The Stairway from Heaven

Devastation crawled across the plains of Pneumai. An intense hurricane that could pull stones from castle walls and uproot trees into spears that pierced homes. To this, a nation had split between finding shelter and facing the chaos.

Beaten by rain and keeping balance in the pulling winds, a collection of Merilam city's best wizards has come to face this raging beast and stop it. At the center and in command of these many great figures is one notable man, an old wizard by the name of Garth.

"Your greatness, Garth," A young wizard comes to his side, their robes rippling ever-rapidly as the twister encroaches. "Shouldn't we shield the winds now? Some of us are almost catching flight."

Garth, as still and steadfast as a mountain, scowled in his subordinate's direction and spoke low and coarsely his demands. "Only by my word should you do so, for if you too early, it would be of waste. Endure, or the city will come to shambles."

"Right sir!" The subordinate backs away.

A muted groan of a fallen wizard is heard at the rear, and many more are coming to their knees before it. The hurricane's blending air sends torn branches like whips across their ranks and crashing lightning increase in tempo. 

Garth, at the front and center of their formation begins to waver to the winds, his boots burrowing into the mud, bracing for the worst. To this, he commands everyone to cast a shield, and despite the many who fell to the ground, they prop themselves up by their staffs and chant with what little breath they can spare. 

Overhead, a hazy dome, the consistency of a mirage forms and against it the rain and wind clash, unable to penetrate. Inside the magical shelter is a mix of concentration, gasps, and sighs. Their steps slosh about mud and their robes are drenched and drip, but otherwise the air is hospitable.

"Keep focus." Garth raises a hand, a pendant drooping between his fingers, its design is a four-pointed star, the symbol of their nation and religion. "Embracing the mystique, we snuff out peril."

"The only aura." echoes his subordinates.

"Indulge us, the devout, for the devout."

"The only aura."

"Breathe us, the great mystique."

"The only aura."

Exhaustion and loss of focus spreads, the shield fading under pressure, but not a word missed to their belief.

Just ahead of Garth, the shield gives way to the wind and rain, and he takes on the brunt of it, while his subordinates slowly fall behind him. When all hope seems lost, it is only him that stands, shrouded by the storm, his silhouette and brazen gaze stay firm and fixed on reaching the end.

Then, there is peace. In the eye of the hurricane. It's a divine oasis, the wet devastation surrounded by the cyclone gleams under the ray of sun that threads the pit of gray. For Garth and his subordinates, it's the color brought back to their robes that tells them they've made it. Some stay sprawled and aching on the ground, and some still stood or at least knelt with their heads high.

"It is time." Garth raises his staff and prods the ground as he moved toward the center. "The mystique, take my faith, my excellence, and my endless study, and culminate it in this great request. The only aura, vanquish this force of nature."

He takes his staff and drives it into the ground, a faint glow emanating from its many artisanal grooves and etchings. Then from a sack under his robe, he picks out a ring and slips it on. Once the ring is set, he winces in pain, the ring taking from him something only he knows. Then he raises his hands to the air and chants something to the sky.

A gradually increasing rush of air pushes down on him, and then like a conductor, he waves his hands out at the inner walls of the hurricane, expanding it from the inside.

Looking on at the hurricane from a distant viewing window of a castle, the figure of an extravagantly dressed woman witnesses to her shock the hurricane bursting from within, expanding until its swirling walls dissipate. 

The faces of many common folk in the city those brave wizards sought to protect lit up with glee to see the danger was brought to an end. All that remained is a fraction of what the storm once was, and a hole left behind in the sky for the sun to cast a ray down at the triumphant heroes.

Garth falls to his knees, his eyes closed as he basks in the glory of the sunlight. "I'm forever grateful to the mystique, and its great and only aura."

"The only aura!" A few subordinates raise from the ground for a moment in celebration, some making their way to Garth out of concern. "Your greatness!"

Before anyone can reach him, a whisper from an otherworldly being graces his ear. "Your reward, devoted one."

Garth shudders and his eyes widen in response, searching the skies for the origin of this voice. Then from the remains of the storm, lightning accumulates about, picking up intensity.

His subordinates were fearing the worst, that Garth were to be smote by nature itself before them. The closest few rush toward him, but an incredible whip of light struck before him in a blinding explosion.

Some cried in belief that he was gone, but when they could grasp the situation, a sight like no other presented itself. Garth was as fine as he was prior, but standing in the smoldering patch before him where the lightning struck was a boy who is not of their world.