The storms have risen. Once again they crash and swirl, spinning stars and cosmic sands into the fabric of another world. So we have gathered, a host of thousands, to observe the creation of another threat to our home.
     Stones crash and grind together in the storm far below us, spinning in an orbit around a great sphere. Lightning arcs across it, bolts of pinks, greens, and purples casting symbols across its surface. The world pulses with every strike, the ground rising and falling in a steady rhythm. As if breathing, as if beating. My feet shift with nerves as I peer down at the spectacle through the dark crystal floor. Could this be a creature? Another leviathan? The clatter of my wings draws my worries back to the present, where I, once again, have been the only one to move.
     Straightening, I draw my sense to the great hall around me, taking in the figures between the Golden Arches of the chamber. Had they noticed?
     After a moment, I calm myself. Their attention lies below and for once I am grateful to be shrouded. For though the halls shine with the light of gilded wings and glowing robes, I stand in darkness, shoulder to shoulder with those I was built with.
     Seven of us, nameless, forged of onyx, each featureless and plain, taught and trained from our first moments. To fly, to fight, to defend our home with sword and spell. All for this honor, the day we aid our people and earn our identities. Only our wings tell us apart now, and though all shine with the white of polished quartz, their crystal curves hold different shapes and silver gilding. Today that changes. For today, we are given our names.
     Light erupts across the room, burning away the darkness around me and my fellows. He has arrived.
     Straightening myself and my robes, I hear a collective shift as all assembled rise to attention as the light weaves into the form of our lord, our radiant king, Azgru’ran the Light Bringer. His armor gleams of starlight, his onyx face gilded by centuries, his great white eye burning beneath his helm. He steps down towards us from his ivory throne, stairs of light forming below his every footfall.
     “You, the youngest amongst us, today is your day of trial. Below you is a new realm, one freshly settled from the chaos in which it was formed. Danger lurks within, yet to protect our home, I call upon you. You are the only amongst us that can safely traverse the storms. Your wings are fresh and light, your frames are fast, and you are not yet jaded by the Storms of Creation. You are to scout out this new world, remain unseen, and find a way to bring it to order,” His final step brings him before us, towering and resplendent, “Report what you find, and if you are met with resistance, purge it. Can I trust you with this charge?”
     We kneel in unison, practiced and disciplined, beating our wings in our voiceless answer.
     “Good, then let you take your marks,” he says as a white fire wreaths his gauntlet.
      The flames meld into beams of light on his fingertips, flickering and sparking as he traces intricate signs in the air. With the sizzle of stone I watch my fellows rise, a white mark branching from the base of their foreheads where the light carves, adding detail to their featureless faces.
     “These marks will be your guides through the storm,” Azgru’ran says as he stands before me, “They are your second sight to perceive the weave that flows from those who threaten our home. Follow them, root out their sources.”
      I do not flinch as the light reaches my brow, feeling the mark trace itself in curls of flame. He stops and snaps his fingers, the flames on our foreheads flaring with a brilliant burn. We shudder, all of us, crystal wings clattering. Yet, after a moment, my vision settles and I see it below. Curling chords of power that lash from the great stones like the arms of beasts.
      “Now that you can see the truth, your trial may begin. This threat is newly formed, frail, and unknowing, making it vulnerable. You are to separate, find the guardian of the world, and break them. Return with their remnants and you shall join The Anointed.”
     Horror meets my heart, all my spoken courage melting away as I observe the writhing mass of power in the world below, the tendrils lashing at the lighting and pulling it into its center. He wishes us to end that? On our own?
     My wings begin to shudder and the crystals of my chest tighten as Azgru’ran stops before me. I turn up to meet the eye in his polished face, my mark revealing the writhing golden power that envelopes my lord. His chords lash with a fury that makes me tremble all the worse.
     I have faltered in his presence, shown I am unworthy, that I am flawed, that—
     His hand grasps my shoulder, and he kneels to look into my mark with his great eye, “Fear not. You will not be helpless.” He rises to look at us all, “To aid you, I grant you your true spark, your name that will kindle your soul for all time. It will bolster you, in mind, magic, and body. Guard it well, fan its flames and you will endure any hardship.”
     He places a palm on my head, “So rise, Ozrond, for no courage is born without fear. You see the horror of what is below. Hold it, make it your strength, use it to fuel your righteous flame. For you are to meet the storm and what it births. Go now, lead your fellows with caution, yet face the darkness with bravery. Creation is unpredictable, dangerous, and it is through our weary vigil that we endure.”
     Lightning crackles through me, yet rather than fracture my form, it invigorates me. I feel as if a cool wind washes through my entire body. My chest pulses and sparks before beating with a golden glow as my name is etched over my very heart. My hands tingle as my muscles begin to thrum and as he pulls his hand from my forehead, my own ignite with a brilliant golden flame. Faint coils of power rise from the fire, curling and swaying with the blaze.
    True radiance. I am nearly whole. I am worthy.
     I clench my fists as I look to the writhing world below.
     I will not fail.
     My fellows are named each in turn, their wings flaring the same hue as their flame. My friend, Kalimar the red, beside him Lariel the blue, followed by Arian the green, Nylia the purple, Harno the silver, and Valier the pink. With the last of us named, Azgru’ran returns to his throne in a flash of light, his spear forming in his grasp.
     “Now, steel yourselves for the storm below and do not let the winds take you. Past this moment, you will have no aid but yourself and your flame.”
     I look at my fellows, confused.
     What? We have each other.
     He slams his spear into the ground and the floor beneath us shatters.