This was already the fourth day of Randall and the others' flight.
The weather on the island remained as dreadful as it had been on the day Iron Fortress fell.
The martial instructor had once said that perhaps because neither the Ffolk nor the people of the Northern Continent worshipped Talos, Lord of Storms, they had angered that temperamental deity, and thus the entire Moonshadow Archipelago was often graced by storms.
Gales, torrential rain, and thunder always came without warning, ravaging everything on the island.
Yet the living things of Moonshadow Island seemed long accustomed to such storm-lashed weather:
The gales had made them as silent and unyielding as mountains and earth, The downpours had taught them that their martial training needed roots as deep as ancient trees, And the thunder reminded them each day to remain vigilant.
Perhaps it was precisely because Moonshadow Island was so "favored" by storms that it had remained isolated from the world, hanging alone beyond the seas all these years.
But that peaceful tranquility had ultimately been shattered.
The people of Moonshadow Island had placed too much blind faith in the storms.
Whenever a storm came, all fishing boats ceased their work and returned to shore. The druids retreated into their wooden cabins to meditate and fathom the depths of nature.
Even the daily training of their paladins would be moved inside the temple.
Some knights tasked with patrols would also let down their guard somewhat in such weather.
They could scarcely imagine that those Luskan people would actually launch an assault on Iron Fortress amid such savage storms, even if those outsiders had paid no small price for it:
Quite a few ships had run aground beneath the surging currents.
And the people of Iron Fortress paid an even greater price for their