Aethra did not welcome its visitors—it measured them.
The floating city loomed above a spire of cloud-wreathed cliffs, its towers tethered by lightning-infused chains that hummed with power. Aran, Elira, and Vaerin ascended along the Stormpath—a winding trail of ancient windstone that shifted and reshaped with each step, testing balance and will.
When at last they reached the upper platform, the air grew impossibly still, heavy with pressure and anticipation.
Guards waited—figures clad in gleaming cobalt armor, eyes veiled by helms shaped like eagle-beaks. They did not draw weapons. They didn't need to. The message was clear: You are permitted. But not trusted.
A single word was spoken from one of them. "Follow."
The trio was led through a labyrinth of wind-carved bridges and echoing halls that pulsed with magical current. Aethra was alive in a way most cities were not—each structure a conduit of energy, each breath a reminder that the city existed only by the will of the storm.
They were brought to the heart of it: the Stormborn Court.
A circular chamber open to the sky above, where lightning danced like serpents and stormglass domes refracted the tempest. At its center stood the Oracle—her robes crackling faintly with energy, her twin-colored eyes fixed unblinking on Aran.
Around her stood her council: seven figures cloaked in sky-dyed silks, each marked by an elemental symbol—wind, water, ice, storm, void, mist, and thunder.
The Oracle spoke.
"You passed the Mirror. You defied the Sable Winds. Now you stand in the eye of the storm."
Aran met her gaze. "I came to end this—before fire and sky tear each other apart."
"You presume you understand what's at stake," the Oracle said softly, though the storm above her cracked with sudden violence. "You think this is your story. But you are not the only one marked by prophecy."
Elira stepped forward. "Then tell him the truth. No more riddles."
The Oracle raised her hand—and the stormglass around them shimmered to life. Visions swirled: a burning city, a broken crown, a shadow rising behind Aran's flame.
Then a final image: two Arans, facing each other. One of fire, one of storm.
"Your fate is not a path," she said. "It is a choice of selves. And only one of you will survive it."