”What is a storm? It's something that greedily takes... right where you thought it's already over. “
The sky had been swallowed by bruised, heavy clouds, wiping out the last bit of light. The wind roared, a harsh sound that whipped the surrounding leaves into a frantic, deadly dance. Below, acres of green grass hushed, bowing low as if offering a silent, frantic prayer. Facing the chaos, the steep mountain watched, quiet and utterly unbothered. No human dared to step here. This was a realm of constant storms and thunders, long abandoned and guarded by a treacherous Grove that twisted the minds of travellers.
But that challenge belonged to mere humans. It meant nothing to beings who commanded mana and eliminate miasma.
One woman stood by an old, sagging wooden fence, her gaze fixed on the darkening sky. Her eyes were clouded with worry, and a heavy unease churned in her gut for the coming storm. She barely noticed the wind trying to tear her skirt from her body.
Artemisia's brow was tightly furrowed, her lips pressed into a thin, hard line of focus. Beside her, Aimee gripped her own knuckles until they were white. The wind lashed Aimee’s hair across her face, but it couldn't hide the fierce dread etched there. Her eyes darted with a dangerous intensity, as if she were ready to challenge the storm itself.
For her only brother, she would wrestle the Gods.
”You know that I won't let my brother face that thing!” Her voice was a loud, strained crack of frustration. She knew the blasted protectors, all except Artemisia, would push her brother to his demise, exploiting his powers until there was nothing left to give.
She couldn’t bear to bury another family member. She refused to watch her brother die for strangers.
A hot tear tracked a path down her cheek. Her heart hung heavy in her chest. She had lost too many people, and she had promised her mother she would protect Anthony. Turning to Artemisia, her eyes were pleading, and her voice trembled as she continued, “You promised you’d protect him. We never wanted him to be a hero. If I could, I’d choose a simple life for him...” Aimee had agreed to become the nymphs' most valuable tool, trading countless years of service and her power for Artemisia’s pledge to ensure her brother lived normally and peacefully.
Thunder ripped the air. A bolt slammed into a nearby tree, splitting it down the middle. Multiple strikes followed, obliterating whatever they hit, leaving behind a quiet hiss and smoking, black ash—a furious aftermath that seemed to echo the woman's desperate plea.
Artemisia gave a slow, quiet nod. She understood Aimee’s anguish. She never intended for Anthony's powers to awaken; her own selfishness had drawn him into this path. Now that everything had escalated, it was her inescapable duty to protect him.
"Recrives arsies..." Artemisia absentmindedly uttered an ancient prayer. She doesn't know if there'll be someone listening for the Gods don't dare to care.
A true darkness was creeping in, a threat far greater than Hale. This was why they were here: to find and retrieve an ancient weapon, one capable of killing the evil Guardian—Kàlèine, which had been used long ago.
Artemisia had sent men and an Oscuri (a magical owl-beast) to track Hale. They hadn’t found his trail, but they’d stumbled upon a far more chilling discovery. A mile from Styx Kaleido, near the abandoned Gulefaè Mine and the angry, active volcano, Mount Carion, Artemisia’s men found an islet dominated by a hideous oak tree. The miasma it poured out killed five men instantly, even from a distance. Only the swift light-shield cast by a paladin had saved the rest of the scouting party.
The horror they recounted was worse than anything they had ever faced. They had watched the tree’s black veins visibly pulse as if it were a monstrous, beating heart, drawing sustenance from the foul, murky river. They knew immediately that whatever it was feeding on was pure evil. The river itself looked like a prison of torment for the trapped souls. They had seen ghostly hands clawing desperately toward the surface, only to be violently yanked back down toward the ominous tree.
Artemisia finally knew where Hale was holding the souls he and his men had captured. She had always known his goals, but the location of the dreadful ritual had remained a secret. The Guardian Hale intended to revive was a killer who bathed in the blood of anyone who tried to stop him—stranger, enemy, or kin.
He believed that in order to purge the sin her ancestor and her human mate did—he needs to purge the world clean under his sole rule. 
Artemisia’s jaw hardened, and draconic scales began to flash subtly on her hands. “I won’t let the young ones fight this alone. I will help them,” she declared, finality ringing in her voice. She knew exactly who Hale was trying to do.  He's using someone as a pawn as an act of revenge but Hale is still naive...
Kàlèine cannot be controlled nor he'll appreciate the one who saved him. No one will be spared not even Hale. 
Another thunderclap shook the very ground, a foreboding sound of the disaster that was now certain.
Artemisia’s face remained determined. “We will do whatever is needed to stop the revival.” If she had to drag every protector into compliance, she would do it in a heartbeat. Failure meant another war and the deaths of countless people—and also themselves. 
Previously, the others hadn’t believed her—that it was possible to revive the long-dead Guardian using the souls of thousands. They thought their enemy was merely killing and trapping souls for revenge. That, she knew, was never Hale's sole purpose.
Artemisia lifted her gaze to the dark and heavy clouds that pressed down on the world. As she watched, her pupils began to slit into jagged lines, transforming her eyes into deep, burning amethyst, a dragon's stare brimming with untamed power. A colossal aura, thick and hot, rolled off her body, creating a low, humming vibration in the air.
With a tearing sound, a pair of enormous, scaled dragon wings erupted from her back. They unfurled and slashed the air in a single, powerful flap, unleashing a violent, screaming gust that whipped dust and debris around their feet. Her hands were already encased in a shell of hard, purple scales and tipped with razor-sharp claws. She flexed them, the purple armor clicking tight.
“Are you certain you want to join me to conquer this storm?” Her voice was a low growl, powerful enough to cut through the wind. “It’s almost time.” 
The once dark sky slowly turned red, the color of blood. It's the 3rd hour where the strongest of thunders would hit the ground and where a different space created by ancient magic would open. The place where the weapon was hidden.
She reached her claws toward the angry sky, her heart hammering a fierce, loud beat against her ribs. She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t nervous. Her own ancestor had sealed this weapon away for a reason, placing it where only a direct heir could dare to reach. It would be a brutal fight. But she had no choice. This needed to be done. The weapon had to be unleashed to strike down the Evil Guardian before he could emerge fully formed from his cocoon.
Aimee, her companion, offered a sharp, unwavering nod. There was no hesitation; this was a gamble she’d willingly take for her brother. Closing her eyes, her own power surged: a pale blue mana, a vibrant mix of pure light and contained thunder, encased her body. In a flash, a pair of brilliant white feather wings burst forth, resembling the wings of countless doves, though each quill was edged with a faint, crackling blue energy.
A hint of breathlessness touched her voice, a momentary tremor, but Aimee’s eyes were steady as steel.
“Anytime,” she said, her conviction eclipsing the storm's roar. “Even a storm can’t stop me.”
Aimee’s palms were slick with perspiration and anxiety, her heart thumping a frantic, doomed drumroll, yet she chuckled—a sound lacking of any humor. Anthony, her brother, had no idea where she was. She had lied, saying she was still cleaning up the last raid. She fixed her gaze on the livid sky, where countless bolts of lightning violently struck the ground, a chilling, warning that she would not remain unscathed.
Seconds later, two winged figures—that of a dragon and a dove— leapt through the air. Multiple crimson colored thunder strikes met them...preparing them for what's worse to come.
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Recrives arsies - May we be blessed