Pain. That was my first coherent thought as I surfaced from darkness. Not the sharp, searing pain of the glass creature's attack, but something deeper—a burning that seemed to flow through my veins like molten light. I tried to move and felt rough fabric beneath my fingertips. Not the forest floor. Not home.

  The storm inside me pulsed weakly, a dim echo of its usual restless energy. It felt...contained, somehow, as if it had retreated deep within me to lick its wounds. The absence of its constant pressure was both a relief and strangely unsettling, like missing a familiar ache.

  "She's awake again," a soft voice said nearby.

  I forced my eyes open. The world swam into blurry focus—wooden beams overhead, golden light filtering through a window. A woman leaned over me, her hazel eyes studying my face with careful attention. She was barefoot, her long braid falling over one shoulder as she pressed a cool cloth to my forehead. Her eyes reminded me of autumn in Ashgrove—when the forest changed from summer's uniform green to a tapestry of amber and rust.

  "Water," I managed to croak, my throat raw.

  The woman nodded and lifted a clay cup to my lips. As I drank, I noticed faint lines around her eyes—not from age, but from squinting at distant horizons. She had the weathered look of someone who spent more time watching the skies than people. Her hands were calloused but gentle.

  "The corruption is spreading," she said quietly, setting the cup aside. "But slower than I've seen before."

  "Corruption?" My voice sounded strange, distant. The word itself felt heavy with meaning I couldn't grasp.

  She gently pulled back the blanket covering me and gestured to my shoulder. I looked down and felt my breath catch. From the wound the glass creature had given me, thin veins of faint light branched out beneath my skin like frozen lightning. They pulsed with my heartbeat, a network of luminous poison creeping toward my heart.

  "What is that?" I whispered, fear sharpening my senses. I tried to touch it, but my arms felt weighted.

  "The Hunter's mark," she said, pulling the blanket back over me. Her fingers lingered for a moment, conveying a compassion that seemed at odds with her weathered exterior. "You carry an ancient storm, though I don't think you understand what that means yet."

  I didn't. I only knew that since the Harvest Festival—since Lior—the storm had become something alive, purposeful. Not just a metaphor for my feelings anymore, but a tangible force with desires of its own. The thought sent a chill through me that had nothing to do with fever.

  The barefoot woman sighed and stood. "Rest. We're doing what we can." Her voice held resignation, but also determination—as if she'd walked this path before and knew its bitter end.

  Before she could leave, heavy footsteps approached. A broad-shouldered man ducked through the doorway, carrying fresh bandages and a basin of water. His hands were scarred with old burns, and though his movements were careful, there was strength in every line of him. He reminded me of the blacksmith in Ashgrove, someone whose gentleness was a choice, not a natural state.

  "Thalia," he said to the barefoot woman, "Elyra's brewing something stronger for the fever."

  The woman—Thalia—nodded. "Good. She needs it." She glanced back at me, and I caught a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. Hope? Doubt? Fear? Whatever it was, it vanished quickly behind her composed exterior.

  I tried to speak again, to ask where I was, but exhaustion pulled me back into darkness. The storm inside me trembled, as if sensing something that I could not.

  Thalia watched the girl slip back into unconsciousness, noting how the storm energy beneath her skin seemed to pulse with her breathing. This one was different. Most storm-bearers fought their storms, trying to contain power that wanted to rage. But this girl's storm seemed tied to her emotions, responding to her pain rather than fighting against her.

  "She's strong," said Daro, setting down the basin. His massive hands looked out of place as he carefully wrung out a cloth. A contradiction that Thalia had long appreciated about him—his capacity for gentleness despite his formidable appearance. "Most would have died from that corruption by now."

  Thalia nodded, checking the girl's pulse. "The storm is part of her in a way I haven't seen before. It's... protective, almost." She didn't voice her deeper fear—that such integration might make separation impossible if things went wrong.

  Daro caught her troubled expression. He knew her well enough to read the concern lurking beneath. They'd both seen what happened when a storm became too intertwined with its bearer. When Nira had—

  "Don't," Daro said quietly, interrupting her thoughts. "This one is different."

  Thalia sighed. "That's what we always think, isn't it?"

  The door opened again, and Elyra entered, her double-braided hair swinging gently as she carried a steaming bowl. The herbalist moved with quiet efficiency, the sprigs of dried herbs tucked into her braid releasing a subtle fragrance as she worked. Her presence always brought a sense of calm to any room she entered.

  "Her fever's worsened," Elyra said, feeling the girl's forehead before applying a poultice to the corrupted wound. Her deep brown eyes narrowed in concentration as she worked, fingers moving with practised precision. "But I think we can save her. The corruption pattern is unusual—see how it branches inward rather than out? Her storm is fighting back."

  The girl stirred at Elyra's gentle touch, her eyes fluttering open briefly. There was confusion there, but also a fierce determination that Thalia recognised all too well—the look of someone who had already lost too much.

  "You're safe," Elyra murmured, her voice carrying that special quality that seemed to ease pain without magic. "Rest now."

  "Kaela," the girl whispered, so softly they almost missed it. "My name is Kaela."

  Thalia and Elyra exchanged glances. A name was a good sign—the girl was holding onto herself despite the corruption and fever. Some storm-bearers lost themselves to delirium within hours of a Hunter's touch.

  "Sleep, Kaela," Elyra said, adjusting the poultice. "Your body needs strength for what's ahead."

  After Kaela had drifted off again, Elyra stood and stretched her back. "How slow is the corruption spreading?" she asked, her herbalist's pragmatism coming to the fore.

  "Slower than it should," Thalia replied, absently feeling for the pulse of energy beneath Kaela's skin. "She has a deeper bond with her storm than most. It might be fighting the corruption alongside her."

  "Or feeding it," Elyra suggested gently. They both remembered Nira's corruption—how it had seemed to retreat before surging catastrophically, fueled by her storm.

  Daro returned with a small bowl of broth, setting it aside for when Kaela might wake again. "Flynn spotted another Hunter in the eastern valley," he reported, his voice a low rumble. "A new one. Glass type, like the one that marked her."

  Thalia's expression hardened, lines of worry etching deeper around her eyes. Her gaze drifted to the window, checking the sky as if it might hold answers. It was a habit she'd never been able to break. "Then we need to hurry. She needs to be well enough to move soon."

  "And if she's not?" Elyra asked quietly.

  Thalia didn't answer. They all knew what that would mean.

  I dreamed of home. Of Ashgrove. Of the Harvest Festival.

  The air was tense despite the music and laughter. The weight in my chest—the storm—pressing outward for the first time.

  The altar stone is splitting open. Lightning erupts from the ground. The crowd scattered in terror.

  Lior's face, confused at first, then determined as he reached for me while my storm broke free.

  "Kaela, it's okay! I'm here—"

  The lightning struck him. Not from me—not directly, but because of me. Because of the storm.

  His body was falling. The light leaving his eyes.

  My storm, suddenly silent. As if satisfied.

  The hollow ache that followed. The silence where his laughter should have been.

  I jolted awake with a gasp, tears streaming down my face. My fingers instinctively reached for Mira's bracelet, rubbing the worn leather as if it could anchor me against the tide of grief threatening to pull me under.

  "Easy now," came a deep voice.

  The broad-shouldered man—Daro—sat on a stool nearby, carving something from a piece of wood. Flecks of sunlight caught in his light brown hair as he looked up at me, his warm eyes assessing. He didn't rush to comfort me, didn't offer empty words. Instead, he simply set his carving aside and poured a cup of water, giving me time to collect myself.

  "How long?" I managed, accepting the water with trembling hands.

  "Three days," he replied, watching as I struggled to drink. His calm felt like a solid wall I could lean against. "You've been fighting hard."

  Three days. The corruption in my veins pulsed faintly, as if acknowledging the passage of time. I tried to sit up but fell back with a wince, my muscles burning with the effort.

  "The Hunter's mark is trying to find your storm," Daro explained, helping me drink more water. His burn-scarred hands moved with surprising gentleness. "But we're fighting it. You're fighting it."

  I stared at the ceiling beams, letting his words sink in. "Why?" I asked finally, my voice a hoarse whisper. "Why would you help me? You don't know me."

  Daro was quiet for a moment, returning to his carving. A small bird was taking shape in the wood, wings outstretched. "We know enough," he said finally. "We know what you carry. We know what hunts you."

  He looked up, meeting my gaze directly. "And we know what happens if we don't help you."

  There was history in those words—painful history. I wanted to ask more questions, but exhaustion pulled me back under, the storm inside me circling restlessly like a caged animal sensing freedom on the horizon.

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  "Is she awake? Can I see her? Daro, come on, you've been hoarding the storm-girl all day!"

  Daro sighed as Flynn burst into the room, her energy filling the small space immediately. She moved like water, never still, peering around his shoulder at the sleeping girl. Her presence was both irritating and refreshing—a reminder of life before all this.

  "She's resting," he said, trying and failing to block Flynn's view. He'd come to think of this room as a sanctuary of sorts, and Flynn's boundless energy felt intrusive.

  Flynn grinned, the expression lighting up her sharp-featured face. Her green eyes sparkled with curiosity as she tucked an escaped curl from her tied-back hair. The slight smirk that seemed permanently etched on her face widened as she dodged around him.

  "She doesn't look like much," Flynn observed, cocking her head as she studied Kaela's sleeping form. "But neither did the last one, I guess."

  Daro's expression darkened. "Flynn." The single word carried a warning that even Flynn couldn't ignore.

  "Sorry, sorry," she said, not sounding sorry at all. She bounced on her toes, unable to contain her excitement. "But isn't it exciting? When she wakes up properly, I can help her with control exercises. I've been practising the invisibility thing, and I think—"

  "She needs to survive first," Daro interrupted, his voice gentler than his words. He understood Flynn's enthusiasm—they hadn't found a storm-bearer in so long—but her optimism sometimes bordered on recklessness.

  Flynn's smile faltered for a moment before returning, though dimmed slightly. "She will. She has us." The conviction in her voice belied her playful demeanour, revealing the fierce loyalty that lay beneath. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, unable to stay still. "There's another Faceless in the eastern valley. With the Glass Hunter we saw earlier, that makes two this week."

  Daro frowned, his hands stilling on his carving. Two Hunters so close together wasn't a coincidence. They were gathering. "Get back to Thalia. Tell her we may need to move sooner than planned."

  Flynn nodded, playfully saluted, and vanished through the door as quickly as she'd arrived. Daro returned his attention to Kaela, noting how the corruption seemed to pulse more strongly when she dreamed. Her fingers clutched at something on her wrist—a worn leather bracelet. A connection to whatever life she'd left behind.

  "Hold onto that," he said quietly, though he knew she couldn't hear him. "You'll need it for the road ahead."

  When I woke again, sunlight streamed through the window. My mind felt clearer, though the burning in my veins remained. I touched my shoulder gingerly, feeling the heat radiating from the spreading corruption. The storm inside me felt stronger now, more present, as if it had been gathering strength while I slept.

  Thalia sat nearby, watching me with those hazel eyes that seemed to see more than just my face. She was checking the sky through the window, her gaze distant until she noticed my movement.

  "You're back," she said quietly, turning her attention fully to me. There was relief in her voice, but caution, too.

  I pushed myself up slightly, wincing as the movement sent pulses of pain through my corrupted veins. "Who are you? Really?"

  Thalia considered me for a long moment, as if deciding how much to share. "My name is Thalia. You're in our safehouse. The others are Elyra, Daro, and Flynn." She leaned forward, her long braid sliding over her shoulder. "We find people like you. Storm-bearers."

  The term sent a chill down me. "There are others? Like me?" Hope and fear twisted together in my chest. The idea that I wasn't alone, that others understood this curse—it was both comforting and terrifying.

  A shadow crossed her face. "There were. You're the first we've found in some time." Her tone carried the weight of loss, of failure.

  I looked down at my hands, at the faint light pulsing beneath my skin. The corruption seemed to respond to my attention, flickering brighter. "The creature that attacked me... You called it a Hunter?"

  "Yes. Glass Hunters, Faceless—they're drawn to storm energy." Thalia's eyes hardened, the autumn warmth cooling to winter vigilance. "They won't stop hunting you, Kaela." She spoke my name carefully, like testing its weight. "And without control, your storm will destroy again. Like it did in your village."

  My throat tightened. She knew. Somehow, she knew about the Festival. About what I'd done. About him. Shame washed over me, hot and suffocating. My fingers found Mira's bracelet again, clinging to it like a lifeline.

  "I didn't mean to," I whispered, the words tasting like ash. I rubbed absently at my wrist where the bracelet clung, my anchor to home, to who I was before the storm broke free.

  "Few storm-bearers do," Thalia replied, and there was understanding in her voice, but no absolution. "But intention doesn't matter to the dead."

  Her words landed like stones, heavy with truth. I thought of Lior's face, the moment before the lightning took him. How he'd reached for me even as the storm surged. How quickly light could vanish from someone's eyes.

  A new voice cut through the room, cold and sharp. "Or to those left behind."

  A man stood in the doorway, lean and taut as a blade. His steel-blue eyes assessed me without warmth, his black hair cropped close to his skull. Something about him reminded me of the stillness before a lightning strike—the charged moment before violence. He didn't just enter the room; he claimed it, commanding attention without effort.

  "Riven," Thalia said, a warning in her tone.

  He ignored her, his gaze fixed on me. His eyes never blinked, never wavered, as if he were memorising every detail of my face. "So this is the new one." His voice carried an edge of controlled anger. "Let's hope she's not like the last."

  The storm inside me reacted to his presence, coiling tighter as if sensing a threat. I didn't know what he meant, but the implication was clear—I was being measured against a failure.

  "That's enough," Thalia snapped, rising to her feet. There was tension between them, old and familiar.

  Riven held my gaze for a moment longer, his hand resting casually on a knife at his belt. The message was unmistakable. Then he turned and left without another word, his movements as economical as his speech. The tension in the room lingered like smoke.

  "Don't mind him," Thalia said, though her expression remained troubled. "Riven has... history with storm-bearers."

  I swallowed hard, the weight of unsaid things pressing down on me. "What happened to the last one?"

  Thalia looked away, her fingers absently checking the sky through the window again. "That's not a story for today." She turned back to me, her expression softening slightly. "The question is: what happens next for you? We can teach you, Kaela. Help you control the storm. But the path isn't easy, and the Hunters won't stop coming."

  I thought of home, of Ashgrove. Of my mother setting two bowls at dinner even when I wasn't there. Of Mira and her unwavering faith in me. Of Lior, gone forever because I couldn't control what lived inside me.

  The storm stirred at these memories, not violent but mournful, as if it too carried the weight of what we'd done. For the first time, I wondered if the storm was as trapped as I was—if we were both victims of something neither of us understood.

  "I want to learn," I said quietly, my voice stronger than before. "I don't want anyone else to die because of me." I met Thalia's gaze directly. "I can't bring him back. But I can make sure it never happens again."

  Thalia nodded, a flicker of approval in her eyes. "Good. We'll start once you're stronger." She stood and moved toward the door. "Rest now. The real fight begins soon."

  As she left, I stared at the ceiling, feeling the storm inside me stir with new purpose. For the first time since fleeing Ashgrove, I felt something besides fear and grief—a thin thread of determination. If these strangers could teach me to control the storm, maybe I could make sure no one else would share Lior's fate.

  Maybe I could find a way back to myself.

  Or perhaps, whispered a deeper thought, a way forward to someone new—someone stronger.

  Thalia found Riven on the porch, methodically cleaning a knife that was already spotless. His movements were precise, controlled—belying the tension she knew simmered beneath.

  "Was that necessary?" she asked, leaning against the railing beside him.

  Riven didn't look up. "She should know what she's capable of."

  "She already knows," Thalia countered. "She's carrying the weight of someone's death already. I can see it in her eyes."

  "One death." Riven's voice was flat. "Nira took sixteen before I stopped her."

  The name hung between them like a storm cloud, dark and charged. They rarely spoke of Nira anymore—the wound was too deep, the failure too complete.

  "Kaela is not Nira," Thalia said firmly, though the doubt nibbled at the edges of her certainty. "Her storm responds differently. It's protective, not destructive."

  Riven finally looked up, his steel-blue eyes unblinking. "Until it isn't."

  Thalia sighed, knowing there was truth in his caution. "We can't abandon her to the Hunters. You know what they'll do."

  "I know what she might do if we fail." Riven sheathed his knife with practised efficiency. "I'll watch her. The moment she shows signs—"

  "We're not executing a seventeen-year-old girl because you're afraid of what might happen," Thalia cut in, her voice hard. "We help her control it. That's our purpose."

  Riven stood, his lean frame taut with tension. "Our purpose is to protect people from storms. Sometimes that means protecting them from storm-bearers too." He moved past her toward the door. "I hope you're right about this one, Thalia. For all our sakes."

  As he disappeared inside, Thalia turned her attention to the sky. Storm clouds gathered on the distant horizon, still far off but building. She wondered, not for the first time, if they were drawn to the girl inside—if Kaela's presence was already changing the weather patterns around them.

  She thought of the determination in Kaela's grey eyes, the way she clutched that worn leather bracelet when she spoke of home. There was something there—a connection to humanity that Nira had lost long before the end.

  It had to be enough. They couldn't afford another failure.

  That evening, Elyra came to change my bandages, her movements gentle and precise. The scent of herbs followed her, clean and sharp, cutting through the fever-haze that still clouded my thoughts.

  "The corruption's slowing," she said, her voice carrying that peculiar calm that seemed to ease pain by its mere presence. "Your storm is fighting back."

  I watched her work, studied the way she tucked sprigs of herbs into her double-braided hair, and the careful way she tested each remedy before applying it. "How do you know so much about this? About...what I am?"

  Elyra smiled, a small, sad expression. "I was a seer's apprentice once. Before I found my true calling with plants." She pressed a cool poultice to my shoulder, and I couldn't help but sigh as it eased the burning. "I've always been sensitive to energies—in people, in plants. Storms are just another kind of energy."

  "But more dangerous," I said quietly.

  "Only when untamed." She checked my pulse, her fingers cool against my wrist. "Like any powerful force."

  I thought of the glass creature—the Hunter—and how the storm had responded, not with panic but with recognition. "What do they want? The Hunters?"

  Elyra's hands stilled for a moment. "We don't know exactly. To consume storm energy, perhaps. Or to corrupt it." She resumed her work, applying a salve to the branching veins of light beneath my skin. "But they are drawn to storm-bearers. They can sense you from miles away."

  The idea sent a chill down through me. "So they'll keep coming."

  "Yes." She didn't try to soften the truth. "But you won't face them alone anymore."

  As she finished the bandaging, Flynn appeared in the doorway, her wiry frame practically vibrating with energy. "Is she awake enough for visitors? Daro said I should leave her alone, but that was hours ago, and I've been so patient, Elyra, really I have."

  Elyra chuckled, the sound warm and unexpected. "I suppose a short visit wouldn't hurt."

  Flynn beamed and bounded into the room, dropping onto the stool beside my bed. Her green eyes sparkled with curiosity and something else—excitement, maybe. "I'm Flynn," she announced, as if conferring a great honour. "I've been waiting forever to meet you."

  Despite everything, I found myself smiling at her enthusiasm. "I'm Kaela."

  "I know! I'm going to help you with control exercises once you're on your feet," she continued, hardly pausing for breath. "I can do this thing with shadows—not a storm like yours, just small tricks really—but I understand about controlling energy. And we haven't had anyone new in ages, not since—"

  "Flynn," Elyra warned softly.

  Flynn's mouth snapped shut, but her smile barely dimmed. "Anyway, I'm glad you're not dead. We really need you to not be dead."

  The blunt statement startled a laugh from me, though it quickly turned into a cough. Flynn looked pleased with herself, as if making me laugh had been her primary goal all along.

  "Flynn is our scout," Elyra explained. "She sees things before the rest of us."

  Flynn nodded eagerly. "I'm very sneaky. And I've been watching the Hunters." Her expression sobered slightly. "There are more of them lately. They're gathering."

  I felt the weight of her words settle over me. "Because of me?"

  "Maybe," Flynn admitted. "But that's why you need to get better quickly. So we can teach you to fight them."

  As they spoke, I became aware of the storm inside me responding—not with fear or anger, but with something like anticipation. It was listening, learning, gathering strength. For the first time, it didn't feel like an enemy. More like an uneasy ally, waiting to see which way I would turn.

  "Rest now," Elyra said, noticing my fatigue. "Tomorrow, if you're stronger, we'll try getting you on your feet."

  As they left, I found myself touching Mira's bracelet again, thinking of her parting words: Find out who you are. And don't die before you understand.

  The storm pulsed gently beneath my skin, and for once, I didn't try to push it away. Instead, I closed my eyes and tried to feel it—really feel it—for the first time since the Harvest Festival. If I was going to survive what lay ahead, I needed to understand not just what I carried, but who I was becoming.