As Draemir trudged toward the silhouette on the horizon, he noticed something strange. The structure—if that’s what it really was—seemed to be moving, almost… flowing. It was subtle at first, a trick of the eyes, maybe, but as he drew closer, the edges of the shape seemed to waver and ripple, like water disturbed by a stone. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and looked again, but the effect didn’t disappear. It was as if the entire thing were alive, shifting and pulsating in place.

What… is that? Draemir thought, a shiver creeping up his spine. He couldn’t make out any details yet—it was still too far away, little more than a dark shape against the endless gray of the wasteland. But the way it moved was wrong, like it was breathing, like it had a heartbeat.

Every few moments, a harsh flash of light pulsed from the silhouette, bright enough to sting his eyes, even from this distance. It was irregular, unpredictable, each flash like a jolt, as if whoever—or whatever—was on the other side was deliberately trying to disorient him. He squinted, frustrated, feeling the ache of hunger clawing at him, making him irritable.

“Who flashes somebody like this?” he muttered under his breath. “Especially when I’m clearly moving toward them.”

He could feel himself growing disgruntled, his patience worn thin by the ache in his stomach and the endless monotony of his surroundings. Hunger made him irritable, more prone to grumbling about things he couldn’t control. He knew he should be cautious—this was the trial, after all, and that strange, rippling silhouette could be something dangerous. But right now, he was more focused on the idea of someone over there, possibly with food.

Another thirty minutes passed as he walked, each step bringing him closer to the silhouette. The flashes of light became more frequent, and the rumbling sound that had first drawn his attention was growing louder, a deep, steady vibration that pulsed through the ground, as if something massive was shifting and grinding beneath the earth.

He wasn’t exactly worried—yet. But he wasn’t exactly looking forward to whatever was waiting for him either. He’d seen enough scenes on the cracked TV screens in the market to know that walking toward the only light and noise in a desolate wasteland usually didn’t end well. He had a feeling that if he were a character in a movie, someone would be shouting at him to turn around and run.

But he didn’t have any other options. The silhouette was the only thing of interest in this entire dead landscape, and if he wanted to find food, shelter, or even just a clue about what he was supposed to be doing here, he had no choice but to keep going.

As he walked, his mind began to drift, turning inward. There was nothing to look at, nothing to break the monotony except the slow, steady growth of the silhouette on the horizon. The gray, sunless sky hung overhead, as unchanging as the cracked, barren earth beneath his feet. His legs ached from the walk, his stomach twisted in hunger, and the silence, broken only by the occasional rumble and flash from the distance, seemed to press in on him, isolating him in a way he hadn’t felt before.

He stole another glance at the silhouette. It was closer now, though still too far away to make out any details. If anything, it was only more confusing. The size of it was enormous, towering against the horizon, but its shape remained indistinct, as if he were looking at it through a haze. Was it a structure? A mountain? Something else entirely? He had no idea.

It must be huge, he thought, trying to imagine what kind of thing would loom so large, even from this distance. I just hope… His stomach growled again, and he grimaced. I hope they have food.

The thought was half-joking, half-desperate. He didn’t know who or what “they” were, if anyone was even there at all. But he couldn’t help himself. Hunger was an old, familiar companion, and it always had a way of making his mind wander to fantasies of full plates and warm meals, no matter how unlikely.

The rumbling grew louder, a steady, rhythmic vibration that he could feel beneath his feet now, traveling through the cracked earth with each pulse. The air felt thicker, charged with something he couldn’t name, a tension that set his nerves on edge. And still, the silhouette grew larger, still rippling, still pulsing, but never quite coming into focus.

Draemir pressed on, each step carrying him closer to the unknown.

As Draemir moved closer, a sudden gust of wind hit him square in the face, forcing him to stop and brace himself. His heart raced from the unexpected force; after hours of walking through dead, stagnant air, feeling the wind was a shock to his system. The gust carried with it a damp, cold moisture that clung to his skin, thick and heavy. It felt out of place in this lifeless, empty wasteland, where there had been no sign of water in the air or on the cracked earth.

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He squinted into the distance, the shape he’d been watching for hours now taking clearer form. It was no structure. No wall. No hidden sanctuary.

It was a storm.

A massive thunderstorm, churning in the middle of this endless, barren landscape. Dark clouds loomed overhead, layered and dense, a towering formation that rose up like a twisted monument to some raw, primal power. Torrents of rain poured down from the storm’s center in heavy, unbroken sheets, disappearing into the deep cracks and fissures in the ground. It was relentless, a downpour so thick it turned the ground beneath it into a web of rushing streams and murky rivulets.

Every so often, a flash of lightning split the clouds, a brief, violent burst of light that illuminated the storm from within. In those moments, Draemir could see the rain hammering down, turning the ground below into a churning, restless flood. The lightning flickered irregularly, casting jagged, unnatural shadows across the landscape. And each time it did, the thunder followed—an endless, echoing growl that made his chest vibrate, filling the silence of the wasteland with its booming, unrestrained power.

Draemir felt a strange mix of awe and apprehension. This storm was like nothing he’d ever seen, but it was also the only thing in this wasteland that broke the monotony. The landscape stretched out in all directions, empty and dead, as far as he could see. The storm was simply there, in the midst of it all, hanging over the cracked earth like an immovable force of nature.

It doesn’t belong here, he thought, a shiver running through him. Thunderstorms didn’t just sit stagnant in one place, churning endlessly without moving or dissipating. But here it was, a powerful, unwavering storm right in the middle of this endless, desolate stretch of earth.

Another gust of damp wind rushed toward him, chilling him to the bone. He wasn’t even close enough to be in the storm’s path, but he could feel the weight of it in the air, the moisture prickling against his skin. He took a step closer, then another, his gaze fixed on the dark clouds and the relentless downpour in the distance. He could feel the rumbling of the thunder in his chest, a deep, bone-shaking resonance that seemed to pull him forward even as his instincts urged him to keep his distance.

How is this part of the trial? he wondered. Am I really supposed to walk into that?

It felt absurd. Everything about the storm felt wrong—out of place in a way he couldn’t fully explain, yet still natural enough to send a warning through every fiber of his being. This was no safe haven, no place of shelter. It was raw, unrestrained power, right there in the heart of the wasteland.

But it was also the only thing here. He looked around, taking in the endless expanse of cracked ground, of gray, empty sky and lifeless earth. Nothing else stood out; nothing else offered a direction, a clue, anything. The storm was the only thing that gave this landscape any sense of purpose.

Draemir let out a slow breath, gathering his nerve. If the trial wanted him to step into that storm, then that was what he’d have to do. He was dead anyways; might as well die the way the trials intend him to.

‘Does lightning kill instantly?’ The thought creeped into his mind.

He took another step, his gaze locked on the churning clouds and the relentless sheets of rain. The rumbling grew louder with each step, vibrating through his bones, filling the air with a constant, low growl. The storm loomed closer, every detail growing sharper—the flashes of lightning, the roaring downpour, the way the streams of water twisted and merged as they cascaded into the cracks in the earth.

His stomach tightened with nerves, but he forced himself to keep walking. Step by step, he drew closer to the storm, his mind racing with questions he couldn’t answer, his heart pounding with a mixture of fear and determination.

There was no other choice.

There was something honorable, Draemir supposed, about facing certain death. At least, that's what people always said. Honor in sacrifice. Dignity in courage, even when there was no hope of survival. People seemed to find comfort in the idea, as if dying for something greater made the end more bearable.

But as he stood here, staring at the massive storm looming just ahead of him, he didn’t feel like he was making any kind of noble sacrifice. No one would remember him after this, and no one would sing his praises. No, this didn’t feel like honor. It felt like bad luck.

"So," he muttered to himself, glancing up at the churning clouds overhead, "instead of fighting for my life against some harrowing beast—and maybe, maybe having a slim chance at survival—I’m supposed to just walk into a deadly thunderstorm and die?"

He wasn’t impressed.

If this trial was meant to test his spirit, it was doing a poor job of it. He could think of at least a dozen more dramatic ways to meet his end than stepping into a geographically impossible storm.

Yet here he was, trudging closer to what seemed like certain death. The sheets of rain cascaded down from the dark clouds in thick, unbroken lines, hammering the ground in a constant, relentless downpour. Lightning split the sky at random intervals, the flash so bright it turned the world white for an instant before plunging it back into gray.

Draemir was only about a hundred feet away now, close enough that he could feel the cool mist from the rain brushing against his face, dampening his clothes. He could see the details of the storm’s edge—how the water hit the cracked ground and splashed upward in violent sprays, feeding the rushing streams that poured into the fissures beneath his feet.

He stopped, taking a long, steady breath as he gazed at the wall of rain before him. The thunder growled, deep and resonant, vibrating through his chest. This was it. He’d come all this way, and now… now he’d face whatever lay within that storm. Not out of honor, not out of courage, but because he simply had no other choice.

With one final, resigned sigh, Draemir accepted his fate.