A Storm With Nothing to Break

Vorlag’s face, a mask of thunderous rage, did little to intimidate his wavering followers.

Renn’s quiet rebellion had broken the dam of their fear, and a torrent of dissent was unleashed.

One by one, the other dancers lowered their arms, their message clear: the rituals were over.

He was a storm without wind, a leader without followers.

The unraveling was not just of his authority, but of his very identity.

In that moment, Vorlag understood the true meaning of stillness, and it terrified him.