The wind had always been there.
Soft at dawn, restless at noon, and haunting by night—it moved through the valley like a living thing. Most people in the village of Aerith simply ignored it. To them, it was nothing more than air in motion.
But to Elian… it was a voice.
"You're late again," the wind whispered, brushing gently against his cheek.
Elian smiled as he climbed the grassy hill behind his home. "I had chores," he murmured. "You know how my mother is."
The breeze swirled around him playfully, tugging at his loose shirt like an impatient friend.
"You always have excuses."
He laughed softly and sat beneath the old oak tree at the top of the hill—the only place where the wind spoke clearly.
"I came, didn't I?"
For a moment, the wind fell quiet.
Then it changed.
The air grew colder. Heavier.
"Elian…" it whispered, but this time, the voice wasn't playful.
It was afraid.
Down in the village, nothing seemed unusual. Smoke rose from chimneys, merchants shouted in the market, and children ran through narrow paths, chasing each other.
No one noticed the sky.
Except Elian.
He stood slowly, his eyes fixed on the horizon. Dark clouds were gathering—not drifting, not forming naturally—but pulling together, as if something unseen was drawing them in.
"What's happening?" he asked.
The wind circled him, faster now, uneasy.
"They're coming."
Elian frowned. "Who?"
But the wind didn't answer immediately.
Instead, it howled—loud enough to bend the grass and shake the branches above him.
"Run."
That was all it said.
And then—
Silence.
Elian's heart pounded. The wind had never told him to run before.
Never.
He turned and sprinted down the hill, his feet slipping against loose dirt as the sky darkened unnaturally fast. The warmth of the afternoon vanished, replaced by a chilling pressure that made it hard to breathe.
Villagers began to notice now.
"What's going on?" someone shouted.
"Is it a storm?"
"No… this isn't normal—"
A loud crack split the sky.
Not thunder.
Something else.
Elian stopped in the middle of the street, looking up.
The clouds… were moving against the wind.
Then he saw them.
Shapes within the sky—massive, shifting, like shadows with wings too large to belong to anything human. They glided silently above the clouds, barely visible, yet impossible to ignore.
Fear spread through the village like fire.
"Elian!"
He turned to see his mother running toward him. She grabbed his arm tightly. "Get inside. Now!"
But he couldn't move.
The wind returned—this time violently, spiraling around him like a shield.
"Elian," it whispered again, louder now, urgent.
"You must listen."
"I am listening!" he shouted back, his voice shaking.
There was a pause.
And then the truth came.
"You are not meant to stay here."
Everything went still.
Even the chaos of the village faded into the background.
"What do you mean?" Elian asked.
The wind softened, almost… sorrowful.
"You were never just a child."
A deafening roar echoed from the sky.
One of the shadowed shapes broke through the clouds, descending.
The ground trembled.
People screamed.
"Elian," the wind said one last time,
"They have come for you."