Leaf 9 (Ink fractured by water damage) —Recovered text reconstructed; hostile runes present— They are called many things in forgotten tongues: Varkul, Those-Who-Follow-Light, Thunder Eaters, Shadows of the High Wind. But in most worlds they are known only as: Storm Hunters. They are not born. They do not die. They move from world to world like famine through dry fields, seeking what they were made to hate: hope. No scholar agrees on their making. Some say they were once guardians who betrayed their vow and were stripped of form until only hunger remained. Others claim they are ancient thoughts that escaped their thinkers— fear given teeth. They cannot cross thresholds on their own. They hunt through invitation: a door foolishly opened by greed, a beacon left shining too long, a bearer who trusted the wrong heart. They travel inside storms because storms terrify, and terror loosens doors between worlds. With every scream and shiver, every cry of “please, make it stop,” a crack in existence widens— and through it, they reach. They do not see mortals as prey. They see them as paths. For every soul they break, another door appears. Break enough—and the world unravels. They fear no blade. No fire. No curse. They fear only one thing: the one who stands without trembling. For a heart that does not fear cannot be opened— and a closed heart is a sealed door. This is why they hunt bearers of light. This is why they seek the Feather. This is why storms follow him.