The Wind-Hall of the Aerethyn was never silent. Every conversation carried a faint tremor beneath it, the restless shift of air responding to power. Rune stood in the center of the circular chamber, posture straight, expression calm, wings folded tight against his back to avoid showing agitation. The elders watched him from their crescent dais—faces composed, eyes sharp, as if weighing him against the weight of his lineage.

“Your bond stirs again,” Elder Maelith observed, her voice thin as a blade. “Does the mortal feel distress?”

Rune inclined his head. “A momentary flare. Nothing dangerous.”

One of the younger councilors scoffed. “Mortals are fragile. Their emotions shift like flawed weather patterns. It is foolish to let it distract you.”

A light breeze curled around Rune’s ankles, answering the spike in his irritation. He smoothed it away with a practiced breath. “My bond is not a distraction. It is part of my duty.”

Elder Maelith studied him, fingers pressed together. “You speak of duty with devotion. That is why you were chosen. But devotion blinds as well as guides. Remember that, Raido.”

He bowed deeply, hiding the flicker in his blue eyes. Only the wind noticed the truth: he was no longer content to serve the clan’s idea of destiny. He wanted the real thing—you—and the pull of that desire was beginning to change the currents around him.