Let the Storm Break

CHAPTER 18 AUDRA

I shouldn’t be doing this.

I should be racing back to the safety of the Gales.

To Vane.

I thought that’s where I was headed. I even passed the first groundling road that could’ve guided me into the east.

But as soon as it was behind me, the fear Aston planted started to take root, making me wonder if I was turning my back on something crucial. And when a second gray, winding road appeared below, a swarm of Easterlies tangled around me, pulling me toward the unknown.

At first I tried to resist them, but then I heard the familiar melody of my father’s song in the air. A lyric had been added, singing of bravery and searching for truth and carrying on the fight. But mostly it was about trusting the wind.

So I let the winds pull me east. Leading me to a valley of death.

I drift with the Easterlies for most of the journey, but when I pass a glowing tower in a small, sketchy town, I land and send the drafts away. The strange structure is apparently “The World’s Largest Thermometer,” and it has a round, red sign at the base that says THE GATEWAY TO DEATH VALLEY.

There’s no turning back from here.

I call three Westerlies to carry me for the rest of my journey. If there are Stormers where I’m going, I’ll need to sneak in undetected, and flying with Westerlies will hide my trace. No one can understand their words.

Their peaceful songs steady my nerves as I launch back into the sky, following an empty road into the mountains. The sun starts to rise as I crest the highest peak, painting the stark valley with orange and pink. It should be a breathtaking sight—and in many ways it is. But everything about this place screams Raiden’s name.

The parched, empty dunes.

The erratic flurries in the sky.

There’s no peace here. No calm.

Only an endless struggle to survive.

And it’s massive. Stretching for miles in every direction until the desert meets the dark rocks of the mountains.

I ask the strongest of the Westerlies to blanket me in a shield as I steer toward the nearest peak and touch down by the ruins of a mine, trying to figure out where to start looking.

“Come on, Easterlies—you wanted me to come here. Any help?”

No answer.

A few footprints mark the white, chalky ground, and below me are a couple of crumbling buildings, but it’s obvious no one has come up to this place in a very long while. In fact, I’ve seen none of the groundlings’ disgusting smog machines along the road. No tents or settlements along the trails. It’s like the entire valley has been abandoned—and I can’t say I blame them. Even this early in the day, the heat is almost choking.

I close my eyes and listen to the winds, hoping to find a melody about the sailing stones Aston mentioned. But they sing only of the pounding sun and the quiet emptiness of flying alone. I’m about to move on when I find one draft singing of devils and games.

If there were a way to sum up Raiden, that would be it.

I call it to my side and ask it to take me where it’s been.

The Northerly is weary and reluctant to obey. But I make my request again—firmer this time—and it carries me over stretches of cracked earth and rolling dunes until it sweeps down a row of mountains and sets me in a wide basin of flat white ground. The sharp smell of salt is laced through the air, and I realize I’m in a dried lake bed. A remnant from a time when this valley must’ve been lusher. Friendlier.

Before it all withered away.

It makes me uneasy being below sea level, like I’ve sunk too far from the purer air above. But I suppress an urge to run to higher ground, and make my way across the jagged, salty formations until I reach a sign that tells me where I am.

THE DEVIL’S GOLF COURSE.

This must be what the draft meant about devils and games—not the lead I’d been hoping for.

The winds are much more unhelpful here, whispering their songs so softly I have to strain to hear them. They scoot away from me before I can call them to my side. One gust mentions a place where the wind ends, but when I ask it to take me there, it zips into the cloudless sky before the command fully leaves my lips. So I backtrack through the basin, crossing ground that’s crackled like a honeycomb as I try to find steadier drafts.

The sweltering heat leaves me soaked in sweat and crusted in salt and sand. I’m starting to worry I’m wasting my time when I catch the tail end of a Westerly breeze singing about stones that creep and crawl on their own. I call the draft to my side, relieved when it obeys. And when I listen to the uneven melody, I know I’ve found what I need.

The song starts as a ballad about boulders that etch their own trails in the earth. But it ends as a lament, mourning an indescribable loss in a valley of stillness and sadness. The Westerly feels especially reluctant to take me there, but when I add a plea to the end of my command it tightens its grip and lifts me into the sky.

The air turns heavier as we fly, like it’s trying to force me back to the ground. And as I enter a flat basin, the sky turns achingly empty.

The draft carrying me panics.

I keep control long enough to land on the pale, cracked ground, but as soon as the wind releases me, it streaks away in terror. My Westerly shield is just as uneasy, but I beg it not to leave me alone, and it chooses to stay, wrapping even tighter around me.

I don’t blame the winds for their fears. The unnatural stillness is eerie.

It’s not a calm. Those are always paired with silence—and the basin rings with a grating, nerve-shattering screeching. Like everything rough and horrible is being scraped together and ripped apart. I try to find the source of the chaos, but all I see are large boulders scattered randomly along the parched ground. Crooked lines are etched into the earth all around them, marking their wandering journey through the basin.

They have to be the sailing stones.

But where are the Stormers?

Large cracks cut deep into the mountain along the badlands, and I assume Raiden’s soldiers must be lurking somewhere in those shadows. But I can’t tell where, and until I’m sure, I have to stay hidden. I will not make any mistakes this time.

I find a narrow crevice in the nearest foothill and crawl inside, tucking myself out of sight. If the Stormers are here they’ll reveal themselves eventually. I just have to be patient.

It’s not easy. The searing afternoon sun makes the jagged stones I’m pressed against feel like burning coals. Even the shade provides no relief.

I distract myself by rebraiding my hair, surprised at how good it feels to wear the guardian style again. For years the braid had become almost painful. Pulling too tight and putting too much pressure on me. But now it feels natural.

It feels right.

I only wish I’d had a chance to retrieve my guardian pendant from where Aston tossed it along the beach. Hopefully, the Gales will give me another.

Assuming they let me continue my service . . .

Honestly, it’s possible they’ll assign a guardian to protect me—which is too bizarre of a thought for me to process.

My life has never been worth keeping safe. I lived simply to serve others.

But I’m a Westerly now—sort of. And I’m bonded to the king.

Everything is going to change.

My mind runs through a list of Gales I’ve met, trying to decide who I’d prefer—but a clap of thunder rips me back to reality.

I glance up, stunned to find heavy gray clouds blanketing the sky. A few minutes ago it was a clear stretch of blue.

Lightning flashes and I lean forward to get a better look at the valley, sucking in a breath when I see two Stormers suddenly stationed outside the widest crack in the badlands. Their gray uniforms have an even darker patch on their arms, marking them with Raiden’s storm cloud.

Thunder claps again, and a blinding flash of lightning streaks down from the sky—right next to a man who seems to have appeared out of nowhere.

Dressed in a head-to-toe white cloak with his long blond hair swirling around his face, he looks like the gods in the groundlings’ myths and legends.

I know who he is even before the Stormers drop to one knee.

Bowing to their leader.