Then it’s gone, vanishing into the darkness toward the distant peaks.
I stand there long after it disappears, my mind racing with implications. These aren’t just raiders striking randomly. They’re following someone’s orders—someone brilliant, strategic, and dangerous. The golden eagle leads them withpurpose and precision that speaks of military training and tactical genius.
And somehow, impossibly, I feel drawn to that dangerous intelligence. Something about our brief connection has awakened something inside me—a power I didn’t know I possessed, a destiny I never imagined.
Whatever changed in me tonight, I know with absolute certainty that I haven’t seen the last of the Storm Eagles—or their golden leader.
2
KAEL
Isoar above the ancient mountain aerie, my wings spread wide to catch the thermal currents rising from the valley floor. Below me, the Storm Eagle territory stretches across jagged peaks and hidden valleys—a vertical city carved into the mountainsides over centuries. My people have ruled these skies since before the ground-dwellers built their first settlements. This is where we belong—above everything, watching, ruling.
The morning sun glints off my golden feathers as I bank sharply, diving toward the highest platform of the aerie. I release my eagle form just before landing, the transformation rippling through me in a cascade of lightning and flesh. My boots connect with the stone platform with barely a sound, my human form materializing completely by the time I straighten to my full height.
Wind whips around me, tugging at my dark hair and the ceremonial leathers that mark my position as clan leader. Below this platform, the Storm Eagle aerie buzzes with morning activity—hunters preparing for daily patrols, healers gathering mountain herbs, warriors training in aerial combat maneuvers. From this vantage point, I can oversee it all.
Elder Talon approaches, his weathered face grave beneath a crown of silver hair. Despite his advanced age, he moves with the predatory grace all Storm Eagles maintain even in human form. His eyes—golden like mine but faded with time—hold centuries of clan knowledge.
“The Council awaits, Stormwright,” he says, using my leadership title rather than my name. Formality means trouble.
I nod, following him down the winding stone stairs carved into the mountain itself. The Council chamber occupies a large cavern illuminated by shafts of sunlight streaming through strategically placed openings in the rock face. The natural light catches on crystalline formations embedded in the walls, amplifying the brightness.
Five elders already sit in their traditional positions around the circular stone table. Their faces reflect varying degrees of concern, impatience, and—in some cases—poorly concealed hostility. My leadership has been increasingly questioned as our clan’s resources dwindle.
I take my place at the head of the table, noting the absence of several younger council members who typically support my policies. A deliberate exclusion, no doubt.
Elder Tempest speaks first, her silver-streaked hair pulled back in a severe braid. “The southern hunting grounds yielded barely enough to feed our youngest members yesterday. The third such failure this month.”
“The northern ranges are similarly depleted,” adds Commander Gale, the youngest elder and typically my strongest ally. His presence at this meeting suggests even he questions my recent decisions. “Game is scarce across our traditional territories.”
I keep my expression neutral despite the surge of frustration. “The wildlife patterns have changed since the Dire Wolvesbegan pushing south. We’ve had to adjust our hunting grounds accordingly.”
“Adjust?” Elder Tempest’s voice sharpens. “We’ve been reduced to scrounging while ground-dwellers feast on stockpiled supplies below. Supplies meant for our territories before the barriers fell.”
“We are Storm Eagles,” Elder Talon intones, his voice resonating with ancient authority. “The sky-born dominion. Yet our children go hungry while lesser beings thrive.”
The criticism strikes deeper than they know. I’ve lain awake many nights grappling with these same concerns, calculating how long our supplies might last, strategizing ways to secure resources without triggering all-out war.
“The prophecies speak clearly,” Elder Talon continues, unrolling an ancient scroll with careful hands. The parchment crackles as he reads: “‘When the barriers between territories fall, the storm-born ruler shall reclaim dominion over all shifters, uniting the skies and earth under eagle wings.’”
The familiar words hang in the air. I’ve heard them since childhood, but their interpretation has always troubled me. Does dominion mean conquest? Subjugation? Or something else entirely?
“The prophecies speak of leadership, not annihilation,” I say carefully. “We cannot rule over the dead.”
“No one suggests genocide,” Commander Gale responds, “but we cannot sustain our people without more aggressive resource acquisition.”
Resource acquisition. Such a bloodless term for raiding and warfare.
Before I can respond, a flash of bronze feathers announces my sister’s arrival. Zara lands gracefully on the council chamber’s balcony, shifting to human form in a fluid motion. Attwenty, she’s the image of our mother—same bronze-gold hair, same intense eyes, same stubborn set to her jaw.
“Forgive my interruption,” she says, though her tone suggests she’s not particularly concerned about disturbing the meeting. “The western scouts have reported another Dire Wolf incursion along our northern boundary. They’re testing our defenses again.”
The council erupts in angry murmurs. The Dire Wolves—brutal, pack-minded predators—have been our enemies for generations. Their recent territorial expansion threatens everyone, ground-dwellers and aerial clans alike.
I turn back to the council. “This is precisely why we cannot afford full-scale war with Haven’s Heart settlements. Fighting on two fronts would decimate our numbers.”
“Then what do you propose, Stormwright?” Elder Tempest demands. “That we slowly starve, maintaining your cautious approach?”
