I wake before dawn, the mountain air sharp in my lungs. My storm stirs beneath my skin, no longer the chaotic tempest that killed Lior, but not yet tamed. Just... waiting. I touch Mira's bracelet, tracing the worn leather with my fingertips, the familiar texture grounding me when nothing else can.
The cabin feels like a cage some moments and a sanctuary others. I slip out quietly, not wanting to wake the others. Daro sleeps by the hearth, his large form rising and falling steadily. Elyra curled in her corner, surrounded by dried herbs. Flynn sprawled haphazardly across an old chair, one leg dangling. Riven... I never know where Riven sleeps, if he sleeps at all.
Outside, the world is still dark, but I can feel dawn approaching. My storm always knows when light is coming, stirring beneath my ribs like it's greeting an old friend. This sensitivity is one of many things I never noticed beforeâbefore the Harvest Festival, before Lior...
I squeeze my eyes shut against the memory, but it comes anyway: his smile, his hand reaching for me, the terrible flash of light.
"You're early."
I startle, my eyes flying open. Thalia stands at the edge of the clearing, her silhouette stark against the greying sky. She doesn't turn when I approach, though I know she senses me. The storm inside me recognises her somehowâgrows more alert, more focused.
"I don't sleep much anymore." The words feel raw in my throat. Sleep means dreams, and dreams mean Lior's face as lightning strikes him. As I strike him.
Thalia nods, still facing the mountains. "The others who carried storms before youâthey struggled with sleep too."
Others. The word hangs between us, heavy with unspoken history. I want to ask about themâabout the "her" they failedâbut something in Thalia's stance warns me away. Instead, I stand beside her in silence, watching the mountains emerge from darkness.
âFollow me," she says finally, turning to face me. Her hazel eyes catch the first light, flecked with gold and green. "Real training."
I swallow hard, fear and anticipation tangling in my chest. "I'm ready."
"No." Her voice is gentle but immovable. "You're not. But we don't have the luxury of waiting until you are."
The words sting, but I recognise the truth in them. I'm not ready. I haven't been ready for anything since the moment lightning first erupted from my skin. But I'm tired of being afraid.
She leads me to a flat stone at the centre of the clearing. Frost rims the edges, sparkling in the weak sunlight. My storm responds to the coldâa flicker of warmth that rises unbidden, like it wants to protect me. The thought is unsettling. For so long, I've seen it as my enemy, not my defender.
"Sit," Thalia instructs, settling cross-legged across from me. "Close your eyes. Find your storm."
I hesitate, then obey. The moment my eyes close, I feel itâthe constant pressure beneath my ribs, the lightning coiled tight around my heart. For so long I've pushed it away, feared it, blamed it for Lior's death. Now Thalia wants me to reach for it. The very idea makes my hands tremble.
"I can'tâ" My voice breaks. What I don't say: I'm afraid of what will happen. I'm afraid of who I am when the storm takes over.
"You can." Her tone brooks no argument. "You've been feeling it all your life, Kaela. Now you need to listen to it."
I breathe in slowly, focusing on the sensation. The storm pulses with my heartbeatâthump-crack, thump-crack. I've never tried to hear it before, only silence it. It's terrifying how familiar it feels, how much a part of me.
"What does it want?" Thalia asks.
"To break free." The answer comes without thought. "To... to destroy."
"Is that what you want?"
"No!" The word bursts from me, raw with emotion. Lior's face flashes in my mind againâhis body crumpled on the festival ground.
"Then that's not what it wants." Her voice softens. "The storm is part of you. Not separate. Not alien. Find the place where you end and it begins."
I search inward, past the grief and guilt, past the memory of the Harvest Festival. The storm surges at the memory, and I flinch, nearly breaking my concentration.
"Stay with it," Thalia murmurs. "Don't run."
Lightning flickers beneath my closed eyelids. I force myself to breathe through it, to feel the storm not as an invader but as... me. And suddenly I understandâthe storm doesn't want destruction. It wants release. It wants to be acknowledged, used, and directed. Like a river dammed too long.
"It's..." I struggle for words. "It's been waiting. All this time, it's been waiting for me to listen."
"Yes." Thalia's voice warms slightly. "Now, direct it. Just a thread. Into your palm."
I reach for the storm's edge, imagining a thin stream of it flowing down my arm. For a moment, nothing happens. Then a tingle, a spark, and my palm illuminates with dancing blue light. Not the wild, destructive lightning that killed Liorâjust a soft glow that casts shadows across my fingers.
My eyes fly open in shock. The light vanishes instantly.
"That was good," Thalia says, and something like pride flickers in her eyes. "Again."
We spend hours on the frost-covered stone. By midday, I can hold the light in my palm for nearly a minute before it threatens to spiral out of control. Each attempt leaves me more drained than the last, but the storm seems... satisfied. Less restless.
"Enough," Thalia finally says, rising in one fluid motion. "You need rest."
I stay seated, studying my trembling hands. My fingertips are numb, and a bone-deep weariness has settled into my limbs. But beneath the exhaustion is something newâa whisper of accomplishment, of connection with the storm that's haunted me all my life.
"Will I ever control it completely?" I ask, voicing the fear that's been building since I arrived.
Thalia's expression clouds. "Control isn't mastery, Kaela. It's a partnership." She hesitates, then adds, "The corruption is still inside you, dormant but present. Your storm fights it, even now."
The reminder sends a chill down me. The black crystal shards we expelled were only fragments. The rest waits inside me, patient and insidious, ready to turn my storm against me.
"What happens if the corruption wins?" I ask, though I suspect I know.
Thalia's gaze slides to the forest's edge, where Riven keeps watch. "Then you become what we hunt."
Her words follow me back to the cabin, a shadow darker than any storm.
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The cabin feels stifling after hours in the open air. My muscles ache from holding the same position, and the wound on my shoulder pulses dully with each heartbeat. I find a quiet corner in the main room, away from the others, and curl into myself.
Exhaustion weighs on me, but my mind won't quiet. The morning's training repeats in fragmentsâthe feel of the storm flowing down my arm, the brief moment of connection, the terrifying sense that the storm has consciousness. Has wants. What does that make me? A vessel? A prisoner? Or something else entirely?
Daro works silently at the hearth, his broad shoulders blocking most of the warmth. The fire seems drawn to him, flames leaning in his direction as if seeking his attention. I wonder if he has a storm too, but different from mine. The thought that I might not be entirely alone in this is both comforting and unsettling.
Flynn sprawls in a chair nearby, one leg draped over the armrest, whittling something small and intricate. Her fingers move with surprising grace for someone so restless. Elyra sorts dried herbs at the table, humming softly, a melody that reminds me of home. The domesticity of it all feels alien, undeserved.
I close my eyes, trying to practice what Thalia taught meâfinding the edges of my storm, letting it settle. Instead, memories flood back: Mira's face when I left Ashgroveâhurt, confused, but still loving. The orchard trees are in bloom, pale petals drifting like snow. My mother's hands were braiding my hair, gentle and sure. And Liorâalways Liorâhis smile just before the lightning came, his absolute trust that I wouldn't hurt him.
A tear slips down my cheek before I can stop it. I brush it away quickly, but not before the storm stirs, responding to my grief with a pulse of energy that makes my fingertips tingle.
"Here."
I open my eyes to find Daro standing over me, a steaming mug in his outstretched hand. His expression is unreadable, but there's no fear in itâno wariness like Riven's, no careful assessment like Thalia's.
I accept the mug, our fingers briefly touching. His skin is surprisingly warm, almost feverish.
"Thank you," I murmur, uncertain how to interpret this small kindness.
He nods once and returns to the hearth without speaking. The tea smells of mountain herbs and something deeperâsmoke and earth and a hint of sweetness. It soothes my raw throat, and the storm quiets as I drink, as if it, too, is being comforted.
For one fragile moment, I allow myself to imagine belonging here. Not as a danger they must contain, but as... something else. Someone worthy of a warm drink and a quiet corner. Someone who might someday control her storm enough to return home, to face Mira and my mother without fear.
The moment shatters when Riven enters, his gaze finding me instantly. The wariness in his eyes reminds me of what I amâwhat I might become if the corruption inside me grows stronger than my will to fight it.
I turn away, focusing on the tea, on the bracelet at my wrist, on anything but the fear that I am only one storm away from becoming a monster.
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"Again," Daro says, his voice soft but firm.
I raise the heavy staff, muscles screaming in protest. Three days of Thalia's mental training have left my mind raw and my emotions frayed. Now Daro insists my body must be as disciplined as my mind. The wooden staff feels awkward in my handsânothing like the pruning shears or harvest baskets I wielded in Ashgrove.
"Your storm responds to weakness," he explains, circling me slowly. "Physical exhaustion. Fear. Anger. You must be stronger than those reactions."
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I strike the post as instructed, the impact jarring my shoulders. My wound throbs in response, and I bite back a gasp. The storm ripples under my skin, responding to the pain, but doesn't break free. A small victory.
"The corruption will use pain against you," Daro continues, adjusting my stance with gentle hands. "It will find every crack in your resolve."
I think of the black crystal shards we expelled, of the corruption still lurking inside me. I think of how it felt when it was spreadingâa cold fire in my veins, whispering that surrender would be easier than fighting.
"Thalia says I need to accept the storm," I pant, striking again. "You want me to fight it?"
Daro shakes his head. "Not fight. Channel."
He demonstrates, taking the staff from my hands. His movements are fluid and powerful, each strike precise. There's something in the way he movesâa carefully controlled force, like banked fire. When he returns the staff to me, it's warm to the touch.
"You have fire in you," I blurt out, then flush at my boldness.
A hint of a smile touches his lips. "We all carry something, storm-bearer. Some burdens are just more... visible than others."
I wonder about his story, about all their stories. What brought them to this remote cabin, hunting creatures of glass and shadow? What losses have they suffered to make them take in a dangerous stranger like me?
I resume the drill, trying to mimic Daro's control. The storm inside me responds differently to his training than to Thalia's meditation. Rather than calming, it seems to gather itself, focusing as I focus. With each strike, I feel it aligning with my movements rather than fighting against them.
By sunset, my arms shake with fatigue, but the storm feels settled, not suppressed, but directed. For the first time since the Harvest Festival, I feel a fragile sense of unity with it. Daro notices the change, nodding with quiet satisfaction.
"Rest now," he says, taking the staff. "Tomorrow will be harder."
I believe him, but for the first time since arriving, I look forward to the challenge. The storm inside me hums in anticipation, and I don't silence it.
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The fever returns without warning.
One moment, I'm helping Elyra gather herbs in the small garden behind the cabin, the moonberry's sweet fragrance mingling with sage and thyme, and the next, fire consumes me from within. I collapse among the plants, the world tilting sickeningly beneath me.
"Kaela!" Elyra's voice seems to come from far away, muffled by the roaring in my ears. Cool hands frame my face. "It's the corruption. Fight it."
I try to focus, to direct my storm as Thalia taught me, but the fever scrambles my thoughts. Black veins spread from my shoulder wound, glassy and gleaming in the afternoon light. My storm rises in panicked defence, lightning crackling along my skin.
"No, no," Elyra murmurs, somehow unafraid of the sparks dancing mere inches from her fingers. "Don't let it take control. Breathe with me."
She presses her forehead to mine, one hand on my chest, the other cradling the back of my neck. Her breathing is deep and even, and I struggle to match it. The corruption burns cold in my veins, crawling toward my heart, while my storm fights back with searing heat.
I'm dimly aware of Elyra calling for help, her voice tight with urgency. Then Flynn is there, her usual playfulness replaced by sharp focus.
"Shit," she breathes, taking in the black veins and the lightning dancing across my skin. "It's spreading faster than last time."
Together, they lift me, surprisingly strong for their slender frames. Pain shoots through me at the movement, and I can't hold back a cry. The storm surges in response, a protective pulse that nearly knocks Elyra backwards.
"Easy," Flynn murmurs, surprisingly gentle. "We're trying to help, storm-girl."
I fight to keep the storm contained as they half-carry me toward the cabin. Each step sends fresh fire through my veins, and I can feel the corruption pushing deeper, seeking my heart.
"Too slow," Elyra says, her voice tense. "Flynn, get Thalia. Now."
Flynn hesitates. "She took Riven to scout the northern ridge. They won't be back untilâ"
"Then get Daro. Anyone. I can't hold her alone if the storm breaks free."
Flynn guides us to the ground instead, propping me against the trunk of a pine tree. The world swims in and out of focus, dark edges creeping into my vision.
"I'll get Daro," Flynn says, squeezing my hand. "Hang on, Kaela. Don't go all lightning on us, okay?"
She disappears, her usual fluid motion reduced to a desperate sprint. Elyra cradles my face, her eyes filled with focused intensity.
"Fight it, Kaela," she urges. "Remember what Thalia taught you. Direct your storm inward, toward the corruption."
I try, but the fever makes it hard to focus. The storm thrashes within me, wild with panic. I can feel it trying to protect me, but it's fighting blindly, wasting energy.
"I can'tâ" My voice breaks. The corruption spreads visibly now, black veins crawling up my neck. "It's too strong."
"No," Elyra says firmly. "You're stronger. Your storm is stronger. But you have to work together."
Through the haze of fever, I remember what Thalia saidâthat the storm is part of me, not separate. I stop fighting it and instead ask it, silently, to help me. The response is immediateâa surge of power, still chaotic but now directed, pushing back against the corruption's advance.
Flynn returns with Daro at her heels, his face grim. "How bad?" he asks Elyra.
"Bad," she answers, not looking away from me. "Help me steady her."
Daro kneels beside us, his large hands hovering over my shoulder. "The cabin," he says. "We can't do this out here."
They lift me again, and this time I focus on directing the storm's energy inward, toward the corruption. It's like trying to control a flood with my bare hands, but the pain lessens slightly.
Inside the cabin, they lay me on my bed, Elyra's herbs and tinctures already prepared. Flynn hovers anxiously nearby, her usual restlessness stilled by concern.
"What can I do?" she asks, sounding young and uncertain.
"Cold cloths," Elyra instructs. "And talk to her. Keep her with us."
Flynn nods, disappearing and returning with a basin of mountain stream water. She wrings out a cloth and lays it across my forehead, the coolness a blessed relief against the fever.
"You're not allowed to die, storm-girl," she says, her voice fierce beneath the lightness. "We just started getting along."
I try to smile but can only manage a grimace. The storm surges again, stronger this time, lightning arcing between my fingertips.
"Woah!" Flynn jumps back, but doesn't leave. "That's impressive, but maybe tone it down?"
"She can't," Daro says quietly, preparing something that smells bitter and earthy. "The storm is trying to save her."
"Well, tell it to try harder," Flynn mutters, replacing the cloth on my forehead. "Listen, Kaela. Remember that apple yesterday? The way you almost smiled? I'm going to need you to do that again sometime, okay? For research purposes."
Her chatter continues, a stream of conscious reassurances and jokes. Behind the words, I hear real fear. Strange to think someone might be afraid of losing me, the girl who brings storms and destruction.
The corruption continues its advance despite my efforts, the pain growing unbearable. At some point, Thalia returned, her voice cool and urgent. She places her hands on my chest, directly over my storm, and something shifts.
"Listen to me, Kaela," she says, her voice cutting through the fever haze. "Your storm is part of you, but it's also ancient. Older than you know. It knows how to fight corruption. Let it remember."
I don't understand what she means, but I'm too weak to question. I surrender to the storm, not fighting it but merging with it. The sensation is terrifying and exhilaratingâlike falling into an endless sky. The storm expands, filling every part of me, and for one breathless moment, I see through its eyes: the world alive with energy, flows and currents of power connecting everything.
The corruption appears as a toxic darkness, spreading through those currents. But the storm knows what to do. It gathers its strength and pushes, not wildly but with purpose. One by one, shards of crystallised corruption break free from my wound, each expulsion draining but cleansing.
When I come back to myself, I'm drenched in sweat, trembling with exhaustion. Elyra, Flynn, Daro, and Thalia surround me, their faces etched with concern and something like awe.
"Did it work?" I rasp, my throat raw.
Elyra nods slowly. "The worst of it is out. But you're still weak, and the fever hasn't broken. The storm... it helped in a way I've never seen before."
I close my eyes, too exhausted to respond. The storm inside me is quiet now, not gone but resting. It feels different somehowâmore settled, more a part of me.
"Rest," Thalia says, her voice gentler than I've ever heard it. "We'll keep watch."
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Flynn's fingers worked the small piece of wood with practised precision, each stroke of her knife purposeful despite her casual posture. The cabin was quiet except for Kaela's shallow breathing and the occasional crackle from the hearth. Too quiet for Flynn's liking. Silence always made her think too much.
She glanced up at the storm-girl's face, pale against the rough blanket. The black veins had receded somewhat, but the fever still burned bright in her cheeks. Hard to believe this slip of a girl held so much power beneath her skin. Hard to believe she'd survived at all.
Flynn had seen what corruption could do. She'd watched Nira change from ally to enemy, had seen the glass shards creep through her veins until nothing human remained. Had stood frozen while Riven did what had to be done.
"Not this time," she muttered, carving another delicate feather into the wooden bird's wing.
The storm-girl stirred, eyelids fluttering. Flynn straightened, instantly alert. She'd spent six hours in this spot, refusing Daro's offer to take a shift. Not that she'd admit why. Better they think she was just being contrary, as usual.
"You know," Flynn said, keeping her voice light as Kaela's eyes finally opened, "the last time someone made this much of a mess in here, it was me. I was trying to catch a squirrel. Don't ask why. Daro nearly skinned me alive."
The lie came easily. Better than explaining about the nightmares that had sent her crashing through the cabin that night, about the shadows she'd been trying to outrun. Better than showing weakness.
"Why... are you here?" Kaela's voice was barely audible, cracked with fever and exhaustion.
The question caught Flynn off guard. Why was she here? She could have let Daro take this shift, could have slipped away to patrol the perimeter or scout the ridgeline. Safer things than sitting vigil beside a girl who might turn into lightning at any moment.
"To annoy you back to health, obviously," she deflected, the familiar mask of mischief sliding into place. But something in Kaela's storm-grey eyesâsomething lost and broken and so achingly familiarâmade her add, "Also, Elyra said someone should stay with you. Make sure you keep breathing."
When Kaela began coughing, Flynn moved without thinking, supporting her with hands that didn't shake, steadying the water cup against lips that still looked too blue. Her practised nonchalance slipped just a fraction as she noted how light the girl felt, how fragile.
"The others?" Kaela asked after drinking.
Flynn settled back down, fingers returning to her carving. "Thalia and Riven are patrolling. Daro's making you some horrible medicine. Elyra's finally resting." She picked up her knife again, needing the familiar weight in her hand. "So you're stuck with me."
When Kaela asked about the carving, Flynn held it upâthe small wooden bird, wings spread in flight. Her father's voice echoed in her memory: "Give it freedom, little fox. Even wood wants to fly." Before the shadows came. Before everything changed.
"Just keeping my hands busy," she said, softer than intended. "My father taught me. He said idle hands invite trouble."
"Was he right?"
Flynn smiled, grateful for the chance to return to safer ground. "Absolutely. But only the fun kind of trouble."
She watched something unfamiliar cross Kaela's faceâa smile, fragile and fleeting. It transformed her, this small glimpse of the girl she might have been before storms and death and corruption.
"There it is," Flynn said, genuinely pleased. "Your face can do more than frown. Progress."
She hadn't expected the next question.
"Were you afraid? When they brought me here?"
Flynn's hands stilled. Behind her practised smirk and quick retorts lay memories she'd rather not revisit: Nira's smile turning cold, glass shards where eyes should be, sixteen bodies in a mountain village. The sound Elyra made when they found her, barely alive. The way Thalia's hands shook for weeks after.
"Yes," she admitted, uncharacteristically honest. "I don't like... losing people."
"I'm not your people," Kaela said, the words hollow.
Flynn looked at the storm-girlâtoo young, too damaged, fighting something no one should have to face alone. Just like Flynn had been once. Just like Nira.
"You could be," she said, her knife finding rhythm again in the wood. "You're not the only one carrying something heavy, storm-girl. Some of us just hide it better."
She watched as exhaustion pulled Kaela back toward sleep, her eyelids growing heavy. Flynn tucked the blanket more securely around her, careful not to disturb the bandaged shoulder. Her fingers lingered just a moment longer than necessary.
"Rest now," she murmured. "We'll try again tomorrow."
When she was certain Kaela slept, Flynn placed the finished carving on the small table beside the bedâa bird in flight, wings spread wide, each feather detailed with painstaking care. Freedom carved from something broken. A small offering against the darkness.
Flynn settled back into her chair, drew her knees to her chest, and prepared for another long night of keeping watch. Outside, the wind picked up, branches scraping against the cabin walls like fingers seeking entry. The shadows grew longer as night fell, but Flynn didn't light more candles. She'd learned long ago how to see in the dark.
She watched the rise and fall of Kaela's chest, counting each breath like a promise. The storm-girl might not be her people yet, but Flynn understood storms of a different kind. Understood what it was to carry something dangerous beneath your skin.
"Not this time," she whispered again to the sleeping girl, a vow against all they'd lost before. "Not you."