something unseen. “Storms don’t just turn,” she said. Her tone was matter-of-fact, but a faint unease crept in.

“Exactly!” Dren said, standing and brushing dirt off his hands. “That’s a big thing. We should check it out.”

Anora stared at him. “We should do what?”

“Follow it.” He gestured dramatically, as though the logic was obvious. “I mean, it’s not every day you see a storm acting like it’s got a brain, right? What if it’s—”

“No,” she interrupted. “Stop right there. Whatever it’s doing, it’s bad. And we’ve got other problems.”

Dren frowned. “Other problems?”

Anora hesitated, her eyes narrowing as she pieced together a memory. “The orb…” She said. 

“Spin the sphere while the sun still reigns,

Speak your truth, but guard what remains.

When the air hums and shadows fall,

A child must hold it to waken all.”

Dren blinked, confused. “The truth? That thing talked a lot, but I don’t remember any of this.”

“Of course you don’t.” Anora shook her head. “But I do. It’s not just about facts, though—it’s about intent. Whoever activates it has to speak their truth.”

“A truth?” Dren scratched his head. “Like… what? ‘I’m Dren, and I hate storms’?”

“Not that kind of truth,” Anora said, exasperated. “Something personal. Important. And we need to get this message to someone who can actually use it. Fast.”

Dren looked out over the Waste, calculating. “We’re too far from anywhere. Even if we sprinted, we’d never make it by sunset.”

Anora glanced around, her mind racing. Her eyes landed on a gleaming figure.“Roam,” she murmured.

“What?” Dren turned, following her gaze.

“It’s been hiding that it can speak, you think it’s not hiding other things?” she said, already moving toward the edge of the cliff. “It can get us there.”

The Creche shifted as they approached, its form elongating into fluid lines as it climbed the rock face with unnerving grace. When it reached the ledge, its head tilted toward them, its layered metal surface rippling with faint patterns.

“You know more than you let on” Anora said, her voice firm. “Fast.”

Roam’s form shifted again, its body unfurling into something that resembled a massive winged creature. Its voice, soft and resonant, filled the air. “Ashvine is your destination. But your purpose extends further. You must speak to Lyra.”

Dren looked at Anora, then back at the Creche. “Lyra? Who’s Lyra?”

“She is the Keeper,” Roam said simply.

Anora frowned. “Keeper of what?”

“The Orb’s intent,” Roam replied. “She alone can activate it. She must hear your message.”

Dren opened his mouth to protest or complain again about how Roam never talked to him before, but thought better of it. “Fine. Let’s just go before this storm decides to come back this way.”

Roam lowered itself, allowing them to climb onto its broad metallic back. Its wings unfurled with a soft hum, and before either of them could fully prepare, they were airborne.

The Waste unfurled below them, the jagged remains of a dead world lit by the sinking sun. Dren clung to the Creche, his knuckles white, while Anora kept her focus on the horizon.

“Lyra,” she repeated under her breath. The name was unfamiliar, but it carried weight. “Who is she, really?”

“She is the thread between what was and what could be,” Roam replied.

“Cryptic as ever,” Dren muttered, though a flicker of unease crossed his face. “You sure this Lyra’s the one we’re supposed to find?”

“She is,” Roam said with finality.

Ahead, the storm loomed larger, its unnatural arc clearer now. It wasn’t random; it was deliberate, curling protectively around the distant village of Ashvine as though it was preparing to eat it whole. 

“We’re running out of daylight,” it said. “If you wish to deliver the message, we must hurry.”

As Roam picked up speed, Dren was muttering curses under his breath about heights. “You ever think maybe we’re in over our heads?” he yelled over the increasing wind.

“Every day,” Anora replied, gripping the metallic handhold tighter.

The wind tore at them as the Waste unfurled below, its harsh, broken beauty illuminated by the dying light. Somewhere ahead, Ashvine waited—along with whatever Roam had hinted at but refused to fully reveal.