"We woke the Warmind and brought doom to the Iron Lords." —Valus Forge
"I remember she always used to compare you to a storm," Isirah says of Lady Jolder, even though Saladin hasn't spoken her name out loud. The Ghost knows her Guardian's mind: how it works and who's on it.
Saladin does not respond. He looks out over the Plaguelands and focuses not on Isirah's voice, but on the wind whipping through his cloak and the dense fur of his cowl as he gathers it around him.
It is cold, and they have a long way to go. He begins picking his way down the mountainside, his footing steady and practiced, for this is a path he and Isirah have taken many times.
"There are better uses for your anger than this," Isirah insists, but Saladin isn't listening. "Turn back. Go to the Tower and demand vengeance."
It's a futile effort. Isirah surrenders halfway down the slope, and disappears into the space she occupies when Saladin wishes to be alone—
—except that in this place, Saladin feels the presence of Jolder and the others more intensely than he has since the day he lost them. When he arrives at his destination, he finds it covered in snow and spends the next few hours excavating it from the elements. Slowly, a shrine to the fallen Iron Lords takes form, untouched for more years than Saladin cares to count.
It is here that he settles with a long sigh. Yes, Jolder used to compare him to a storm—but even the most powerful thunderheads eventually ebb into a breeze.