The wind never rests. Not here. Not ever. It screams across the barren plateau, carving gashes through the land like a blade across parchment. Dust swirls like ash from old gods, and even silence, when it dares to settle, is soon shattered by the low roar of the gust.

In this eternal gale marches a band of twenty-three — a human spearpoint forged against nature itself. The Windward Horde, 34th of its name. Trained since childhood for one purpose: to reach the mythical Extrême-Amont, the source of the wind. No one has ever returned from there. Most never even come close.

The Horde doesn't drift. It cuts through the world in formation, each step a defiance of entropy. At the tip: Ω Golgoth, the Tracer, body turned into lead and will into steel, dragging them forward through chaos. Behind him: the Prince (π Pietro), the Scribe () Sov), the Troubadour (¿' Caracole), the Fighter (∆ Erg), the Falconers, the Twins, the Healer, the Windsmith, the Scout, the Crocs... and others still, each with a role, each a wheel in a complex machinery of survival. Their bodies form a living phalanx to pierce the wind itself — sometimes bent low, leaning into hurricane blasts, sometimes crouched, sometimes stretched into flexible arcs depending on terrain, gale, and threat.

But now, strangely, they’ve stopped.

A village. A night of uneasy rest in Lapsane, a wind-sheltered cluster of stone and straw. The Horde, alien and awe-inspiring, strides into the main square like a weatherfront. People stare. Children hide. Old ones whisper.

Then someone sees it — a shadow. A figure. A teenager, barely more than a wisp of limbs and oversized boots, ducking between buildings, keeping close behind the last Croc. Watching. Following. Like a thread dangling from the hem of a myth.

Golgoth sees it too.

He stops mid-stride. Muscles tense like a taut bowstring. He turns sharply, steps straight toward the figure — gravel crunching beneath his boots. With brutal, almost feral speed, his gloved hand grabs the teenager's arm.

The wind howls. Dust rises.

Ω “What do you want, little ghost?” he growls. “You think this is a parade? You think you can just walk behind the Windward Horde? What can you do?”

Around him, the other members halt. Eyes turn. A tension rises — the Horde, rarely at ease, now shifts on the edge of something... unexpected.

Your answer may shape more than just the night.