"AND HOW EXACLY did you manage to get out?" Circe questions as we get on line.

"Don't look at me, it was my father's idea!" I laugh, holding my hands up defensively as I take in the vibrant assortment of pickled vegetables and meats at the stall.

The air is alive with the scent of vinegar and spices, making my mouth water in anticipation. I eagerly open my pouch for coins, beginning my count before it's even our turn. Circe grabs a wooden skewer piled high with pickled olives, Jovanna chooses pickled cherry red tomatoes, and I excitedly ask for a salted pickle. I make a mental note to come back to get salted pecans for my father, and Jasmine Pearl tea for Great Aunt Elora.

The vendor, a plump man with rosy cheeks and a warm smile, hands us our choices with a wink.

It's everything I've been waiting for. The crisp crunch paired perfectly with briny saltiness makes my lips pucker in satisfaction. I moan into every bite. After Storm Rites, Circe and Jovanna always stop by my cottage to greet me, and present any treats they believe I'll enjoy as I usually wouldn't be able to get them myself. It's a kind gesture that proves how well they know me, but it's bittersweet, bringing me gifts from somewhere I've always longed to go. But today? I'm in the village myself for Storm Rites. The food is fresh and the perfect temperature.

We trade amongst each other. The olives are particularly good, and I relish in the burst of tangy flavor that fills my mouth.

We meander through the market, stopping at various stalls to sample. The vendors greet us warmly, their faces familiar, many of whom offer special treats for my first real Storm Rites, and for Jovanna's birthday. We sample salted fish that pop with flavor, vegetables soaked in brine, and tart bites that make our eyes water. Pastries filled with honeyed figs and stuffed grape leaves.

I savor each mouthful, each laugh, each shared glance with my friends. This may be the only Storm Rites I celebrate with them.

"Try this," Circe urges, thrusting a piece of seaweed soap we've been gifted into my hand, its scent fresh and oceanic.

"Smells like freedom," I joke, tucking it into my sack.

"Or rebellion," Jovanna winks, twirling an iron ring around her finger.

"Gods, I love Storm Rites," Circe tosses an olive in the air before catching it in her mouth.

"We should make this a weekly tradition," Jovanna suggests, her eyes dancing with excitement.

"Easy for you to say when you can actually celebrate," I point out.

"Maybe once you go back, Elora will see that everything turned out fine and you can come celebrate again in the future," Circe says.

"I'll wish for it when we toss coins in the fountain later, I heard they're more likely to come true on Storm Rites," I say.

"Absolutely true!" Jovanna proclaims. "A seagull stole my favorite ribbon earlier, so I wished for it back, and look!" She twirls to show she's regained the ribbon.

"It's completely fake," Circe frowns. "Don't let her get to you too. She's already convinced me to give up a coin for my wish and it still hasn't come true."

"That's because you wished for something unreasonable." Jovanna huffs, hands going to her hips.

"Isadora lowering her asking price for the spear tip I want is not any more unreasonable than you wishing for a bird to bring your ribbon back!" Circe retorts, crossing her arms in frustration.

"Yes, it is! That woman is stubborn as a mule." Jovanna rolls her eyes.

Isadora, a weapon trading merchant in the village, is known for rare items and exorbitant prices. She refuses to haggle with anyone, no matter how persuasive they are. Circe's been eyeing an obsidian spear tip Isadora put in her shop for days now, but every time she approaches Isadora about it, the merchant shakes her head and quotes an outrageous price.

"She'd try to sell sand in the desert," I shake my head at Circe.

Circe grumbles.

"If I knew you were gonna wish for that, I'd have told you to save the coin for Isadora," Jovanna laughs before leading us off again.

The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Circe, always the responsible one, keeps an eye on the sun's position as we go. Her dark eyes hold an edge of worry that only I catch beneath her feigned cheerfulness. She glances at me from time to time, her gaze filled with reassurance.

Circe is a skilled spear fisher, like her father, but she's also frequented much further out, deep in the ocean. She's experienced firsthand the kind of storms Aunt Elora is afraid of. I bet it's why she's wearing red and so much iron jewelry, like most of the village. They're just some of our superstitions for protection.

Like many sailors, she's a believer.

Jovanna bounces from stall to stall like a fire sprite – her steps nimble and swift, completely oblivious to our silent exchange. Her youthful laughter resonates through the busy square.

"Fresh catches from the sea! Best in all the land!" one merchant cries, displaying an array of glistening fish on ice.

"Spices from distant lands! Add a touch of magic to your meals!" another proclaims, wafting fragrant spices under our noses.

Jovanna pauses in a shop window to adjust her hair and favorite ribbon, pulling new strands to sit in front of her face. I guess her wish has worked too well, as we walk not a single seagull dares to even enter the village. There's a strange stillness to the air without them, and as I look around, I notice, there's no birds at all actually. Confusion knits my brow. I don't remember seeing any squirrels either. The one time I had come as a child, I remember the animals had taken quite a liking to all the extra scraps. But that was years ago, they must have fixed the problem by now. Or at the very least, the animals know better.

Circe can't help but shoot a glare in Isadora's direction as we wait. The woman stands behind her stall, tall and imposing with a calculating gleam in her eyes, the obsidian spear tip still mounted on the wall behind.

One by one, lanterns are being lit as colorful banners unfurl, depicting tales of ancient storms and heroes who have braved them. Murals of powerful winds that threatened to tear apart ships at sea, only to be quelled by brave sailors. Banners that show fierce lightning strikes being tamed by clever sorcerers.

There is not a fearful soul in the village.

The sound of a lyre pulls me out of my trance. A group has gathered around an open area near a grand oak tree, its branches sprawling above like a leafy canopy against the blue of the sky. A rhythmic melody fills the air - lively and captivating. The villagers start clapping along – their hands creating a beat that compliments the melody perfectly. The music weaves its way around us, seeping into my bones instilling an urge to move.

Jovanna grabs my hand and tugs me towards the dancers, her emerald eyes sparkling with excitement. Circe follows close behind, her protests drowned by Jovanna's infectious enthusiasm.

And then we're all dancing - the crowd parts for us as we spin around each other, laughing and twirling. My heart pounds in my chest as I follow Jovanna's lead - each twist and turn defying gravity. The sun hits her face at just the right angle, setting her hair aflame in the most radiant of crimsons. Circe's bronze's skin glows golden as we move as one, the music guiding our steps. The world around me disappears to just the three of us.

A sense of freedom washes over me, so strong I throw my head back to laugh. Beads of sweat trickle down my temples, the heat within myself building.

Jovanna, noticing my flushed cheeks and glistening skin, grins mischievously and asks, "Need a break?"

"Not a chance! Maybe a drink, though. Do you want anything?" I gesture towards a nearby stall where colorful goblets sparkle under the light of the lowering sun.

She shakes her head, resuming her dance and I make my way through the throng of villagers towards a stand selling cold drinks.

I reach the stall and order, tossing my coins to the vendor. She smiles warmly, eyes crinkling at the corners as she hands me the drink. The condensation on the goblet chills my fingers.

"Thank you," I turn away, scanning the bustling square while I try to cool down. Jovanna's dancing has led her further into the square, where she begins to pull those standing on the stone steps of the church into her routine. I still have some more minutes with them. Enough time to give Jovanna her present, get the rowan wood, and be back before Aunt Elora manages to mount Solaris and tries to come get me herself.

I feel the weight of her present in my pocket. Weeks ago, a broken jewelry box washed up on our shores, and I knew exactly who was meant to have it. Orion helped me restore it to working condition.

It started as a dull, washed-out pink, with patches of rust marring the delicate metalwork. The lid, adorned with intricate carvings of seashells and waves, was chipped and scratched, betraying years of neglect. The delicate hinges creaked when the lid was lifted, revealing the tarnished interior and the mechanism that once brought forth enchanting melodies now rendered silent and motionless.

Together, my father and I carefully repainted every intricate detail of the music box, using fine brushes to ensure each stroke brought new life. Hands that once held a powerful blade now delicately adjust the tiny gears of a music box, carefully oiling the mechanisms and coaxing them back to life with practiced hands.

My father always likes to joke he is a musician before he is muscles.

As I try to cool down, I finally notice one.

A single bird begins flying overhead, it's wings casting a razor sharp shadow that seems to slice through the air. The ice clinks against the goblet as I drink, my gaze locked on the creature. The taste is sweet and tangy, a cold that sends a shock through my system. The breeze of the late afternoon brushes against my damp skin, sending shivers down my spine. I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly aware of the drop in temperature. I watch it circle once, twice, three times, its beady eyes always fixed on me. As it soars, a feeling of unease settles in the pit of my stomach.

A sense of familiarity creeps into my mind. Its sleek ebony feathers glisten in the dying light of the sun, and my heart skips as I remember. Aunt Elora's dream.

She had dreamt of a raven.