The Grand Forum was a pit of shadow and stone, where the Spire's decrees were enforced during a crisis. Rain dripped from the arches, filling the cracks between spiked tiles where old blood had long since dried. The sky above heaved with dark and endless eruptions, its violent flashes of light illuminating the gathered masses—citizens pressed shoulder to shoulder, their faces hollow with obedience.

Kieran stood among them, the silence within louder and more pressing than any decree ever could. He knew what was coming, yet the dread still seeped into his bones.

At the heart of the forum, beneath the cold glare of the Council's banner, Ashen knelt. His arms were shackled behind his back, his once-proud frame crooked, stripped of his tools, his gear—stripped of everything but his name. And even that would be erased soon enough.

The High Arbitrator stepped forward. His robes were the color of dying embers, a deep red that swallowed the light. His voice was measured, deliberate and void of any mercy.

"The Spire does not suffer under traitors."

The words broke the long silence.

Kieran's hands trembled as he balled them into fists.

"Ashen Locke, by order of the Council, you are sentenced to death."

A low murmur passed through the crowd, but it was not shock and neither horror. It was acceptance. The same empty, mindless acceptance that had ruled these streets for as long as Kieran could remember.

Ashen laughed. The sound was raw and rough, but it cut through the hush like a blade.

"That's it, then?" he asked gratingly, tilting his head toward the Council's stage. Rain clung to his face, streaking through the dirt and dried blood. "No trial? No chance to defend myself?"

The High Arbitrator did not blink.

"The guilty have no need for trials."

Kieran felt something break inside him.

A low hum filled the air—not from the storm, but from the Council's enforcers lining the execution stage, their shocklances humming with restrained energy. A reminder and a warning. No one in this city challenged the will of the Spire and lived.

Ashen's gaze turned to the crowd, searching. Kieran felt it land on him as it waited. He couldn't move. What could he do?

A hand brushed against Kieran's fingers—so light, so quick, he almost missed it. He turned just as a scrap of paper was pressed into his palm that was damp and delicate. There was no face or either any whisper, it was just a movement in the shifting sea of bodies. And then they were gone.

Kieran unfolded the note, finding four words, blurred by the rain.

"Follow the storm's eye."

The sentence was set as the storm rumbled overhead. And in the cold emptiness of the Grand Forum, Ashen waited to die.

The rain had not stopped.

It poured through the narrow corridors of the undercity, slipping through cracked ceilings and rusted grates, filling the spaces where silence once discharged. Kieran moved through the drenched streets, the paper clutched in his fist—following the storm's eye.

He had not spoken since the decree. He had not breathed, truly. The words still rang in his ears, a death stroke that would not fade. Ashen would die.

And Kieran had done nothing.

He turned a corner, slipping into the cover of a half-collapsed archway. The undercity was different from the towering perfection of the Spire above. Here, the walls bore the scars of time that were etched with old rebellion, with names of the forgotten and the damned. He would not join them. Not yet.

A figure waited in the darkness, half-covered by the ruined metal spine of an abandoned watchtower. Kieran tensed, checking if it was an enforcer, luckily, it wasn't. He had to be careful.

Then the figure spoke. A woman's voice that was low and measured, he knew who she was.

"You're late."

Kieran stiffened. "You tell time by the rain now?"

A dry chuckle. "No, but I do tell death by silence. And you've been very, very quiet."

She stepped forward, the dull glow of a broken streetlamp catching the curve of her face. Veyna, was an informant and a broker. A ghost that only spoke when the price was right.

Kieran's fingers tightened around the note. "You sent this?"

Veyna tilted her head. "I deliver messages, not miracles."

"Then who?"

Her lips fluttered. "You are asking the wrong question."

Kieran exhaled firmly. He was puzzled out—his hands still ached from cradling, his pulse was a steady drumbeat of too late, too late, too late.

"There's nothing left to ask." His voice was sour with regret. "They're going to kill him. I can't stop that."

Veyna studied him. Not with pity. Not with contempt but with understanding.

"You want me to tell you that you had no choice," she murmured. "That you did what you could. That you're not a coward for standing in the rain while your best friend waits to be executed."

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Kieran suddenly caught his breath. What was he supposed to do?

"But I don't lie, Stormguard." Her voice was soft now. Softer than it had any right to be. "You could've spoken. Could've fought. Could've died trying but you didn't."

The words hurt and they made Kieran flinch.

Because they were true.

Veyna reached into her coat, pulling free a small metal disk, its surface etched with symbols that burned a dull, eerie blue. She turned it between her fingers before pressing it into his palm.

"The storm has always watched," she said. "But now it's speaking. If you want to listen, follow the eye."

Kieran looked down at the device. His reflection was twisted on its surface, his face carved into something unrecognizable.

Veyna stepped back. "You only get one choice, Kieran. Live as the man who let him die, or be something else."

And then she was gone.

Kieran stood alone in the dark, the guilt of failure burning his chest. He had waited too long.

But perhaps—perhaps it was not too late.

The plaza was located in the city's heart, gaping and raw beneath the storm-raging sky. Rain poured heavily, hammering against the stone like a war drum. The Council's banners hung heavy, their golden badges darkened by the rain. Nothing shined today.

Kieran stood in the crowd his hood drawn low with a shallow breath. He had not spoken since the night before, he had not slept, he had not allowed himself to believe in the impossible.

Because there was nothing impossible about this. Ashen was going to die.

The execution platform appeared above the restless mass of bodies. It was high and deliberately imposing. It was a reminder that The Council did not grant mercy.

Ashen knelt in its center, shackled, with his head bowed. A sinner before the Spire. His clothes were torn, stained with blood from wounds Kieran could not see. But he knew. He knew.

A masked enforcer stood beside him with their sword gleaming, waiting for the decree.

Vaelen Strake stepped forward. The Council's mouthpiece. Their storm-touched general. He did not raise his voice, yet it was heard over the crowd very intensely and precise as a blade.

"Ashen Locke, by decree of the Council of the Spire, you have been found guilty of treason. You have stolen what is sacred. You have trespassed where no citizen may tread. You have forsaken the Spire's light."

Kieran's nails bit into his palms.

"For this, you are sentenced to death."

The words landed like hailstones.

Ashen did not flinch neither did he struggle. But he lifted his chin, and in that brief moment, he found Kieran in the crowd.

His eyes were hollow, battered with pain but Ashen still—locked onto him. A quiet understanding exchanged between them.

You're here.

Kieran's chest narrowed by the "I am not saving you." look he gave him.

Vaelen turned to the sky raising his arm. "Let the storm bear witness."

And then, the wind howled.

It was not a natural thing. It did not move with the steady rhythm of the tempest, nor did it whisper like a distant thunder. It roared. It shrieked. It lashed through the plaza with a sudden, violent intent, tearing banners free, sending them spiraling into the void.

Lightning split the sky making the executioner take a step back, while he glanced up.

Kieran's heart pounded. He had seen storms before. He had trained in them, he had fought within their rage.

But this—this was different and violent.

The air carried a load of suspense with an energy that made the hair along his arms stand on end.

The enforcer raised his sword.

And the storm cracked with an excruciating sound.

A force that crashed against the platform, sending the masked executioner staggering. The crowd lurched back as another bolt of lightning struck the tower behind them, the sound deafening.

The platform shook. Vaelen stepped forward, gaze locked on the storm above. Kieran could see something in his expression and it wasn't fear.

Ashen lifted his face to the sky, rain streaking through his blood-matted hair.

And then Kieran saw it. Beyond the clouds. Beyond the chaos. A moving shape that was not wholly clear but it was undeniable.

The storm had always been their prison and their warden. A force of nature that was untamable and indifferent. But now it watched them from above as it moved.

And it was angry.

A surge of wind tore through the square, knocking enforcers from their feet, rattling the iron chains around Ashen's wrists.

This was a warning and an immediate demand.

For a fraction of a second, everything came to a stand still.

And then Vaelen lowered his hand.

"Do it."

The enforcer steadied his grip, raising the sword again. The storm raged, but it did not break.

And Kieran—Kieran could do nothing.

The blade fell.

The world did not stop.

The rain did not cease.

The storm did not save him.

Ashen Locke was dead.

The storm still raged, but the execution was over.

Ashen's body lay still upon the platform, rain soaking his torn clothes, washing the blood down the wooden planks in sluggish rivulets. The enforcer stepped back their sword dark with the kill. The crowd was silent at first and they began to shift uneasily. Something was wrong.

Not with the execution—executions were normal. The Council would say it was necessary. But the storm said otherwise.

It hadn't settled nor had it passed.

Kieran stood frozen in the crowd his hood still low his hands held so tightly to the point his nails started drawing blood. He barely felt it. He barely felt anything.

He felt like he was suffocating.

It should not have ended like this.

Vaelen Strake stepped forward with rain streaking his face and his golden cloak a sodden mass around him. He turned toward the people, surveying them with the cool, assessing stare of a man who had seen too many of these and would see many more.

"The Spire stands," he declared. His voice cut through the thunder like a blade.

There was a moment of hesitation. Then, scattered voices echoed back, murmuring the response expected of them:

"The Spire stands."

But it was weak and half-hearted.

Kieran felt the unease spreading through the gathered citizens and the doubt creeping in. They had all seen the storm's reaction. It had not been a mere weather.

It had fought them.

Whispers were traded among the crowd, too low to be understood but unmistakable in their intent. They were whispers of doubt.

A man near Kieran muttered, "This wasn't justice."

A woman beside him, her face pale and drawn, she barely moved her lips as she whispered, "The storm saw."

Kieran's heart ached, what had he done, couldn't he have done anything to help his dear friend, why did this crowd show no mercy before all this? Why did his friend have to suffer the consequences of secrets hidden to the people. Something that should be of public knowledge.

They weren't alone in this.

People had obeyed, had repeated the words the Council demanded—but no one had cheered. No one had celebrated the fall of a traitor.

And Vaelen knew it.

His indifferent gaze moved through the crowd, searching and reading the shifting tension beneath the surface. His expression did not change, but Kieran saw the way his jaw tensed, the way his fingers curled just slightly at his sides.

He knows.

The execution had not strengthened the Council's hold.

It had shaken it.

Vaelen turned to the enforcers at his side. "Clear the square."

The order snapped through the air, and suddenly a movement erupted.

Steel-dressed figures descended into the crowd, their presence an unspoken threat. People shuffled back, some breaking away quickly, others hesitating just long enough to trade glances that carried unspoken words.

Kieran forced himself to move, slipping into the shifting bodies.

He was nearly at the edge of the square when a hand snatched his wrist.

He twisted instinctively, but the grip held him firmly.

The person who gripped himwas also wearing a hood. Their face was hidden, but beneath the shadow of their cowl, Kieran caught the glint of sharp eyes.

And then with a whisper, barely audible over the storm:

"Follow the storm's eye."

Kieran wondered what was all the fuss with this storm eye thing, it was really starting to irritate him.

Before he could respond, the figure was gone, melting into the dispersing crowd.

He was left with a hidden message, no one to explain anything further to him and this was a call far larger than himself.

This was not the end.

This was the beginning.