Dru had lived on the outskirts of the village of Elmere for fifteen years, her only companion an old, grouchy dwarf named Merath. He had been her constant guardian and friend, raising her from infancy. Though he never spoke of where she came from, he had taught her everything she needed to survive: how to build a fire even in the rain, how to read animal tracks, and how to find her way home beneath a moonless sky.

Elmere itself was small, nestled between dense pinewood and the curling edge of the high cliffs overlooking the sea. Its houses were built from rough timber and dark stone, roofs pitched steep against the weight of winter snow. Smoke rose from crooked chimneys, and the scent of baked bread and tanned leather lingered in the air. It was a quiet place, stubborn in its rhythm, a kind of haven for those who didn't want to be found.

Yet every year, just before the frigid winters set in and before the chaos of Shadow's Twilight swept the land, Elmere stirred with life. Nomadic humans from the northern reaches came through with carts laden in trade goods: furs, oils, dried fruits, and strange trinkets carved from bone. They traded for grain, tools, and news. And just as quickly as they arrived, they disappeared into the snow.

Merath always said it was a good place to grow up. Dru sometimes wondered what that meant.

That morning, she had climbed the cliffside like she had countless times before. That was where the sky felt the closest.

She stood at the edge, the wind threading through her curls, tugging at her cloak. Below, the forest unfurled like a green sea. And just beyond the horizon, she saw it—a cloud.

It was low. Too low. Darker than it should’ve been, with veins of indigo like bruised skin. The air shimmered faintly around it, even though the breeze was cold.

It pulsed once, like something had shifted inside.

Dru narrowed her eyes.

And then came the sound—hoofbeats, and the rattle of wheels.

She turned to see a caravan climbing the road toward Elmere. Banners streamed between the trees—pale green, rimmed in gold. Elven soldiers, dozens of them, rode in a solemn line. Their armor shimmered like moonlight on still water.

At the center of the procession, hidden behind silk curtains and a wooden frame traced in silver, rode a lone figure draped in white.

Dru held her breath.

The cloud lingered. Then it began to move—following.

By the time Dru reached the village, the caravan had already arrived.

The square pulsed with quiet energy. Elven soldiers stood like tall shadows beside their gleaming mounts. Villagers kept their distance, whispering behind hands and shutters. The ornate wagon sat at the center, its curtains closed.

Dru spotted Merath by the well, pipe in hand, shoulders tight. He didn’t look surprised.

An older elf—silver braid, scarred jaw—turned and caught sight of him. Their eyes locked.

A nod. Cool. Familiar.

Merath didn’t return it.

"Didn’t think you’d still be here," the elf muttered.

Merath’s pipe clicked. "Funny. I was thinking the same."

The elf’s mouth twitched. Then he turned and vanished among the others.

Dru lingered, heart thudding. Something passed between them—something heavy. And whatever it was, it wasn't part of the visit.

But life moved on.

By mid-afternoon, Elmere settled back into its rhythm. Bread was baked. Wood chopped. Animals fed.

Merath sharpened his axe without a word, while Dru collected kindling nearby. "You saw them," he said.

"From the cliff," she answered. "And the cloud."

His eyes flicked up. "Storms come in odd ways this time of year. Best not to give ‘em meaning where there’s none."

But she wasn’t sure he believed it.

That night, with wind scraping against the walls and pine branches whispering secrets to the dark, Dru lay wide awake. That cloud had moved against the wind.

And the elf had known Merath’s name.

Something

was beginning. She could feel it.

And the sky had broken first.