The wooden practice sword feels different in my hands todayâlighter somehow, more an extension of my arm than the clumsy burden it was a week ago. Riven circles me in the snow-covered clearing, his footsteps barely audible despite the fresh powder. I've learned to track him by the cloud of his breath in the frigid air.
"Again," he commands, and I settle into the opening stance he's drilled into me. Back straight, knees bent, weight centred. The iron band Daro forged clasps my wrist just below Lior's bracelet, its cool pressure a constant reminder of control.
Riven strikes without warningâa sharp, overhead blow that would have caught me unprepared just days ago. Now my arms lift instinctively, my practice blade meeting his with a satisfying crack that sends snow cascading from a nearby branch.
"Better," he grunts, but I know better than to expect praise. He circles again, boots crunching in the new snow. "Your body remembers. But your stormâ"
"I know." I release a measured breath, focusing on the electric current humming beneath my skin. Since the iron band, I've felt my storm more clearlyânot as an invader but as something woven through me, awaiting direction.
Riven feints left, then sweeps low toward my ankles. I leap, using the momentum to bring my blade around in the counter-stroke he taught me yesterday. A faint crackle of blue light traces the wooden edge as I channel a whisper of my storm through it.
His eyes narrow. "Hold."
I freeze, blade still extended, breath clouding the air between us.
"You channelled that time. Deliberate?"
I nod, unable to keep the small smile from my lips. "I felt it coming. Guided it instead of letting it burst."
The faintest ghost of approval flickers across his face before he masks it. "Again. This time, maintain the charge longer. Three breaths."
We resume our deadly dance, wooden blades clacking in the stillness of the mountain morning. With each exchange, I draw more confidently on my stormâthin threads of it flowing down my arms, through the iron band, along the practice sword. By midday, tiny arcs of blue-white lightning dance constantly along the blade's edge, responding to my will rather than my fear.
When we finally break, my lungs burn with the cold air and exertion, but satisfaction warms me from within. For the first time since the Harvest Festival, since Lior, I feel something like... not peace, but purpose.
Riven stands across from me, barely winded despite hours of training. "Acceptable," he says, which from him feels like thunderous applause.
"Acceptable?" I repeat, allowing myself a moment of defiance. "I've held my storm through twenty exchanges."
"And in a real fight, you'd have faced two hundred." His stern expression doesn't change, but something softer edges into his voice. "But yes. Progress. Tomorrow we move to defensive channellingâredirecting rather than just holding."
He sheathes his practice sword and retrieves a waterskin from beneath a snow-dusted pine. As I drink gratefully, movement at the tree line catches my eye. A familiar lean figure emerges from the forest path, and my heart leaps with recognition.
"Flynn!"
He's been gone for almost two weeks now on his scouting mission, and for news of my hometown. The thought of news from Mother and Mira quickens my pulse as much as the morning's training.
Riven notices my distraction, following my gaze to where Flynn approaches. "We're done for today," he says, taking the waterskin. "Maintain awareness of your storm even at rest. The iron band helps, but it's not enough by itself."
I nod absently, already striding toward Flynn, whose face bears the weathered look of long travel but breaks into a grin at my approach.
"Storm-girl!" he calls, the nickname warming me despite the chill. "Miss me terribly, did you?"
"Only your insufferable chatter," I retort, but I can't keep the smile from my voice. "You're back earlier than expected."
Flynn's eyes flicker briefly to Riven, who retrieves our practice weapons without comment. "Fair winds and a guide who knew shortcuts," he says lightly. Too lightly.
My smile falters. "Did you... Did you reach Ashgrove? My mother, Miraâare they...?"
"Inside," Flynn suggests, nodding toward the sanctum entrance. "It's a long tale, and I've been climbing since dawn."
The common hall welcomes us with hearth-glow and the scent of Daro's stew. Flynn warms his hands over the flames while I pace, impatient for news. When Elyra appears with steaming mugs of pine-needle tea, Flynn finally settles onto a bench.
"I didn't reach Ashgrove myself," he admits, and my heart drops. "Hunter activity was too heavy in the hills approaching the valley. I'd have led them straight to your mother's door."
"Then howâ"
"I met a trader at Riverton," Flynn continues, cradling his mug. "A fellow named Lorne who makes the Ashgrove circuit every month. Trustworthy sortâThalia's used him before. I paid him well to carry your letter the final stretch and to bring back any reply."
I sink onto the bench opposite him, disappointment and hope warring in my chest. "And?"
Flynn reaches into his coat and produces a slender roll of parchment, sealed with a drop of green wax pressed with a familiar herb pattern. Mother's seal.
My fingers tremble as I take it, suddenly afraid of what it might contain. What if they no longer want to hear from me after what happened to Lior? What if they blame me still?
"She was well," Flynn says gently, as if reading my thoughts. "The trader said both women were healthy and whole, though worried sick about you. No trouble from the village elders after you left."
Relief washes through me, making my eyes sting. "And... Aun Lauren? Lior's mother?"
Flynn's expression sobers. "Lorne didn't speak with her directly. But he said the memorial lanterns still burn at the old oak grove. The village hasn't forgotten."
Neither have I. I will never forget. The weight of Lior's death remains, but somehow knowing Ashgrove continuesâthat Mother and Mira are safeâlifts a fraction of the burden from my shoulders.
I break the seal and unroll the parchment with reverent care. Mother's precise handwriting fills the page, and I see tear stains where ink has blurred in places. I press the letter to my chest for a moment, gathering courage before reading.
Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
My dearest Kaela,
Your words came like spring after the longest winter. To know you live, that you are healing and have found those who understand your giftâI have lit a candle every night in thanksgiving.
Mira and I are well, though we miss you with every breath. The village has been quiet since you left. Some still fear, but many now speak of how the old signs foretold your path. Elder Tomas has declared your storm a burden you bear for all of us, and most have accepted this wisdom.
I have much to tell you of your father, of his storm and why he left. Things I should have shared long ago. The trader waits and cannot carry all I wish to say. Know this: you are not the first in our family to bear this burden.
Be safe, my daughter. And when you can, come home to us. Even for a day. You are loved and missed beyond measure.
Your mother, always
Below her signature, in Mira's more exuberant hand:
Kaela! I knew you weren't dead! I told everyone who would listen. The old oak still stands where we used to climb, waiting for you. I'm learning herbcraft from your motherâI'm terrible at it, but I keep trying. She says I crush the leaves too hard. Remember how you always said I had "enthusiastic hands"? I miss you. I miss us. Come back when you can. I'll be watching the east road.
âMira
P.S. Your mother doesn't know I added this, but the creatures have been seen twice near the village edge. No one was hurt. I thought you should know.
I lowered the letter, wiping tears from my cheeks. Flynn pretends great interest in his tea, giving me a moment to compose myself.
"Hunter sightings near Ashgrove," I say finally, my voice rough. "Mira mentions it."
Flynn nods, unsurprised. "Lorne told me the same. Nothing directâjust shadows at dusk, strange lightning in cloudless skies. The Hunters are searching more boldly."
"For me?" The thought chills me more than any mountain snow.
"For any storm-bearer," he corrects, but his eyes hold concern. "But yes, likely they sense your connection to the place."
I fold the letter carefully, tucking it into my tunic close to my heart. "I need to get stronger faster." I look up at Flynn, new determination hardening within me. "I need to protect them."
"That's why I'm here." He stands, extending a hand to help me up. "Riven may have the market cornered on grim determination, but I'm about to teach you how to move like the wind itself."
----------------------------------------
Flynn's training is nothing like Riven's methodical drills. We spend the afternoon on the eastern slopes, where wind-scoured rock gives way to patches of deep snow and twisted pines.
"The trick," Flynn explains, ghosting silently across a stretch of crusted snow that would have betrayed my steps with loud crunches, "is to let your storm sense the path before you take it."
I frown, trying to understand. "My storm can do that?"
"Your storm is the wind, storm-girl." He gestures around us at the mountain breeze that constantly shifts and plays among the pines. "It knows where resistance lies, where silence waits. You just have to listen."
I close my eyes, feeling the iron band cool against my wrist. The storm within me has been quiet since morning trainingânot absent, but waiting. I reach for it now, not in the directed channel Riven taught me for combat, but as a questioning touch.
Show me how to move with you.
Something shifts in my awarenessâa subtle current of knowledge that wasn't there before. When I open my eyes, the terrain looks different. I can almost see the flow of air over snow, around trees, the places where my weight would press too heavily or where brittle branches would snap.
I take a tentative step, placing my foot exactly where the air flows most smoothly. No sound. Another step, following the invisible current. The snow holds firm beneath me where it should have collapsed.
"Yes!" Flynn's delighted whisper comes from behind me, though I swear he was standing before me a moment ago. "That's it. You're sensing the path."
For the next hour, we play a strange game of forest tag, with Flynn vanishing and reappearing, teaching me to extend my storm-sense farther with each attempt. By late afternoon, I can cross fifty paces of varied terrain without making a sound, can sense Flynn's position even when he's hidden, andâmost surprisinglyâcan silence my own breathing and heartbeat to near imperceptibility.
"You're a natural," Flynn says as we pause at the edge of a frozen stream. "It took Nira weeks to learn what you've grasped in hours."
The comparison startles me. "You trained Nira too?"
A shadow passes over his face. "All of us did, in our own ways. I was younger then, less cautious. She was... determined. Brilliant, in her way." He absently rubs the scar on his shoulderâthe one I glimpsed once during training. "But she wanted to command her storm, not partner with it."
"And that's what corrupted her?" I ask quietly.
Flynn nods, looking out over the valley below. "The storm resists domination. When forced, it breaks, leaving room for the taint to enter." He turns to me with unusual seriousness. "That's why what you're doing is so different, Kaela. Your storm works with you, through you."
His words warm me despite the chill settling as the sun dips toward the western peaks. "It doesn't feel like mastery," I admit. "More like... conversation."
"Exactly." Flynn's familiar grin returns. "Now, let's see if your conversational partner can help you cross this stream without breaking the ice or getting your boots wet."
I laughâan unexpected sound that startles us bothâand reach once more for the quiet knowledge of the storm within me. As I step onto the frozen surface, I feel the ice's thickness through my boots, sense where the current runs strongest beneath the surface, and choose my path with newfound confidence.
----------------------------------------
The trek back to the sanctum left me pleasantly exhausted, muscles burning from Flynn's insistence that we practice different stances in the knee-deep snow. He'd shown me how to move without disturbing the white blanket around usâa skill that seemed impossible until I felt the wind currents beneath my feet, guiding my steps.
"You're a natural at this, storm-girl," Flynn said, his voice warm despite the frost edging his scarf. "Most bearers take weeks to sense the wind patterns."
I allowed myself a small smile, careful not to show how much his praise meant. "The wind's always been there," I admitted. "Even before... before I knew what I was." Before Lior died. Before I understood the price of my power.
Flynn nodded, seeming to hear the words I couldn't say. "Hungry? Elyra's been experimenting with mountain herbs in the stew. Says it helps with cold resistance."
My stomach answered with an embarrassing growl, and Flynn's laughter chased us both down the path toward the sanctum's entrance.
Inside, the great hall glowed with hearthlight. Thalia and Daro were deep in conversation by the fire, while Elyra stirred something fragrant in the large iron pot. Riven sat apart, methodically polishing a curved blade that caught flashes of firelight with each pass of his cloth.
"Just in time," Elyra said, ladling steaming stew into wooden bowls. "Sit before it gets cold."
The rich aroma of root vegetables and wild herbs filled the air as Flynn and I took our places. For a fleeting moment, the scene reminded me of evenings in Mother's cottageâdifferent faces, but the same quiet ritual of shared meals after long days. A pang of homesickness tightened my chest.
"How was training today?" Thalia asked, passing fresh bread.
Flynn launched into an animated retelling of our session, embellishing my small successes into grand victories. I focused on my stew, letting his voice wash over me while savouring the warmth spreading through my body. The food here was simple but hearty, exactly what my recovering strength needed.
I lifted my spoon for another bite when something shifted.
One moment, warmth coursed through my veins; the next, ice.
Not the familiar heat of corruption flaring nor the electric tingle of my storm risingâthis was different. Wrong. My entire body suddenly felt hollow, as though the very essence within me had been scooped away, leaving only a brittle shell behind.
My spoon clattered against the bowl. The others' voices became distant, underwater echoes.
"Kaela?" Flynn's face swam before mine, concern etching his features.
I tried to answer, but my lips wouldn't move. The cold spread outward from my core, racing along my limbs until even my fingertips felt frozen. The iron band on my wrist, meant to ground my storm, felt impossibly heavy, like a shackle of pure ice.
The world tilted. The hearth fire dimmed.
And then, nothing.