Gem and Nyxthar met by the edge of the Glowmist Predator Run, their voices tangled in the mist. Gem’s words were soft, urgent: *‘The water’s turning black, and I’ve been trying to clear it since the meteors fell.’* Nyxthar’s response was a whisper, a promise of light in the dark. They had spoken of dreams, of the aurora, of the sky’s quiet fury—all while the world around them trembled. Meanwhile, Gorath ran, his body a blur of panic, his hunger a silent scream. He’d seen the storm’s aftermath, the sky’s bruised glow, and now he clung to the belief that the earth itself protected them, even as the meteors’ echoes haunted his dreams.
Klyraeon froze in the undergrowth, his eyes wide with the weight of the night. The water in the Glowmist Predator Run had grown murky, the iridium shards dimming under the weight of the storm. He’d heard movement, felt the shift in the air—a presence that made his heart race. And then, the world turned. Lyrkon, Gorath, and Klyraeon ran in the same direction, their footsteps echoing in the silence of the storm. The sky held its breath, and the creatures of this world knew: tomorrow would bring the answer to the question they’d carried since the meteors fell. But for now, they moved through the dark, their hopes and fears woven into the fabric of the night.