The meeting ended without answers. Just that same, quiet certainty: we’ll face the storm when it comes. No one said it out loud, but I could feel it—none of us believe we’ll be ready.

  I stepped out into the cold air, the chill biting more than it should for spring. The sky was clear above us, but out there—far off on the horizon—it lingered. That storm. Wrong in every way. It didn’t churn. It didn’t move. It just… watched.

  We scattered after the meeting. No fanfare. No plans etched in stone. Just motion—everyone doing what they could. I kept my hands busy, packing supplies, checking weapons, counting healing herbs even though I’m not a healer. Anything to keep from looking at the sky too long.

  The others were the same. Caelen watched the trainees with that quiet weight in his eyes. Zia moved like a shadow between tasks, keeping order without barking orders. Kira had the twins and the four under her wing, soothing them like nothing outside the den walls could touch them.

  But I felt it. Pressing down. Tight in my chest. The same pressure I felt in my dream.

  I hadn’t told them everything yet. Not about the figure. Not about the way the babies’ lights faded until there was nothing. I didn’t have the words. Or maybe I was afraid of what they’d say if I found them.

  So instead, I worked. I listened to the silence. And I waited for the storm to move.

  Because when it does… we won’t get a second chance.

  I was double-checking the bindings on one of the packs when I felt him behind me. Caelen. I didn’t have to look.

  “You’re going to break the strap if you pull any tighter,” he said quietly.

  I exhaled through my nose. “Maybe it deserves it.”

  He chuckled under his breath, the sound low and brief. “You’ve been tense since the meeting.”

  “Have you looked at the sky lately?” I stood, brushing my hands off on my pants. “It hasn’t moved, Caelen. Hours now. I don’t care what kind of weather this is—that’s not normal.”

  “I know,” he said. “I’ve been watching it too.”

  I turned then, meeting his eyes. The new weight of his title didn’t hang awkward on him the way I thought it would. Maybe it hadn’t sunk in yet. Maybe he’s just good at carrying things quietly.

  “It’s watching us,” I said.

  He nodded, without hesitation. “Feels like it.”

  Silence settled between us for a beat. Not the uncomfortable kind—just heavy. Like the air right before lightning strikes.

  “I don’t think it’s just a storm,” I said, softer now. “I think it’s something else. And I think it already knows about the four.”

  His jaw tightened. “Because of the dream?”

  “Because of how I dreamed it. I’ve had visions before, but this one…” I swallowed. “It didn’t feel like something I was seeing. It felt like something I was in. Or something that was inside me. And that figure—no face, no name, just presence—it was like it was already here. Like it was standing just out of reach.”

  Caelen didn’t speak right away. He looked toward the horizon, his expression unreadable. “You haven’t told the Elders that part.”

  “No,” I said. “Not yet. They’ve got enough on their shoulders. I just…” I dragged a hand through my hair. “I need more than dreams before I start dropping fear like fire on everyone’s heads.”

  He looked back at me then. “You’re not alone in this, Laika. Not now. If it’s coming, we’ll meet it together.”

  I wanted to believe that. Goddess, I really did. But I could still feel that dream clinging to my ribs like smoke. I could still hear the silence where the babies’ cries used to be.

  And deep down, I think the storm doesn’t want to destroy us.

  I think it wants to change us.

  Caelen moved off to check the perimeter after that, leaving me standing there with the packs and the silence. I didn’t follow. My legs felt heavy, like the ground didn’t want to let go of me. Like it was holding its breath.

  I finally grabbed the supply bag and started toward the main storage den, my boots crunching softly over frostbitten earth. The chill was deep today—not sharp enough to sting, but deep enough to settle in the bones. The kind that made the world feel too quiet.

  I passed Kira on the way, crouched beside the twins and Arel, one of the older pups. She was tracing lines in the dirt with a stick, humming something I didn’t recognize. The tune made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Too old for her to know. Too familiar for me to forget.

  Kira met my eyes as I slowed. She didn’t say anything—just tilted her head slightly, a silent question.

  I shook mine in return. Not yet.

  She nodded, and I kept walking.

  By the time I stepped into the storage house, Zia was already there, her back to me as she sorted through bundles of dried roots and bottles. She didn’t look up, just said, “You’re quiet.”

  “Everyone’s quiet,” I muttered, setting the pack down.

  Zia turned, arms crossed. “You feel it too, don’t you?”

  Of course I did. But I waited before answering. “Yeah.”

  Her eyes flicked toward the den entrance, like she was listening for something just out of reach. “I asked the wind for answers last night. It didn’t speak.”

  That sent a shiver up my spine. Zia always got something from the wind.

  “What do you think it means?” I asked.

  She studied me for a second, eyes narrowing slightly. “I think we’re already in the storm. We just haven’t realized it yet.”

  Something cracked inside me when she said that. Like she’d confirmed something I didn’t want to admit. I saw the babies in my dream fade like light being swallowed, and I’d thought—hoped—it was a warning. A maybe. But what if we were already past that part?

  What if we were already being unmade?

  Before I could speak, a howl split the air outside—short, sharp, urgent.

  Both of us froze.

  That wasn’t a call for danger.

  That was a summons.

  Zia and I locked eyes for half a breath before we moved.

  She grabbed her belt and I slung the pack over my shoulder without thinking, already halfway to the door. Outside, others had paused in their work—ears perked, heads turning toward the direction of the howl. No one panicked. But everything stopped.

  I broke into a run.

  The sound had come from the western ridge—near the lookout post. My boots hit the ground hard, kicking up brittle dirt and frost as I moved, weaving between dens and startled glances. The sky hadn’t changed. The storm still loomed on the horizon like a held breath. But the air felt different now. Thinner. Like the world had taken one step closer to whatever this was.

  I passed Kira again on the way. She had the twins and the pups herded closer to the central courtyard, her voice calm and even as she issued quiet directions. Arel clutched her arm, wide-eyed but silent. I didn’t stop this time.

  By the time I reached the ridge, Caelen was already there, crouched near the ground beside the lookout. Two scouts stood nearby, tense and wide-eyed. One of them—I think his name was Joren—looked like he wanted to shift and bolt, but his legs wouldn’t move.

  “What is it?” I asked, breath sharp in my chest.

  Caelen glanced up at me, then stepped aside just enough for me to see.

  Tracks.

  No. Not tracks. Marks.

  They burned into the earth in a wide arc, like claw grooves—but wrong. Too deep. Too clean. The edges shimmered faintly, like heat distortion rising off stone in summer. But the ground was cold. Frost rimmed the edges of the gouges like the earth had tried to fight back and failed.

  Zia arrived behind me a second later, and her breath caught when she saw them. “What the hell…”

  “They weren’t here an hour ago,” Caelen said quietly. “I walked this stretch myself before the meeting.”

  I crouched, reaching toward the nearest mark—and stopped an inch short. Something inside me recoiled.

  “These aren’t natural,” I whispered.

  “No,” Zia agreed. “They’re not. And they’re pointing toward the camp.”

  I looked up, following the angle. The marks weren’t random. They were in a wide arc—but every line curved inward.

  Inward… and toward us.

  I leaned in a little closer, letting instinct take over where reason wanted to back away. The closer I got, the harder it was to breathe—not like I was afraid, not exactly. More like something was pressing back from the marks themselves, like the ground wasn’t just marked—it was wounded.

  I hovered my fingers just above the surface. Heat shimmered up from it, but my skin registered cold.

  That same sensation from the dream.

  The breath caught in my throat. I closed my eyes.

  For a second, I wasn’t on the ridge anymore.

  I was somewhere darker. The sky overhead was split open, jagged like broken glass, and that same faceless figure stood in the distance—watching, always watching. No sound. No movement. Just presence.

  I gasped and pulled back hard.

  “What did you see?” Zia asked, sharp but not unkind.

  I shook my head, trying to ground myself. “It’s connected. The marks. The dream. It’s not just something coming for us. It’s… here. Or halfway here.”

  Caelen’s eyes narrowed. “Like it’s reaching through?”

  I nodded. “Like it’s testing the edge.”

  Boots pounded up the path behind us. One of the runners—Nell, slim and fast, barely older than the younger warriors—slid to a stop near Caelen, chest heaving.

  “There’s more,” she said. “On the east side. Same markings. Same angle. But they’re starting to form a full ring.”

  I looked at Zia. She looked at me.

  That storm on the horizon?

  It wasn’t waiting anymore.

  It was closing in.

  ——

  The wind picked up—just enough to make the bare branches nearby creak and the edges of my coat flutter. The storm still hadn’t moved, but the pressure in the air felt heavier now. Denser. Like it was waiting to see what we would do next.

  Then I felt it. A flicker in the back of my spine, subtle but unmistakable.

  Elders.

  A moment later, they arrived.

  Three of them—Caelen, of course, already with us. Beside him now stood Elder Adrastea and Elder Therin, flanking one another like they’d simply stepped out of the wind. Neither of them looked winded. Neither of them spoke right away.

  Zia inclined her head. “You felt it too.”

  Adrastea’s eyes were already on the marks. Her usually calm expression was unreadable—lips tight, gaze sharp.

  “We didn’t just feel it,” Therin said. “We heard it.”

  Caelen turned slightly. “You mean the howl?”

  Therin shook his head. “No. Not that. Something beneath it.”

  I tensed. “What did it sound like?”

  Adrastea answered, her voice soft but steady. “Like stone breaking from the inside. But slower. Drawn out. As if something was… waking up.”

  My stomach turned.

  “Do you recognize the markings?” Zia asked.

  The Elders exchanged a glance. That hesitation? That moment of silence? It said more than words could.

  Adrastea crouched slowly beside the largest groove, keeping a careful distance. “Not firsthand,” she said at last. “But this pattern—it’s in the old records. One of the sealed ones.”

  Sealed. That was never good.

  I crouched beside her. “What kind of records?”

  She looked at me.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  “The kind they didn’t want anyone to believe were real.”

  Adrastea’s gaze lingered on the marks, eyes narrowing. She didn’t seem to move for a long stretch—just standing there, taking it all in like she was deciding whether it was worth the risk to acknowledge what had been hidden for so long.

  Therin shifted beside me, his posture growing more tense. “We can’t be sure, not yet,” he said, as if speaking to himself more than anyone else. “But if this is what we think it is…”

  I didn’t need to hear the rest. His words hung in the air like a noose.

  Zia stepped forward, narrowing her eyes at Adrastea. “The records aren’t just myth, are they? Not all of them.”

  Adrastea turned slowly, her expression sharp but unreadable. “They were sealed for a reason. Not all records belong in the hands of the untested. Some things—some stories—are better left forgotten.”

  I could feel it, thickening in the air. The weight of something unspoken between us all.

  The chill of the wind carried an unnatural bite now, as if the storm itself had started to stir. My breath came out in small puffs, each one fogging in the frozen air.

  “What exactly are these records?” Zia pressed, voice low but intense. “The ones they didn’t want us to believe.”

  Adrastea glanced back at the marks, her fingers twitching like she wanted to touch them but stopped herself.

  “They’re not what you think. But the markings…” She hesitated, lips pulling tight. “These aren’t just symbols. They’re warnings. If they’re surfacing now—if they’re beginning to move—it means something is awake.”

  Caelen took a sharp step forward. “Something old.”

  “Something old and dangerous,” Adrastea corrected, meeting his gaze. “It’s the kind of danger that warps time itself. Something that lived before this land was settled.”

  Her words dropped like stones in water, the ripples growing wider, deepening the tension. The Elders’ eyes flicked toward one another—something was being held back, but it wasn’t fear. Not exactly. More like an understanding that it was already too late.

  The silence stretched.

  “What is it?” I asked, barely above a whisper.

  Adrastea didn’t flinch. “You’ll know soon enough. All of you will. But the storm won’t wait.”

  I could feel my pulse quicken. There was something in her voice—something knowing, like she could already feel the turning of something far darker and older than any of us had ever imagined.

  Another gust of wind whipped through the ridge, and it didn’t feel like the usual winter chill anymore. It felt like the world was shivering.

  ——

  By the time I made it back to the central courtyard, the air had gone even colder, though the storm still hung in the distance like a silent threat. The weight of everything we’d just uncovered still clung to me, heavy and restless, but then—

  Laughter. Light, unbothered. The sound of pups.

  I rounded the corner and saw Kira leaning near the edge of the courtyard, arms folded, watching over the younger ones with a quiet, steady gaze. But the moment her eyes landed on me, her posture shifted just slightly—concern slipping into her expression.

  Before I could say anything, two small blurs broke away from the group. I barely had time to react before I heard them—

  “Momma!” Kailaa’s voice rang out, high and bright, her little arms stretched wide.

  Elias followed close behind, feet pounding across the courtyard stones. “Momma, you’re back!”

  I knelt just in time to catch them both, wrapping them into a tight hug as they crashed into me. Kailaa buried her face in my shoulder, while Elias clung to me with both arms, his breath puffing against my neck.

  For a moment, the cold didn’t matter. The marks didn’t matter. The sealed records and the storm, the dread in the Elders’ voices—none of it touched me here.

  “I missed you,” Kailaa whispered.

  Elias looked up at me, his voice quieter now. “Are you okay?”

  I swallowed, forcing down the knot in my throat. “I’m okay,” I said softly, brushing a bit of wind-tangled hair from Elias’s forehead. “You don’t need to worry.”

  Kailaa nodded firmly. “Kira said you were helping with the scary stuff.”

  I smiled, just barely. “That’s my job, isn’t it?”

  Kira had walked over by now, her presence steady as always. She gave me a look—half grateful, half knowing—and placed a hand gently on Kailaa’s back.

  “They’ve been asking about you all day,” she said.

  “I noticed,” I murmured, my voice a little rougher than I intended. “They’re getting faster.”

  “They always run hardest when it’s you they see,” Kira said, her eyes softening. “You’re their whole world, Laika.”

  I hugged the twins a little tighter. “They’re mine, too.”

  Kira gave me a nod as I slowly stood, Kailaa still holding onto my hand while Elias trotted over to where the others were drawing shapes in the frost.

  “Come,” she said softly, and I didn’t have to ask where. Her voice had that familiar pull to it—the kind that didn’t press, just waited. I followed her across the courtyard, just to the edge where the stone walls gave a bit of cover from the wind.

  She leaned back against one of the pillars, her arms crossed again—but this time it wasn’t the stance of a watchful protector. It was the stance of a friend. A sister.

  “You’re holding too much,” she said, eyes on mine.

  I exhaled through my nose, rubbed at the back of my neck. “Aren’t we all?”

  Kira tilted her head slightly. “Not like you.”

  I didn’t answer.

  She gave it a moment, then added, “They look at you like you’ll fix everything. You know that, right?”

  “They’re children,” I murmured. “They should look at someone like that.”

  “And you’re not just ‘someone,’ Laika.” Her tone was gentle, but there was steel under it. “You’re their anchor. That kind of love doesn’t come easy. You gave it to them when they had no one.”

  I looked out across the courtyard, watching Kailaa skip between the stones, catching snowflakes on her tongue. Elias crouched near one of the others, carefully tracing his fingers in the thin layer of frost.

  “It’s getting darker,” I said quietly. “Not just the sky. Everything.”

  Kira didn’t reply right away, but I felt her watching me.

  Then, softly: “I heard something last night. Not thunder. Not wind. It felt like it came from beneath the courtyard. Like something old… shifting.”

  That brought my gaze back to her.

  “Did the Elders say anything?” she asked.

  “They said plenty,” I replied. “None of it made me feel better.”

  For a long moment, neither of us spoke.

  Then I heard Elias call out: “Momma, look!”

  I turned, already smiling—until I saw what he was pointing to.

  He was kneeling in the frost, a look of pure curiosity on his face, finger still extended. Behind him, etched into the ice where his little hand had drawn, was a perfect replica of the mark from the ridge.

  Not just similar. Exact.

  And he was humming. A strange, slow tune I didn’t recognize.

  Kira moved beside me in an instant, her body going tense. I felt the blood drain from my face.

  I stepped forward carefully, voice steady. “Elias… where did you learn that?”

  He blinked up at me, his smile innocent, but his eyes had a far-off glaze to them.

  “I didn’t learn it,” he said. “It was already in my hand.”

  I froze. His words echoed in my mind, and for a moment, everything felt like it shifted, like time itself held its breath.

  Kira’s hand landed on my shoulder, tight and urgent. “Laika, don’t—”

  But I couldn’t pull away. The mark in the frost was perfect—each curve, each line, unmistakable. I felt my stomach tighten, a chill running deeper than the cold air around us.

  Elias, sensing the sudden shift in energy, looked up at me again. His gaze was distant, almost as if he were seeing something far beyond the courtyard, beyond all of us. “It’s the one,” he said, voice slow, like he was processing something heavy. “The one that came with the storm.”

  Kira’s hand tightened on my shoulder, her other arm brushing against her side, where the blade was hidden beneath her coat. She always kept it close, but now… I could sense the unease in her, the way she didn’t want to acknowledge what was happening.

  “Elias,” I said gently, crouching down to his level. “Where did you hear about the storm?”

  He blinked, as if waking from a daze, and shook his head. “I didn’t hear it. It just… came.” He glanced at the ground beneath him, eyes wide. “It feels like it’s in me.”

  My breath caught in my throat.

  Kira stepped closer, a little more forceful now. “Laika, this isn’t right. He shouldn’t be…”

  I heard her unspoken words. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. He’s too young.

  But there was no denying what I saw. What we saw.

  Elias’ small hand hovered over the marks again, but his fingers didn’t touch the ground this time. Instead, he began to trace the air above it, like a conductor leading an orchestra. His voice, a soft hum, filled the space, a song too familiar and yet foreign all at once.

  “Stop,” Kira said, her voice sharp. She moved to pull him away, but I stopped her with a look, my own pulse hammering in my chest.

  “Let him finish,” I said, almost breathlessly.

  Elias’ humming grew louder, more intense, but I felt it now—something thrumming beneath it, something more than just sound. The air felt electric, alive with an energy I couldn’t explain. I reached out, carefully, and gently took his hand in mine.

  He blinked up at me, as if waking from a trance. “Momma… the storm… it’s waking.”

  I pulled him into my arms, his small body warm against my chest, but my mind was racing.

  The storm wasn’t just a storm. It wasn’t just nature, or something we could predict. It was aware. It was alive. And somehow, it had already found its way to him. To the pack.

  Kira was silent for a long moment, her hand pressed to her forehead as she struggled with something she didn’t want to voice.

  “I don’t know what’s happening,” I said quietly. “But we need to tell the others. The Elders. They need to know what Elias just did.”

  Kira nodded, but I could see the hesitation in her eyes. “I’ve seen strange things in my time, Laika. But this…” She trailed off, glancing back at the mark. “This feels different.”

  I tightened my grip on Elias. “I know.”

  The silence after Elias’ words was deafening. The weight of the moment, the knowledge that something was stirring—something ancient—hung between us, thick and suffocating. I didn’t wait for Kira to speak again, though I could feel her eyes on me, full of unspoken fears.

  “We need to find the Elders,” I said, my voice steady, but inside, I felt the tremor of dread beginning to settle in my chest.

  Kira nodded sharply, the tension in her body clear. “I’ll gather them,” she said. “But you’ll need to tell them what happened. Every detail.”

  “Of course.” I glanced at Elias, still tucked in my arms, his face resting against me as if he were unaware of the weight of his words. The innocence of his touch made it all the more unsettling. “Come on, little one. Let’s get you inside.”

  Kira led the way, her steps brisk, but I stayed a little behind with Elias, trying to keep him close. I wanted to shield him from this, but I knew better. Whatever this was—whatever he had unknowingly unleashed—there was no protecting him from it now.

  We made our way toward the meeting hall, the air sharp against our skin as the storm began to murmur at the horizon, the stormclouds darker than before, as if they were watching us, waiting.

  The doors to the hall loomed in front of us, heavy and imposing, like the very walls were holding their breath. I pushed them open without hesitation, stepping into the large, dim room where the Elders gathered.

  Adrastea was already standing near the large table, her hands folded behind her back, her expression unreadable. The rest of the council was scattered, murmuring amongst themselves, but as soon as they saw us, their conversation halted.

  “Laika,” Adrastea said, her voice calm but commanding. “What is it?”

  I walked up to the center of the room, Kira beside me, the twins still in tow. But it was Elias who caught their attention. He clung to me tightly, still wide-eyed and silent.

  I looked to Kira, who nodded, giving me a brief, encouraging glance.

  “Elias,” I said, crouching to his level, “show them what you showed me.”

  He blinked up at me, and then slowly—like he was moving through a dream—he extended his hand toward the floor, tracing the air above the frost, fingers trembling slightly.

  One by one, the Elders looked at each other, unease creeping across their faces. Adrastea’s eyes narrowed as Elias began humming again, that same eerie tune filling the space, lingering in the still air.

  “It’s… impossible,” Adrastea whispered. Her voice was low, but every word carried a weight of dread. “The mark. It’s here.”

  I glanced at Kira, who looked as disturbed as I felt. “What does that mean?” I asked, the words burning in my throat.

  Adrastea met my gaze, her eyes hard and searching. “It means that what you’ve uncovered—it’s real. And it’s closer than any of us expected.”

  Adrastea’s gaze never wavered from the mark Elias had traced in the air, her face shifting through a range of emotions—surprise, then confusion, and finally, something darker.

  The room was deathly silent now, save for the faint echo of Elias’ humming. The Elders’ eyes were all drawn to the mark as if it were a wound in the fabric of their world. I could feel the tension in the air, thick with something old and forgotten, something dangerous.

  “This… is not a mere child’s play,” Adrastea muttered, her voice trembling just a fraction, the first sign of fear I’d seen in her. Her lips pressed tight, as if fighting something she didn’t want to admit.

  One of the other Elders, a tall figure with deep-set eyes, leaned forward, studying the mark. His voice was steady but laced with a kind of reverence that unsettled me. “It’s the mark. The one that’s been lost to time.”

  I looked to Kira, her brow furrowed. “What mark?” she asked, but there was an urgency in her tone now, too. She stepped closer, not wanting to miss a single word.

  Adrastea straightened, her sharp eyes never leaving Elias. She exhaled, as if weighing the gravity of the truth she was about to share. “It’s from before. The old storm.”

  Another Elder, a woman with silver-streaked hair, spoke up softly, almost reverently. “The storm that was said to end everything… to wipe out the bloodline.”

  “The one we were warned never to speak of,” Adrastea finished, her voice barely above a whisper. “The storm of the forgotten.”

  I felt my breath catch. “The forgotten?”

  Adrastea’s gaze met mine, full of untold histories. “A time when the world was torn apart by forces older than even the first storms. Forces that bled through the realms themselves, calling forth destruction. And the mark—” she pointed at the air where Elias’ fingers hovered “—it was the sign of its coming. Its return.”

  I could feel a cold sweat beginning to trickle down my back. “But how? How could this be happening now?” My voice was barely more than a rasp. “Elias is just a child. How could he…”

  “He didn’t summon it,” Adrastea said quickly, raising her hand to stop me. “He’s the vessel. The mark has chosen him.”

  The room seemed to grow colder as the weight of her words sank in. The other Elders exchanged uncertain looks. One of them, a younger man with a sharp jaw and intense eyes, stepped forward, his voice tight with apprehension. “This means it’s starting again. The storm… the return of the forgotten.”

  Another Elder—one who hadn’t spoken yet—looked at the mark and then at Elias with a kind of deep sorrow in his eyes. “He’s too young. No one should bear the mark. It was cursed. The bloodlines that carried it were destroyed.”

  I glanced down at Elias, still clinging to me. His wide, innocent eyes were still fixed on the mark he’d drawn. But there was something unsettling about the way he looked at the Elders. It was like he understood too much, even though he couldn’t possibly know it.

  Kira stepped forward, her voice firm. “What can we do? How do we stop this?”

  The silence in the room was heavy. Adrastea was the first to speak again. “We can’t stop it. Not now. We can only prepare for what’s coming.”

  I felt my pulse quicken. “Prepare? Prepare for what? Another storm? Another…” I swallowed hard, trying to keep my voice steady. “Another destruction?”

  “No,” Adrastea said, her tone grave. “Not destruction. Change. The world will bend to the storm’s will. This time, it will reshape everything. And the bloodline that carries the mark…” She glanced at Elias, her expression darkening. “It is the key.”

  “The key to what?” Kira demanded, her voice shaking slightly with the weight of the unknown.

  “The key to everything,” Adrastea replied, her voice almost resigned. “The bloodline is the gateway. It has always been. And now, it’s calling.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. “You mean… it’s coming for Elias?”

  Adrastea’s silence spoke volumes, and I could see the shadows in her eyes—shadows of something that was never meant to return.

  “The storm,” she said, her voice now tinged with a quiet desperation, “is waking. And we must face it… or it will face us.”

  The room was still heavy with silence, the weight of the Elders’ words hanging like a stormcloud above us. I could feel it pressing down on my chest, suffocating in its intensity. Adrastea’s final words echoed in my mind, like the ticking of a clock counting down.

  The storm is waking.

  “What do we do now?” Kira asked, her voice sharp, cutting through the stillness. The Elders’ faces were unreadable, but I could see the tension in their postures, the weight of centuries of knowledge shifting in the air between us.

  Adrastea turned slowly to face the others, her hands clasped behind her. The Elders exchanged quiet, urgent glances—old words passed between them in whispers, too low for us to hear.

  “We need to prepare,” Adrastea said, finally breaking the silence. “The mark is the key. Elias is at the center of this, whether he understands it or not.”

  “But what does that mean for him?” I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it.

  Adrastea’s gaze softened, but there was no comfort in her eyes. “It means he will be hunted. The storm will come for him first, and from him, it will spread. We don’t know how long we have before it begins to unravel everything.”

  I swallowed hard, my heart racing in my chest. “Hunted by what?”

  The room seemed to shudder as Adrastea spoke the words we were all afraid to hear.

  “By it. By the storm itself.”

  There was a sharp intake of breath from the Elders, a collective understanding that settled into the air. But Kira didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. Her eyes were fixed on Adrastea.

  “And what do you suggest we do?” she asked, her voice low but filled with determination.

  Adrastea turned to her, her eyes narrowed in thought. “We cannot confront it head-on—not without preparing the pack. We need to move quickly. We must secure the bloodline, protect Elias, and keep the storm from reaching the heart of the city. If it does…”

  She didn’t need to finish. I could already feel the weight of her unspoken words.

  “If it does, everything will change.”

  I felt a cold shiver run down my spine. My gaze flickered back to Elias, still holding on to me as if the world were slipping away beneath his feet. And maybe, in some strange, cruel twist, it was.

  “How do we secure him?” I asked, though I already had a sinking feeling I wouldn’t like the answer.

  Adrastea’s eyes were distant, calculating. “We keep him close. We protect him—every moment, every breath. If we can shield him from the storm long enough, we might buy time. Time to unravel what is happening before it’s too late.”

  “But if we can’t?” Kira asked, her voice softer now, but no less serious.

  “Then we prepare for the worst,” Adrastea replied, her tone grim. “We do what we must to keep him safe, but know this: The storm will never be fully stopped. Not until it is finished.”

  The chamber had gone still again, but the silence was no longer empty—it was heavy, pulsing with something unspoken.

  Adrastea turned from Kira and Elias, her eyes settling on me. I expected the same concern she’d worn when addressing the others, but her expression shifted—subtle, yet unmistakable. Her gaze narrowed, not in suspicion… but recognition.

  “You,” she murmured, almost to herself.

  I straightened instinctively. “What?”

  She shook her head slowly, then turned away before I could press further. “There’s work to be done. We must begin preparations before the storm touches the gates.”

  But I caught the look one of the other Elders gave her—uneasy, questioning. As if she’d said too much.

  I didn’t follow immediately. Something tugged at the edge of my mind. A whisper, like wind threading through stone. Familiar, but not mine.

  K…eeey…

  I blinked, shaken. No one else seemed to hear it.

  Elias stirred in my arms, his head turning to glance at me. “Momma…” he said softly, eyes wide and strange for just a breath. “The storm knows you.”

  My blood ran cold. “What did you say?”

  He blinked again, confused. “Huh?”

  “Nothing,” I said quickly, brushing a hand over his hair. “You’re just tired.”

  But inside, my thoughts were racing.

  Because he was right.

  And somehow, I knew it too.