The wind tore across the ridgeline, bending the pines until they looked like they were bowing to the storm. The Kaelith stronghold stood against the gray fury, its stone towers shuddering as thunder cracked above. The scent of ozone and wet earth filled the air—an omen of what was coming.

Draven stood at the courtyard’s edge, rain slicing across his face. His coat was open, the black fabric whipping behind him. Every muscle in his body was wound tight with a barely contained rage. The storm ...