Let the Storm Break

CHAPTER 8 AUDRA

I can handle this.

I have to.

It’s not just about staying alive. It’s about protecting the fourth language. Keeping it from falling into Raiden’s hands.

I run and squat by the largest piece of driftwood, keeping my back to it as I try to pick up my attacker’s trace. But the air is empty. Stripped of any winds. Severing the pull of my bond and leaving me clueless.

Defenseless.

But not completely without hope.

Whoever my attacker is, they couldn’t take away the Westerly I’d coiled around my wrist, and I concentrate on the cool draft, wishing there were some secret code word I could say to twist it into the ultimate weapon. Though, at this point I’d almost prefer a shield.

“Shield.”

The word slips off my lips without my meaning to, like my inherited Westerly instincts have taken over. And the wind obeys, stretching thin and wide before blanketing me like a second skin of breezes. I have no idea how much protection it will really provide, but I’ll take any help I can get.

Without the crisp ocean winds, the beach has turned sweltering. I suspect my attacker is trying to sweat me out. Hide in the shadows of their cave while I bake out here in the sun. But I’ve braved ten years in the desert.

I can handle a little heat.

I duck into what little shade the driftwood log provides and scour the beach for sharp rocks. The sea has smoothed most of the stones, but I find one with a deep crack, and when I slam it against the side of the driftwood, it splits, leaving me two halves with rough, jagged edges. I shove them in my pockets.

A draft springs to life behind me, whipping my hair with such a frenzy it unravels my braid. I shake the dark waves out of my face as another wind rips away my guardian pendant and sends it rolling across the beach, burying the blue cord in the sand. I move to chase it and a new wind whips me backward, sending me somersaulting so many times I lose track of where I am. But when I pull myself up I have no cuts or scrapes.

My shield is living up to its name—though I wonder how much abuse it can really take.

I stand again, facing the caves.

“Your tricks do not impress me,” I shout, earning myself another faceful of sand. I spit out the grit and clear my throat. “They’re not going to frighten me either.”

The winds swell again, shoving my feet out from under me and sending me sprawling into the rocks.

I pull myself back up, tired of getting tossed around and humiliated. Plus, those tricks have given me an idea.

“Is that really all you can do?” I call, letting my voice crack this time, like I’m starting to break.

Two drafts surge in response, but before they can attack, I command the winds to obey me, and mercifully they listen. I coil them into a wind spike, wishing I had a third wind to make it stronger. But the two winds still form a cold spear of air, and I hold it in front of me like a sword as I scan the beach, pointing the sharpest end at every shadowed area.

A strange hiss slices through the air and a new gust appears, weaving itself into my wind spike and spinning so fast the weapon turns hot. I try to bear the pain, but when my skin starts to blister I’m forced to drop it, and it explodes in an enormous blast of scorching air. My shield spares me the cuts and bruises as I tumble across the beach like a fallen leaf. But when I try to run forward, another draft knocks me back.

Then another.

And another.

They shove me into the ocean, and I scream as a giant wave washes me away.

Salt seeps into my blisters as I fight to keep my head above the freezing water, but more waves wash over me, dragging me away from the air. My lungs burn and my head spins as I crash on the sand, gasping for breath.

I crawl toward the beach, but another wave sucks me back, spinning me around before slamming me onto the shore.

Then again.

And again.

It’s a never-ending cycle of pain, and my poor Westerly shield starts to unravel. I could command it to re-form, but I know it’s not going to save me.

My attacker is too strong—too full of tricks and traps and schemes. I’ll never get out of this free, and I won’t let them take me. I’ve seen the horrors Raiden’s subjected the other Westerlies to, and I can’t let that happen to me. I’m not sure I’m strong enough to resist, and I won’t be the one to let the fourth language fall into Raiden’s hands.

Ending things now is the only way to protect the Westerly language, and what better chance will I have than in the cold, churning ocean?

Lost to the sea.

It’s one of the worst deaths a sylph can face.

Away from the sky.

Away from the air.

But the Westerly tongue will stay safe.

And at least I have a chance to say goodbye.

I rally my strength, and when the next wave slams me into the shore, I use the last of my energy to crawl forward a few extra feet. It won’t spare me for long, but it gives me the seconds I need to send one final message to Vane.

I uncoil my Westerly shield, wishing the draft felt faster and stronger. The sluggish wind won’t reach him for days, and in its weakened state it will only be able to hold two short words.

The last two words I’ll ever say.

“Love you” is on the tip of my tongue, but at the last second I change my mind.

Vane knows that.

I think he knew it before I did.

Besides, there’s only one thing I really want him to know.

One thing that might help him to hold it together when my echo—the part of me that will float on the breeze, telling him the story of what happened—reaches him.

Telling him I’m gone forever.

I add my words to the wind’s song and send the gust to the sky.

Then I close my eyes and wait for the water to wash me away.