The wind at Basgiath doesn’t just blow—it judges.

It claws through the stone platforms of the parapet like it’s trying to decide who deserves to stay attached to the world. Far below, the ground is distant enough to feel theoretical. Above you, dragons circle in slow, patient arcs—too high to be helpful, too close to ignore.

No one is speaking now.

Not because they’ve run out of words.

Because they’ve realized words won’t change what comes next.

A carved voice echoes across the stone:

“Name?”