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Windkeep Windfeather Wild-memory Ghostcipher
The wind never slept in Windkeep.
It prowled the ancient fortress with the patience of a hunter and the persistence of a lover, whispering through the narrow arrow-slits and sighing across the watchtowers like a thousand restless ghosts. From the highest ramparts to the lowest storerooms, every stone bore the mark of centuries of storms. The air smelled of salt and lightning. Even in the still hours before dawn, when the rest of the world was held in breathless quiet, the wind spoke.
Arel Windfeather had grown up listening to that voice.
He was twenty-three winters old, though the gray streak at his temple made him look older. He stood now on the eastern balcony of the fortress library, a parchment in one hand, a quill in the other, staring into the void of the sky as if he might read its hidden text. Far below, the valley slept beneath a veil of mist. Beyond it, the Cloudspine Mountains rose like frozen waves, their jagged peaks catching the faint light of dawn. The wind tugged at his cloak and whispered his name.
“Arel…”
He froze.
For an instant, the voice was clear—human, delicate, and mournful. But when he turned, only the soft flutter of prayer flags filled the silence.
“You’re hearing things again,” he muttered to himself. “Just the wind.”
But the wind, it seemed, disagreed. It coiled around him, brushing cold fingers along his neck, stirring the pages of his parchment. Arel exhaled slowly, trying to ignore the familiar tightness in his chest. For months now, the air had been behaving oddly. Whispers in the corridors, drafts that seemed to move with purpose, and strange flickers of light above the old altars. The older monks called it “storm-speech”—the muttering of the sky’s memory. But they said it had been silent for centuries.
Until recently.
Arel tucked the parchment into his satchel and turned back toward the library. The great doors groaned as he pushed them open, their hinges singing in harmony with the wind outside. The library of Windkeep was carved directly into the mountain, a labyrinth of stone corridors lined with shelves that reached the ceiling. Lanterns flickered in glass spheres, their flames
It prowled the ancient fortress with the patience of a hunter and the persistence of a lover, whispering through the narrow arrow-slits and sighing across the watchtowers like a thousand restless ghosts. From the highest ramparts to the lowest storerooms, every stone bore the mark of centuries of storms. The air smelled of salt and lightning. Even in the still hours before dawn, when the rest of the world was held in breathless quiet, the wind spoke.
Arel Windfeather had grown up listening to that voice.
He was twenty-three winters old, though the gray streak at his temple made him look older. He stood now on the eastern balcony of the fortress library, a parchment in one hand, a quill in the other, staring into the void of the sky as if he might read its hidden text. Far below, the valley slept beneath a veil of mist. Beyond it, the Cloudspine Mountains rose like frozen waves, their jagged peaks catching the faint light of dawn. The wind tugged at his cloak and whispered his name.
“Arel…”
He froze.
For an instant, the voice was clear—human, delicate, and mournful. But when he turned, only the soft flutter of prayer flags filled the silence.
“You’re hearing things again,” he muttered to himself. “Just the wind.”
But the wind, it seemed, disagreed. It coiled around him, brushing cold fingers along his neck, stirring the pages of his parchment. Arel exhaled slowly, trying to ignore the familiar tightness in his chest. For months now, the air had been behaving oddly. Whispers in the corridors, drafts that seemed to move with purpose, and strange flickers of light above the old altars. The older monks called it “storm-speech”—the muttering of the sky’s memory. But they said it had been silent for centuries.
Until recently.
Arel tucked the parchment into his satchel and turned back toward the library. The great doors groaned as he pushed them open, their hinges singing in harmony with the wind outside. The library of Windkeep was carved directly into the mountain, a labyrinth of stone corridors lined with shelves that reached the ceiling. Lanterns flickered in glass spheres, their flames
71 pages, Kindle Edition
Published November 8, 2025
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