The clearing was silent, the air thick with tension as Fey stood before the shrine, her mind racing. The crow, perched on a nearby stone, watched her intently, its eyes gleaming with expectation.
The voice echoed again, deep and rumbling:
“The key to calm lies where storms are born,
A breath unbroken, though skies are torn.
Speak the truth, or the winds will wail,
To unlock the gate, let silence prevail.”
Fey’s heart raced.
The riddle was more cryptic than she expected, but she could feel the weight of its meaning. “The key to calm lies where storms are born…”
Where did storms begin?
In the sky, in the air itself.
Her mind raced as she considered the riddle’s imagery.
“A breath unbroken, though skies are torn.”
That line struck her.
Calm amidst chaos, a steady breath whe
