“Hey, you there! Stop feeding the fish and get below deck! There’s a storm coming!” Captain Reyne Maelstrom called out, her voice sharp and commanding as it cut through the salty air. Her pale blue eyes locked onto the young Midlander clinging desperately to the ship’s railing, his dark, slender fingers white-knuckled against the polished oak.

The captain’s long strides carried her quickly across the deck of the Stormcaller, her boots thudding against the dark wood. The warship had been her domain for years now, and every inch of it, from its high masts to the tightly coiled ropes, bore the mark of her command.

Three weeks had passed since they departed Epili, the northernmost port of the Old Kingdoms, nestled at the mouth of the Inner Sea. In that time, Reyne had grown accustomed to the sight of this thin, dark-skinned passenger—their unlikely charge—clinging to the railings. His white hair caught in the wind, a stark contrast to the deep brown of his gaunt face, while the sound of his retching echoed across the deck with disheartening regularity.

Most passengers found their sea legs within days, especially with the favorable winds and calm waters that had carried them across the Sea of Fallen Stars. But not him. He remained a trembling wraith, always fighting the roll of the waves—and losing.

Reyne’s lips quirked into a wry smile at the thought, but it faded as her gaze lifted to the horizon. The sky had taken on a peculiar, ominous shade of gray, thick storm clouds roiling with unnatural speed. The sails swelled, catching a rising wind that carried a chill warning of things to come. This was no ordinary storm. This was a Tempest’s fury.

“Move, boy,” Reyne barked as she closed the distance to the rail. The young man struggled to his feet, his legs trembling like a newborn colt’s. Rain began to splatter against the deck, fat and cold, as if the heavens themselves were testing their resolve.

“Nyk!” Reyne called, her voice carrying over the growing howl of the wind. “Get him below before the Tempest tears him apart.”

“Aye, Cap!” Nyk replied, springing into action. The wiry sailor darted toward the passenger, catching him under one arm and steadying his shaky form. The young stranger’s eyes darted between the darkening horizon and the deck, wide and glassy with fear.

By the time they reached the hatch, the storm had fully unleashed its wrath. Sheets of rain lashed the Stormcaller, each drop like a needle against exposed skin. Lightning carved jagged streaks across the darkened sky, illuminating the ship in flashes of stark brilliance.

Reyne tilted her head back, letting the rain wash over her as the wind tore at her short, dark curls. Beneath her boots, the ship swayed violently, cresting waves that seemed eager to devour them. This chaos was no stranger to her; it was as familiar as the sea itself.

“The Tempest is in a foul mood tonight,” Reyne muttered, striding toward the helm where Liam, her helmsman, braced himself against the wheel.

“Aye, Captain,” Liam grunted, his deep voice steady despite the storm’s fury. His broad shoulders flexed as he gripped the wheel, his muscles taut beneath his soaked tunic. A flicker of a smirk crossed his rain-slicked face. “Proper pissed, if you ask me.”

Reyne’s bark of laughter was sharp and hollow, a fleeting crack of mirth swallowed almost instantly by the storm’s fury. Her pale blue eyes swept the seething sea, where waves clawed higher with each passing moment, their whitecaps curling like grasping fingers.

Tempest storms weren’t mere weather—they were living entities, wild and unpredictable.

“Strike the royals!” Reyne bellowed, her voice slicing through the wind’s feral wails.

Around her, the crew had already surged into motion, a disciplined chaos born of instinct and repetition. Sails snapped like whips as they were hauled in; ropes hissed against soaked palms, and men clung to the rigging, their faces masks of grit and determination.

The Stormcaller groaned beneath the storm’s onslaught, her timbers creaking like an ancient beast waking to battle.

“This is my fault,” Reyne murmured, low and bitter, her fists tightening at her sides. “I stayed away too long.”

The truth churned in her mind as violently as the waves beneath her feet. The gale was no random force of nature—it was born of the Tempest herself, and their lady was furious. Very furious indeed.

The Tempest wasn’t just a storm. She was one of the Daeude, a daughter of the gods with dominion over the sea. Yet, Reyne knew the cruel irony of it: the sea ruled her sister just as much as her sister ruled the sea.

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Liam’s booming laugh cut through the chaos, warm and irreverent, as steady as the man himself. “Fault, you say?” He cast Reyne a sidelong glance, rain streaming down the craggy lines of his face. “She’s a teen girl, Captain. Angry’s their default setting!”

Reyne snorted despite herself, a flicker of warmth breaking through the ice in her chest. Trust Liam to find humor in the face of madness. With seven daughters ranging from toddling tantrums to teenage tempests, the man had survived more storms than most.

“You were no different,” Liam added, a teasing grin lighting his face as he fought the wheel. “Your poor mother—you were a terror in your time.”

“Someone had to keep you lot on your toes,” Reyne retorted, a smirk tugging at her lips. She braced herself against the pitching deck, the fleeting levity a welcome reprieve.

But as her gaze returned to the churning horizon, her expression darkened. Lightning rent the sky in jagged, blinding arcs, illuminating the endless fury of the storm. Her thoughts turned to Jandette—the Tempest herself. Not just the storm, but her half-sister, the demi-goddess born to rule this chaos. Kinship weighed on Reyne like an anchor, heavy with regret and obligation.

Liam’s tone turned serious, his voice low but firm, cutting through the crash of waves. “Sister or no, she belongs to the Storm Tower, Captain. You’ve done your duty. You owe her nothing more.”

Reyne’s jaw tightened, her pale blue eyes snapping to Liam. “It’s not about duty,” she said, her voice sharp but strained. “She’s my blood. My responsibility.”

After all, it’s my fault she is where she is. Reyne thought to herself.

Liam grunted, his hands steady on the wheel. “Aye, she’s your blood. Half blood,” he muttered, his broad shoulders flexing against the wheel’s resistance. “But you’ve got a ship and a crew to think about. You can’t be chasing her every time she howls.”

The wind howled around them, tugging at Reyne’s sodden cloak. She turned her face to the storm, rain striking her skin like icy needles and plastering her short, dark curls against her head.

Somewhere beyond the roiling waves, Jandette raged—and Reyne felt the pull like a hook in her chest.

“This isn’t just a howl,” she murmured, more to herself than to Liam. “This is something else. Something worse. She is beyond angry.”

The Stormcaller heaved against the tempest’s fury, her timbers groaning but holding fast. On the decks below, Reyne’s crew worked tirelessly, their loyalty to their captain as solid as the ship beneath their feet. Whatever doubts they carried about the Tempest’s incarnate, they left them at the hatch. Up here, they fought as one.

Reyne’s thoughts churned as fiercely as the sea around her. The memories of the past seventeen years clawed at her, as relentless as the storm winds.

The King of Voltaine’s conquest of the Storm Coast had shattered their world, and Jandette—born amidst the upheaval—had been thrust into an impossible role.

The Storm Tower, once a sanctuary for the Tempest and a symbol of freedom, had been reduced to a gilded cage under Voltaine’s iron rule. The king’s men had infiltrated its sacred halls, warping the traditions and purpose of the Tempest until they were unrecognizable.

Reyne didn’t need to strain to hear the resentment whispered in shadowed corners: Better a dead Tempest than a king’s puppet. The anger of the Storm Coast’s people was a living, breathing thing—simmering just beneath the surface, threatening to boil over. Even among her loyal crew, Reyne felt the unspoken doubts pressing against her.

The enmity between Voltaine and the Storm Coast wasn’t a recent wound. It was ancient, stretching back over eight centuries to the reign of Voltaine’s first king. Whatever slight had sparked the feud had long been buried by time, leaving behind only an almost irrational hatred.

Reyne clenched her jaw, the salty spray stinging her face as the storm’s fury built. She could see the pain in her people’s anger, their bitterness at having a Tempest—once their protector and liberator—subjugated by a foreign king. And while her heart ached for Jandette, for the half-sister who had grown up in a cage of gilded lies, Reyne couldn’t deny the truth of the people’s fury.

“Now’s not the time for this, Liam,” she snapped, tearing herself away from the spiral of bitter thoughts. Her voice rang with the authority of command, sharp and unyielding. Her gaze locked onto Liam, who wrestled the Stormcaller’s wheel against the storm’s feral pull. “The Tempest is upon us.”

Liam grunted, his dark eyes fixed on the roiling waves. The wheel bucked in his hands like a living beast, but his grip held firm. “Fine, but this doesn’t mean I have to like it,” he muttered, the resignation in his tone tempered with his usual dry wit.

Reyne’s pale blue eyes softened, if only for a moment, and her voice dropped to a steadier, quieter tone. “You don’t have to like it. But right now, we fight the storm. The rest can wait.”

“Aye, Captain,” Liam replied, his lips quirking into a grim smile. “Storm first. Bitchin’ later.”

The Stormcaller surged forward, her prow slicing through the raging swells like a blade through flesh. Above them, lightning shattered the heavens, each bolt illuminating the ship in fleeting, ghostly brilliance. The storm’s roar was deafening, the wind’s howl and the waves’ crash blending into a cacophony of chaos.

And yet, through it all, the crew moved with the precision of seasoned sailors. They hauled lines, trimmed sails, and braced against the tempest’s assault, their loyalty anchoring them as surely as the ship’s keel. Whatever their private feelings about the Tempest and her tangled fate, there was no hesitation in their actions.

Their loyalties were clear: to their captain, to their ship, and to the storm-ravaged coast they called home.