The occupants of Nethyrdown begin to feel a strange breeze picking up. The winds start as a low, eerie gust, but quickly grow into something far more sinister. They twist and coil in unnatural patterns, whipping through the trees and rattling the windows with a force that feels deliberate, almost alive. The air seems to thicken, heavy with a sense of impending doom, making it difficult to breathe. Above, the sky darkens, and airships begin to falter in their paths, their engines straining against the relentless, unpredictable gales. One by one, they are forced to divert, unable to approach the island, as if some unseen hand is pushing them away from Asharen’s shores.