We climbed in silence, this time slower than before. The storm above growled with thunder. Every few steps, lightning rippled across the sky, white veins crawling through the inky black.
The orc's words wouldn't leave me. Rukh'drak'nar. The Living Storm. From other records that I was able to get my hands on I knew it had other names. The kobolds called it the Wrath of the Gods, the aetherlings called it The Origin of Wind.
But most knew him of another name. Every child had heard it whispered before sleep, every soldier had laughed about it over ale. It was an old myth, one of the founding of the Confederacy, and the one who blessed the people.
Cloudbreaker.
The story said that long before the Confederacy, when the lands were still wild and the councils were nothing more than scattered tribes. The Fenrir ruled these plains. Wolves born from the breath of the wind.
They were Balu's first born creation, her living tempests, and the first she made was Cloudbreaker: a wolf so vast his claws shook the ground and his howl could tear the sky in half.
Back then the tribes were more numerous. Orcs, goblins, and kobolds were not united under one banner. Ther were many other species that also wandered. Trolls, mushroom people, aetherlings, changelings, people made of plants, and giants all roamed the land.
Although the land was chaotic, there was balance. Mortal men kept to the forests. The Fenrir roamed the Stormvale Meadows. For a time, peace between human and monster was simple; a careful balance had been struck.
No monsters from beyond the Stormvale Meadows dared to cross its threshold. And in return, no human harmed, hunted, or intruded upon the land of wolves.
Then came greed. As it always does.
The story echoed in my mind as we made out way closer to the top of the wall. The thunder crashing with an ear splitting cacophony.
The tribes held a gathering, blinded by the envy of the Fenrir's gift. They wanted to own what they could never understand: the power to summon storms, the beauty of a pelt that shimmered like lightning caught in fur. Three races refused: the orcs, the goblins, and the kobolds.
In response the others cast them out, sent them to Hell's Gate, and went hunting. They came upon one of the wolves, wounded it, and tried to steal its pelt.
The stories say the sky split open that night.
Cloudbreaker's wrath drowned half of the known world. Thunderstorms raged for weeks, rivers turned to graves, vast verdant fields were turned to mud and bone. When the sun finally returned, only the three who had abstained remained.
Those three were spared and before Cloudbreaker they all swore an oath. They promised to never harm the children of the storm. And when the surviving tribes united afterward, they called themselves the first Confederacy.
That's where the story usually ends. Where children stop listening and drunks stopped singing. But once I had dug deeper. I had found an elven storyteller in the port of Ancrest who swore he'd lived through the storm itself.
When I asked where the Fenrir's were today, he said that the wolf had lingered long enough to watch the Confederacy build the wall, then turned away leading his tribes into the great beyond.
"The monster was kind," The elf had told me, his eyes distance, the way old sailors speak of ghosts. "He spared the Confederacy not because they were worthy or whatever smoke they try to sell you nowadays, but simply because he was tired of killing."
At the time, I'd laughed and bought him another round. I'd assumed he was spinning tales to keep the drink pouring. But as we reached the top of the wall, breathless and soaked from sweat, that laughter died.
The storm wasn't just in the sky anymore. It was a living thing. It clawed at the invisible wall that surrounded the city. I saw the barrier breathe, an endless fight as wind pushed in and magic pushed out.
Despite the external struggle, not a single lance of lightning or water touched us. The wind and rain crashed against it like a tide against glass. Lightning split the air in a thousand directions, drawing burnt trees through the sky.
Beyond the wall, the world had been unmade. The forests that once framed the horizon, green and live, now lay falttened. The river that once fed the city had turned against it, spilling over its banks, devouring fields of grain and the little homes that dotted their edges.
Then the sky tore open.
A bolt of lightning as thick as a man's torso split the heavens, branching in a web of searing white that reached down toward us. For an instant, everything froze. Time stretched thin, the sound gone.
And then a shadow moved. Something stepped in front of us faster than eyes could track. A single figure, one arm raised. The lightning struck her hand like a divine hammer meeting stone. The impact was deafening, the world going a pure white. The blast should have torn us apart. Instead, it broke around us like water striking a rock.
Helena stood before us, her palm smoking faintly. The only remnant of what just happened. Her eyes glowed with a gold, unnatural steadiness.
"How…" I started, but my voice caught.
She didn't answer. "Follow me, you brats!" she shouted, her voice cutting through the roar of the wind.