A Gathering Storm

The air atop the Jagged Reach has turned sour. It’s not just the mountain chill; there’s a metallic tang on the back of my tongue that usually precedes a lightning strike, yet the sky remains a bruised, unnatural purple. Even Kaelen’s owl, usually a nuisance of fluttering feathers, has been silent for hours, tucked deep into his hood with its eyes wide and unblinking.
 
We reached the overlook just as the sun dipped behind the Monolith. From here, the valley below looks less like a home and more like a graveyard. Those weren’t campfires we saw last night—they were pyres. Whatever is marching out of the Whispering Woods doesn't carry torches for light; they carry them for spite.