Chapter 4
Old Legends, New Fears
Elder Jonas recounts forgotten folklore about the sky's wrath, though he dismisses them as superstition. Marek scoffs, clinging to his practical, yet selfish, approach to the impending crisis.
The air in the village square hung thick and heavy, not just with the dampness that clung to everything like a second skin, but with a palpable unease. The usual chatter of neighbours, the clatter of carts, the distant bleating of sheep – all seemed muted, swallowed by the oppressive silence that emanated from the sky. Even the birds, usually so boisterous, were keeping their heads tucked low. Lina, perched on the worn wooden bench outside the bakery, traced the swirling patterns of dust on the ground with her toe, her brow furrowed. Beside her, Tomas fidgeted, his usual boundless energy subdued, while Anya sat with her knees drawn to her chest, her eyes wide and fixed on the horizon.
It was Elder Jonas who broke the spell, his voice a low rumble that cut through the quiet. He stood near the ancient oak at the centre of the square, his weathered hands clasped behind his back, his gaze not on the children, but on the distant, bruised-purple mass that dominated the western sky. "The old ones spoke of times like these," he began, his voice carrying further than one might expect from a man of his years. "When the sky itself would gather its anger, not just with rain and wind, but with a sorrow so deep it could crack the very stones of our homes."
A knot tightened in Lina’s stomach. She’d been sketching the cloud, had been for days, filling her small notebook with its shifting shapes, its strange, almost deliberate formations. It didn’t look like a normal storm cloud to her. It looked… watchful.
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