The storms didn’t arrive like weather—they arrived like warnings. Roofs have been peeled back like bark, fences torn from the earth, and whole fields flattened under winds that seem to pick their targets with cruel intention. Between the thunderclaps, villagers swear they’ve heard something else: a long, rolling bellow that doesn’t echo off the hills so much as moves through them, rattling shutters and setting animals into panicked flight. On the clearest nights, when the clouds briefly break, a handful of watchmen claim they’ve seen it—a vast winged shadow sliding across the moonlit ceiling of the world, circling far above where any bird should fly. No one agrees on what it is, only on what it wants. The elders speak of old stories—of sky-lords that claim valleys the way kings claim crowns—and every fresh gale feels like another demand for surrender. But this settlement has endured harsh seasons, hard wars, and hungrier threats than wind, and the people refuse to bow to an unseen tyrant in the clouds. With their own hands unable to reach the thing that hunts the stormline, they send word beyond the valley: come quickly, armed and unafraid. Stand beneath the open sky, meet the creature’s challenge on its own terms, and prove that this village is not anyone’s dominion.