The Mark of the Storm

It’s said that those who bear the Mark of an Element are chosen by forces beyond mortal understanding—bound to fire, water, earth, or air in a way that transcends blood or training.

But the storm does not choose lightly.

Gael Nas should not have survived the ritual that marked him. Many before him had tried to claim the storm’s power, only to be torn apart—bones shattered by wind, hearts stilled by lightning, souls swept away like dust. But he had endured. He had not broken. He had changed.

Now, the storm lived beneath his skin, crackling in his veins, stitched into his breath. The sigils scorched into his flesh carried both fire and tempest, a volatile fusion that made his magic unpredictable at best and catastrophic at worst. He was not just a rogue. Not just a wizard. He was something in between—a force meant to slip through cracks, to vanish like the wind, and strike like lightning when least expected.

And perhaps that was why they were hunting him.

Rain hammered against the rooftop of the abandoned inn, drowning out the distant sounds of the city. Gael sat near the window, fingers spinning a coin across his knuckles. Candlelight flickered against his freckled skin, illuminating the runes burned into his arms.

He wasn’t supposed to be here.

Baldur’s Gate was dangerous enough without his face being recognized. Yet something—or someone—had drawn him back. A whisper in the back of his mind, a pull in his chest that had nothing to do with magic.

A gust of wind swept through room, carrying a scent unfamiliar. Not rain. Not the city’s usual stench. Something sharper. Closer.

Gael stilled, the coin vanishing into his palm. His mismatched eyes flicked toward the doorway, where a shadow lingered just beyond the dim candlelight.

"If you’re here to kill me, at least let me finish my drink first," he said, voice dry but poised with readiness.

His fingers brushed over the dagger at his waist. Just in case.