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The insistent tether tightens around my bones, and it drags me forward whether I can move or not. I could fight it, somewhere deep in my soul I can sense that I have the ability to resist. But I need to know why they are here. Why they’re calling to me. My breath hitches as I give in to the pull and cross the threshold, and Lyxander tenses beside me. His hand brushes my arm lightly, as if he might pull me back, but all I can do is keep walking.

I open the door and step into the courtyard.

“Stormwind.” I turn my head at the urgency lacing Lyxander’s voice, but my feet still carry me forward. His eyes burn with barely restrained anger. “I can’t step through.”

My stomach twists, dread rising in my chest. But I force my shoulders back and offer what I hope is a reassuring smile. It feels unnatural with the sharp canines biting into my lips.

“I’ll be okay.”

He studies me for a long moment before giving a subtle nod. Drawing a steadying breath, I gather my resolve and face the waiting gods.

All four of them turn as I approach, moving as if they’re both a singular presence and many. One is adorned in pure gold—radiant golden skin, lustrous golden hair, and shimmering golden eyes. Another has rich brown skin that shimmers wherever the light touches, accentuating his shaved head with a shadow of dark stubble. His striking, chiseled features carry the distinctive traits often associated with the Sorrows. Next is the god with olive-toned skin, rich mahogany curls, and eyes too dark to discern their color. And then there’s the figure nearest to me, who bears an uncanny resemblance to someone from Lyxander’s bloodline. His shoulder-length white hair, pale complexion, and irises so light they nearly merge with the whites of his eyes give him an eerie quality. The only shared feature among them are their wings. All glowing, all flawlessly white.

The one closest steps forward.

“Daughter of the Tempest.”

I open my mouth to respond, but no words come.

The one who spoke tilts his head. His features are divine, yet there is something in his gaze like an echo of familiarity. Like a promise traced to a time I can’t remember.

“Do you know why we are here?”

“No,” I say quietly, though some part of me already knows I’m lying.

“It is you who brought us here,” he continues gravely. “And now the veil crumbles.”

A crease etches into my forehead, and I glance up, taking in the cracks in the sky. Is that the veil they speak of?

“Yes.”

My eyes snap down to the white-haired god. “How did I bring you here?”

“Our breath flows through you,” he says, as if that alone is explanation enough. “Boreas.” He gestures to himself. “Notos. Eurus. Zephyrus.” He gestures to the one with the shorn hair, then the god with the bottomless gaze, and finally, the golden one.

My pulse stumbles between each name.

“I’m going to need you to tell me more than that.”

The four exchange a look, but the golden one—Zephyrus—speaks this time, his voice low and rippling through the air. His wings flex as he meets my eyes. “When your mother tried to save you, the magic would not take hold. Before she slipped away, she called out to us and begged for our help.”

Her name lodges in my throat. “Nephelle.”

“She was a favorite of my creations. I was…” Boreas’s voice trails off, his pale gaze flickers. “…moved by her sacrifice—wasted though it was—so I breathed air into you.”

A tremor shifts through the courtyard, like the first stir of a storm.

“But we heard her too,” Notos says. “And when one breath had been given, why should the rest of us stand idle and watch?”

The air stalls in my chest as a succession of emotions pass through them—pride, irritation, offense, I can’t tell. Something ugly and bright twists in me as their words conjure a vision of my mother’s magic failing, hands trembling as she begged a sky that didn’t answer—until it did. Boreas first. Then the others, not to be outdone, adding their breath atop his. A contest disguised as mercy.

Fitting, I suppose, for gods who had started a war with their in-fighting.

“We gave you our breath to fill the absence when you were destined to take none,” Eurus continues. “And in doing so, we gave you more.”

“We did not foresee the consequence,” Zephyrus says. “A mortal vessel holding a confluence of our winds.”

The laugh that breaks out of me is small and sharp and nothing like a laugh at all. “You’re telling me I’m a divine mistake?”