Chapter 15: Seeds of Lightning and Shadow
The faint, rhythmic sound of Liora’s whetstone scraping against her spear echoed in the dim room, a steady cadence that kept the silence at bay. She sat cross-legged by the bed, her eyes flicking toward Seeker’s motionless form every few moments. His breathing was steady but shallow, his body wrapped in blankets that seemed too thin to hold the storm inside him at bay. The faint blue light that lingered on his scars had dimmed over the days, but Liora still felt its pulse whenever she touched his hand, an ebbing tide of power, restless but silent.
Her hands stilled on the spear. She tightened her grip until her knuckles whitened, staring down at the polished blade. The edge caught the dim light from the single brazier, glinting faintly, as if mocking her hesitation.
"Wake up, Seeker," she whispered. Her voice cracked, but she didn’t let the tears come. Not now. Not when everything felt as fragile as frost beneath her boots.
Her gaze dropped to her hands, calloused and bruised from days of training. She flexed her fingers, watching the faint shimmer of frost gather at her fingertips. It was barely visible, a thin layer of crystalline ice that vanished as quickly as it formed. The first time it had happened, she’d thought it a trick of the light, the storm playing one last cruel jest on her. But it wasn’t. It was her.
Her hands clenched into fists, the frost vanishing under the heat of her anger. She’d spent hours in the courtyard, away from the others, testing the limits of this strange power. It was alive, wild, and utterly alien, yet it pulsed through her veins with a rhythm that felt like it had always been there, waiting to be woken.
It was beautiful, but it terrified her.
The first time she’d tried to use it deliberately, she’d nearly lost control. A simple gesture, trying to coat the tip of her spear in fros, had ended with the ground around her covered in jagged, spiked ice. She’d stared at the destruction in horror, her breath visible in the sudden chill, the realization cutting deeper than the cold.
She was no mage. She wasn’t even a soldier. She was a survivor, a girl with a spear who’d learned to fight because not fighting had never been an option. But now... now the storm had marked her, changed her. And she didn’t know who she was anymore.
Liora reached for the whetstone again, needing the rhythm to ground her, but her hand faltered. A crackle of frost spread across the stone’s surface as her fingers brushed it, and she froze, her breath catching. She stared at the frost as if it might lash out, her mind racing.
What if she couldn’t control it? What if it controlled her?
Her spear clattered to the floor as she stood abruptly, the sound jarring in the quiet room. She crossed to the window, her hands gripping the sill as she stared out into the night. The cold air bit at her cheeks, but she barely noticed.
The courtyard below was empty, save for the faint blue glow of the runes that still pulsed along the walls. The storm had left its mark on the fortress, just as it had on her. It had healed them, changed them, but at what cost? She could still see the faces of the slaves, wide-eyed, hollow, their hands trembling as they touched their chests, their bodies no longer their own. Some had wept. Others had screamed. Most had simply stared, silent and lost.
She understood their fear. It was her own.
"Wake up, Seeker," she whispered again, her voice almost a plea this time. Her grip on the windowsill tightened, her knuckles white. "You dragged us into this storm. You have to wake up and show us how to stand in it."
But he didn’t move. His chest rose and fell with the same maddening rhythm, steady and unchanging.
She turned back to him, her frost-dusted hands clenched at her sides. The light from the brazier cast shadows across his face, softening the sharp edges, but to her, he looked almost as fragile as the others. The storm had changed them all, but Seeker had borne the brunt of it. And now, he was the only one who might have the answers she so desperately needed.
Her hands trembled as she picked up her spear again, the frost creeping along its shaft unbidden. She forced herself to breathe, to let the ice settle into the blade rather than splinter outward. The storm was inside her now, wild and untamed, but maybe, just maybe, she could learn to wield it.
---
Marlen stood by the hearth, the firelight painting flickering shadows across his face. He turned his hands over and over, palms up, then down, as though the answer to his misery might be hidden in the lines of his skin. The faint warmth of the flames licked at his knuckles, teasing the heat that smoldered just beneath his flesh. He clenched his fists, his breathing shallow, fighting to keep the embers from igniting again.
Harken’s words echoed in his ears, heavy as iron chains. “You’re lucky it wasn’t worse.” The old soldier had dragged him away from the scene, his grip firm but not unkind. “They’d have done more than lash you if Count Torvald wasn’t feeling so… generous.”
Generous.
The word felt like a mockery now, digging into Marlen’s chest. Twenty lashes. At dawn. A punishment handed down with the air of benevolence, as though the nobleman’s burned arm and the seared fabric of his doublet were crimes greater than anything Marlen had ever suffered.
He glanced at the others in the room, each of them marked in their own way by the storm’s touch. They kept their distance, not far enough to feel like rejection, but just enough to remind him that he was a danger. He saw it in their eyes, the cautious glances they cast his way, like hunters watching a cornered animal.
Jara sat cross legged near the corner, her hands splayed on the stone floor. Tiny green shoots had begun to sprout between the cracks, curling upward toward the light. She stared at them, her face a mixture of awe and unease.
“This shouldn’t be happening,” she muttered, as much to herself as to anyone else. Her fingers trembled as she drew them back. The plants withered instantly, browning and curling into themselves. “I’m no mage. I don’t know what this is.”
“None of us do,” Sarra said from her perch near the window. Frost gathered at her fingertips, spreading down her arm in elegant, crystalline patterns. Her breath frosted in the air as she spoke, the cold radiating from her skin visible even in the dim light. “But it’s ours now, whether we like it or not.”
“And what good is it, huh?” Marlen snapped, his voice sharper than he intended. He thrust his hands toward the hearth, the heat flaring at the motion. The fire leapt higher, as if answering him. “What’s the point of all this if it only gets us punished?”
Jara flinched, and Sarra’s eyes narrowed, the frost at her fingertips thickening into icy claws. But it was Harken who stepped forward, his expression grim.
“Keep your voice down,” the older man said, his tone low but firm. “You think the Count’s men need another reason to watch us?”
Marlen opened his mouth to retort, but the words caught in his throat. Harken’s gaze was heavy, not angry, but filled with the weariness of someone who had seen too many arguments end in blood.
“You’re not wrong to be angry,” Harken added, softer now. “But anger’s a fire you can’t let burn out of control. You’ve already seen what happens when it does.”
Marlen looked down at his hands, the faint glow beneath his skin flickering like a dying ember. He felt his breath hitch as the memory of the nobleman’s screams clawed its way back into his mind. The blistered skin. The smell of burning cloth. The way everyone in the room had turned to stare at him, as though he were some kind of monster.
A sharp laugh broke the silence, cutting through the tension like a blade. Gale leaned against the far wall, his arms crossed, a sardonic smirk playing at his lips. “I wouldn’t worry too much about your temper, Marlen. Seems like the Count’s men are more interested in seeing you bleed than seeing you learn.”
“You think this is funny?” Marlen snapped, rounding on him. His fists clenched, the heat stirring again, but this time Gale didn’t flinch.
“I think it’s predictable,” Gale said coolly, his smirk fading. “They’re nobles. This is their idea of balance. You scare one of them, they lash you in front of everyone else. Keeps the rest of us in line.” He pushed off the wall and stepped closer, his voice dropping. “Don’t give them the satisfaction.”
Marlen wanted to argue, to tell Gale he didn’t understand, but the words wouldn’t come. The fire in his chest dimmed, leaving only the raw, bitter ache of shame. He sank onto the bench near the hearth, burying his face in his hands.
---
The air in the great hall felt thin, stretched taut by the whispers of the storm that still hummed faintly in the stone walls. Slaves huddled together in uneven clusters, their eyes darting to the pale blue light that flickered along the runes like an afterimage of the tempest that had touched them all. Their faces were drawn and hollow, shadows pooling beneath their eyes, reflecting sleepless nights and unanswered questions.
A man with a gaunt face and hands worn by years of labor traced the etched runes in the wall with trembling fingers. He moved as though expecting the stone to yield answers, his lips murmuring a prayer or a curse, it was impossible to tell which. Nearby, a group of women pressed together, their voices hushed, their arms encircling children who stared at the floor as if afraid to meet anyone’s gaze.
A girl no older than ten clutched her mother’s arm, her thin fingers gripping tightly as though holding on might stop the world from breaking beneath her feet.
“Mama,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the murmured prayers and muffled weeping. “What’s happening to us?”
Her mother’s gaze was fixed on nothing, her eyes glassy and unblinking. She pulled the girl closer, her arms trembling with an effort that went beyond the cold.
When the soldier entered, the tension in the room snapped taut, every eye turning toward the armored figure. His helm was removed, revealing a face far too young for the grim words he carried. His armor clanked awkwardly as he stepped into the center of the hall, his mouth opening and closing twice before he found his voice.
“You’ll march with the rest,” he said, his tone clipped, as if speed might lessen the weight of the news. “Frontline needs bodies, and you’ve all been... fortified.”
The word hit the air like a hammer striking brittle glass, shattering the fragile stillness. It echoed in the walls, in the runes, in the hearts of those who had hoped, foolishly, desperately, that the storm’s touch had meant salvation.
An older man, his back stooped and his arms scarred from years of toil, pushed himself to his feet. His voice was hoarse, cracking as he spoke. “This is what the storm brought us?” he spat, his shoulders shaking. “Healing, just to send us to die?”
The murmurs began to rise, sharp and jagged, growing into a cacophony of disbelief.
“We didn’t ask for this!” another voice shouted, high and strained. “We didn’t…” But the words faltered, lost beneath the weight of hopelessness.
A woman in the corner wrapped herself around two children, pulling them close as though her body could shield them from the inevitability that loomed. One child sobbed into her side, muffled and soft, while the other stared at the soldier with wide, unblinking eyes. There was no anger or fear in that gaze..just emptiness, as if even despair had abandoned him.
The soldier shifted uneasily, his armor creaking as his hand found the hilt of his sword. “It’s this or the hunger, the cold,” he said, his voice wavering before he steeled it. “The ration stores won’t stretch. Not with..” He stopped, swallowing hard before finishing. “Not with the rest.”
The silence that followed was heavier than any shout could have been. The slaves didn’t argue further. They didn’t cry out. Instead, their heads bowed, their bodies folding under the weight of acceptance.
Count Elias Torvald leaned heavily against the edge of the war table, his fingers tracing the edges of a map littered with hastily scrawled notes and miniature wooden battalions. His eyes were rimmed with red, the nights since the storm’s passing offering little in the way of rest. Yet beneath his fatigue was something sharper, a glint of opportunity.
“They’ll be in disarray for days,” Illara said, standing to his right. The Baroness’s voice was clipped, her words sharp as a dagger’s edge. “The storm shattered their formations, burned their siege lines, and scattered their wildlings. This is the moment to strike.”
Torvald’s lips thinned as he considered her words. “Strike with what, Illara?” he asked, his tone low. “ Our forces are stretched thin, our mages barely standing.”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“Which is why we use them,” she replied, nodding toward the courtyard where the former slaves had been gathering. “They’ve been touched by the storm. You saw it, healed, strengthened, some even awakened.”
“They’re broken people,” Torvald said, though his tone lacked conviction. His gaze fell on the courtyard visible through the frost lined window. Slaves shuffled aimlessly, their faces hollow, their movements mechanical. “They won’t fight.”
“They will,” Illara countered. She stepped closer to the window, her breath fogging the glass. “Because they’ll have no choice. You’ve already started cutting rations. The choice between starving here or dying with a sword in hand isn’t much of a choice at all.”
“And when the nobles ask why I’ve armed slaves?” Torvald asked, his voice carrying a note of bitterness. “When they question my judgment?”
Illara turned to face him, her dark eyes gleaming with determination. “Tell them the truth. The storm gave us weapons we didn’t have before. Only a fool wouldn’t use them.”
In the corner of the hall, a man sat with his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking as he whispered a prayer to gods that hadn’t answered him in years. Nearby, a child clutched a broken piece of wood as if it were a sword, his small frame trembling as his mother tried to soothe him.
A woman knelt by a makeshift pallet where her husband lay unmoving, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. His face, once pale and drawn, now bore the faint glow of the storm’s touch, but his eyes had not opened since the storm’s passing.
“They’re sending us to die,” she whispered to no one in particular. Her voice was flat, drained of emotion. “Storm saved us just for them to throw us away.”
Across the room, the young guard from earlier stood by the doorway, his face pale as he watched the scene unfold. He tightened his grip on his sword, the leather of his gauntlet creaking. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came.
Next morning the courtyard was alive with biting cold and cruel laughter. Nobles gathered like carrion birds, their breath fogging in the frosty air, their faces painted with condescending amusement. The whipping post stood at the center, stark against the morning light, its splintered wood darkened by years of blood.
The injured nobleman stood to one side, his arm wrapped in pristine bandages, his silk tunic untouched by the grit of the world around him. His laughter rang sharp, a blade meant to cut deeper than the lash itself.
“Twenty lashes, eh?” he drawled, loud enough for everyone to hear. “I’d have asked for thirty, but I suppose the Count has a soft spot for the little firestarter.”
The nobles chuckled, their voices blending into a chorus of malice.
Marlen stood bare-backed at the post, his head bowed, his breath coming in shallow gasps. The cold bit at his skin, but it was nothing compared to the weight of shame pressing down on him. His hands gripped the wood tightly, his knuckles white, as if bracing himself might keep the storm at bay.
The lash rose.
And then the storm came.
The crack of the whip never landed. Instead, a low hum filled the courtyard, a sound that resonated in the bones before it reached the ears. The gathered crowd turned, and gasps replaced laughter as Seeker stepped through the gate.
Lightning curled around his body like a living thing, coiling lazily around his arms and flickering at his fingertips. His scars glowed faintly, the lines jagged and alive with an eerie blue light. His eyes, once human, had darkened into pits of shadow, swirling with the remnants of the storm’s fury.
The air in the courtyard grew heavy, thick with an unspoken tension that seemed to press down on every breath.
Seeker strode forward, his bare feet crunching against the frost. The nobles shrank back as he approached, their laughter dying in their throats. He stopped before Marlen, his gaze sweeping the gathered crowd. The whip fell limp in the guard’s hand, forgotten in the face of this unearthly presence.
“Step aside,” Seeker said, his voice low but carrying. Lightning crackled faintly with each word.
The guard obeyed without hesitation, stepping back as though Seeker’s words had been carved from stone. No one objected. No one dared.
Seeker reached out, his hand glowing faintly as it touched Marlen’s shoulder. “You’ve endured enough,” he murmured, his tone so quiet it was almost kind. He pulled Marlen from the post with a strength that seemed effortless, setting him gently on his feet.
Marlen blinked, his mouth opening to protest, but the words faltered. He saw the look in Seeker’s eyes, the deep, unnatural calm that spoke of a storm yet to break, and he simply nodded.
Then Seeker turned, his back to the crowd, and placed his hands on the post. His bare shoulders were broad and unflinching, the scars that laced his skin seeming to glow brighter as the lightning flickered across them.
“As his commander, Marlen’s failings are also mine,” Seeker said, his voice steady. “I will take his punishment.”
The courtyard fell into stunned silence, broken only by the faint crackle of electricity in the air. A noble’s voice broke the quiet, attempting mockery but failing to mask the tremor beneath his words. “You think enduring a few lashes makes you noble, Stormtouched?”
Seeker didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. His unit and the former slaves watched him with rapt attention, their faces lit with something far greater than fear, admiration, even hope. The crowd’s jeers faltered, lost beneath the weight of Seeker’s silence.
The lash struck.
The lightning leapt. Blue tendrils of energy sparked across Seeker’s back as the whip landed, the sound sharp and hollow. He didn’t flinch, didn’t move, the only sign of pain a tightening in his jaw. Another strike fell, then another, each answered by the faint hum of the storm as if the lash itself was fueling the power within him.
By the fifteenth stroke, the nobles had stopped trying to make light of the moment. By the twentieth, even they couldn’t look away.
When it was done, Seeker straightened, his back unmarred save for faint trails of light where the whip had struck. The lightning coursed over his skin, knitting the wounds closed in moments. He turned, stepping away from the post, his movements steady despite the weight of the storm still thrumming in his chest.
Liora was there to steady him, her hands firm but gentle on his arm. He glanced at her, offering the faintest nod of thanks before pulling himself upright. Bare chested, lightning flickering faintly around him, his shadowed eyes swept across the courtyard and all slaves there.
“I am their commander,” he said, his voice unyielding, each word spoken like a vow. “All of them. Their strength is mine, and mine theirs. If you wish to question that, I stand ready.”
The courtyard hung in a tense, brittle silence, as if the very air had frozen in place. Lightning still danced faintly along Seeker’s bare shoulders, casting fleeting shadows that seemed too sharp, too alive. His shadowed eyes swept the crowd, pausing briefly on Count Torvald and the Archduke’s emissary. The two men stood side by side, their faces a study in contrast, Torvald’s a mask of thinly veiled irritation and calculation, the emissary’s strained calm hinting at deeper uncertainty.
The emissary stepped forward, the weight of his position lending gravity to his words, though his voice carried a thin edge of condescension. “You have your command over them, Seeker,” he said, emphasizing the name as if it might crack under the pressure of authority. “But understand this, your unit, and the slaves under your command, are cut from the ration rolls. We can’t afford to spare food for them.”
The words landed like a blade between ribs, sharp and deliberate.
Seeker didn’t respond immediately. He let the silence stretch, let it twist and curl around the nobles’ confidence like the faint crackle of lightning around his fingers. His gaze didn’t waver as he looked from the emissary to Torvald and back again.
“My unit,” he repeated slowly, his voice low and steady, “and the slaves under my command?”
The emissary stiffened, his chin lifting slightly. “That’s correct. The Count has decided—wisely, I might add, that resources are too scarce to support those who will march to the front. The burden of supplies must fall elsewhere.”
“Elsewhere,” Seeker echoed, his tone still calm, though there was something in it now, a faint hum of the storm’s power beneath his words. His gaze shifted, sweeping over the courtyard where the gathered slaves, his people now, watched in silence. Mothers clutching their children. Men with gaunt faces and hollow eyes. The faintest flicker of hope that had dared to spark in their hearts just moments ago was already dimming, extinguished by the cold reality of what they’d just heard.
“This isn’t just about my unit,” Seeker said, his voice growing louder, sharper. “You mean every slave the Count has sent to fight. Every man, woman, and child you’ve taken from these walls. You’re cutting them off. All of them.”
Torvald’s expression tightened, but it was the emissary who answered. “They are marching to die, Seeker,” he said, his words clipped, each one falling like a stone. “Whether it’s by Elven blades or starvation makes little difference in the end. The Imperium has no interest in prolonging the inevitable.”
A murmur rippled through the courtyard. The slaves shuffled where they stood, their faces a patchwork of despair and anger. Seeker felt Liora’s grip on his arm tighten, her fingers steadying him even as frost curled faintly around her free hand.
“The inevitable,” Seeker said, his voice dangerously soft. He stepped forward, his movements deliberate, each one sending faint tendrils of lightning skittering across the frost-covered ground. The nobles instinctively leaned back, though neither would dare to retreat fully.
“The inevitable,” he repeated, louder now. His words carried a weight that stilled the air, drawing every eye back to him. “You’ve taken everything from them. Their homes. Their families. Their freedom. And now you expect them to die for you, without even the dignity of a meal.”
Torvald bristled, his irritation finally breaking the surface. “They are expendable,” he snapped. “Their purpose is to buy us time, to weaken the Elves’ advance. They are tools, Seeker. Nothing more.”
Lightning crackled sharply along Seeker’s arms, the sound like a whip cracking through the still air. The nobles flinched, their composure faltering.
“You’re wrong,” Seeker said, his voice cutting through the courtyard like a blade. “They’re not tools. They’re people. They’re soldiers now. My soldiers. And you’re right about one thing, what happens to them is my responsibility.”
The emissary sneered. “Responsibility? What responsibility can you claim when they’re already dead men walking? You can’t feed them, Seeker. You can’t save them.”
Seeker smiled then, sharp and knowing, the lightning coiling more tightly around him as if it, too, shared his confidence. He turned his head slightly, his gaze finding Jara among the crowd. The young woman stood with her arms crossed, her sharp eyes glinting with a quiet, defiant confidence.
“Don’t trouble yourselves about our food,” Seeker said, his voice carrying a thread of wry humor now. “We have the best quartermaster.”
The nobles blinked, their confusion momentary but palpable. Jara stepped forward, a faint smile playing at her lips as she inclined her head toward Seeker. The crowd murmured again, the tone shifting, uncertainty giving way to something quieter, steadier. Belief.
Seeker turned back to Torvald and the emissary, his shadowed eyes locking onto theirs. “You’ve given us two days. That’s all I need. In two days, we’ll be ready. And when we march, it won’t be to die. It will be to win.”
He stepped back, the slaves and his unit falling in behind him as he turned away from the nobles. Liora walked beside him, her hand still steady on his arm, though she knew by now he didn’t need it. The lightning at his back was faint but constant, a storm that had not yet broken.
Torvald and the emissary watched him go, their faces pale despite the frostbite wind. Behind them, the Count’s banner snapped sharply in the cold air, a hollow echo of authority that had, in that moment, felt much smaller than the man who had just walked away from the post.
---
Seeker stood at the edge of the training yard, the frozen ground crunching beneath his boots as he surveyed the gathered slaves and his unit. The faint glow of the fortress runes illuminated the scene, casting long, jagged shadows across the faces of those who had come to him, not as soldiers, not yet, but as survivors. And for the first time, there was something more in their eyes. Not fear. Not despair. Something quiet, simmering. A spark waiting to be kindled.
He turned to Harken, who stood at his side, arms crossed against the cold. The older man’s face was lined with exhaustion, but his gaze was steady, assessing the group before them.
“They’ll hold a line if we give them one worth standing on,” Harken said, his voice low. “But they’ll need more than that.”
Seeker nodded, his mind already running through formations, strategies, possibilities. “Then we give them purpose,” he said. “And we make sure the Elves never see it coming.”
At the center of the yard, Jara knelt in the frost-covered soil, her hands pressed to the earth. She moved slowly, deliberately, her fingers tracing unseen patterns into the dirt. Around her, the air felt heavier, alive with a faint, greenish hum.
Then, it happened.
Tiny shoots broke through the frozen ground, unfurling like the first breath of spring. The slaves gathered nearby gasped, their murmurs rising like the rustling of leaves. The shoots grew rapidly, thickening and weaving into corn stalks that stood tall and golden against the winter sky. Jara leaned back, brushing her hair from her face, her expression one of quiet pride and exhaustion.
She began harvesting the ears of corn, her hands quick and sure. The plant responded, withering into dust beneath her touch, the energy flowing back into the earth. Once the last kernel was collected, Jara moved a few steps to the left and repeated the process. This time, green leaves curled into heads of cabbage, then carrots, then apples. Each growth was brief, deliberate, and abundant, leaving no trace when the fruits were gathered.
The crowd watched in stunned silence, some with tears streaming down their faces as baskets filled faster than anyone thought possible. A boy darted forward to catch an apple that tumbled loose, holding it as though it were treasure.
Seeker approached as Jara straightened, her breath visible in the cold air. He placed a hand on her shoulder, the faint hum of his storm brushing against the edges of her power. “Good work,” he said simply, his voice carrying a rare warmth.
Jara smiled faintly, wiping her hands on her tunic. “Don’t waste it,” she replied, before sinking to her knees to grow again.
The fairy perched on Seeker’s shoulder, her tiny legs crossed, her wings shimmering faintly in the runelight. She leaned back against his neck as though it were the most comfortable spot in the world, a look of quiet contentment on her glowing face.
“Look at them,” she said, gesturing lazily toward the yard. “Planting seeds. Picking up swords. Dreaming of survival.” She chuckled softly, a sound like bells ringing far away. “You humans are so dramatic.”
“Am I supposed to take that as a compliment?” Seeker asked, his voice dry.
“You can take it however you like,” the fairy replied, her tone playful. Then her gaze turned sharp, her golden eyes gleaming as they fixed on the gathering crowd. “But this… this is where it begins.”
Seeker frowned, turning his head slightly to glance at her. “What begins?”
She smiled, her expression infuriatingly knowing. “Your cleansing of this world, silly.”
Seeker’s steps faltered for a moment, the weight of her words landing like a stone in his chest. He looked back at the yard, at the men and women who were starting to stand a little straighter, to talk a little louder. The storm inside him stirred, quiet but insistent.
“I’m not cleansing anything,” he said softly. “I’m just trying to keep them alive.”
The fairy shrugged, her wings fluttering as though she found the conversation boring. “Of course you are,” she said, the words a gentle mockery. “But storms don’t ask permission to tear through a forest. They just do what they’re made for.”
---
Seeker stepped into the hastily assembled war room, his unit gathering around a crude map laid out on a table. The map was patched together from scraps, the ink faded and uneven, but it was enough.
Harken pointed to the western ravine, where the Elves had entrenched themselves. “They’ll expect us to come from the east,” he said. “It’s the cleaner path. But if we push through here…” he tapped the jagged edge of the map “…we can catch their siege engines off guard.”
“We’ll need to move fast,” Sarra added, her frosted fingertips leaving faint trails on the wood. “Their scouts won’t miss a column moving through the snow. We hit hard, or we don’t hit at all.”
“And the front line?” Jara asked, glancing up from the basket of supplies she was sorting. “Most of them have never held a weapon.”
“They won’t need to,” Seeker said. “Not yet. We focus the Elves’ attention on the ravine. Let the storm handle the rest.”
Harken raised an eyebrow. “And by ‘storm,’ you mean…”
Seeker’s shadowed eyes flickered faintly with blue light. “I mean all of us. Together.”
As the plans took shape and the supplies piled high, the slaves began to move with purpose, their exhaustion tempered by the faintest flicker of hope. Seeker stood in the center of it all, the hum of the storm pulsing softly at his core, his gaze fixed on the horizon.
The fairy whispered something in his ear, her tone playful and cryptic, but he didn’t respond. He didn’t need to.
The storm was coming. And for the first time, it felt like it was his.