BANG. BANG. BANG.

I hammer the last nail into place with a satisfying thud, securing it to the front door frame of the cottage. The nail glints in the sun as it sinks into the wood, a quick flash of light, before joining the others in a neat row. I wipe the sweat from my forehead, the cool iron of the horseshoe lingering in my grip.

"How is the weather, my dear?" Great Aunt Elora's frail voice, laced with urgency, floats from inside.

I glance up at the sky, narrowing my eyes against the afternoon sun.

Tall grass sways in the breeze, shifting like water, rippling in waves across the open field. Wildflowers dot the landscape, bursts of color alive with the hum of bees and the flicker of dragonflies. Above, the sky is a flawless blue. Birds, cardinals and blue jays mostly, dart between the thick branches of the trees surrounding us. There isn't a cloud in sight.

"Clear!" I call back, hoping to ease the tremor I heard in her words.

Inside, silvery coins wink at me from every window sill, their metallic gleam stark against the sun-drenched wood. All the doors and windows have been opened, allowing the breeze to blow through and chase away what Aunt Elora calls "negative energy".

White candles stand tall, their bodies slim and elegant with hints of melted wax dripping down, their wicks burning steadily, releasing small trails of smoke that drift up. The scent of vanilla and honey floats out. It's comforting and sweet, mingling with the sage Aunt Elora burned earlier.

Every inch of the cottage, even the air, has been protected.

It's crucial every single tradition is completely carried out to the fullest. There's special food to make, specific wood to burn, and certain customs. No exceptions.

The list of superstitions for Storm Rites grows each year, and with it, my skepticism. But for Aunt Elora, I'd hang a hundred horseshoes. Even today, when I know what I am missing.

"Kaia!" My father's voice carries from the back of the cottage, thunderous as ever. Stepping down from my stool, I round the corner to find him in the back, axe in hand.

The majority of our kingdom, Avalon, is marked by wrinkles and scars from sun-spent days fishing, and my father, Orion, is no exception. He lacks the fragile bones and aches of other men his age though, every part of his barrel-chested form is burly muscles and dark leathery skin.

Wood chips litter the ground as he moves with purpose splitting the juniper branches, each strike precise, efficient. Despite the day's beauty, he still works with an urgency that matches Aunt Elora's anxiety.

"Could use your eye for the finer pieces," Orion speaks without pausing, another branch yielding to his strength.

"Fine like for kindling, or fine like for Aunt Elora's tea cups?"

He grins. "Somewhere in between. Keep the spirits cozy, but not too comfortable."

I laugh, picking through the pile for medium-sized limbs while he continues. Orion's dreadlocks, streaked with gray, sway with each powerful swing.

"Silver by all the windows?" he asks, without looking up.

"Done. And iron by the doors. We're a regular treasure trove." I can't help the roll of my eyes.

"Treasure is where you find it," he says, always sagely, setting aside the axe and wiping his brow with the back of his forearm. "Elora doing well?"

"Seven white candles in, and counting." I gesture toward the cottage where flickering lights dance against the windowpanes.

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"Her mind's at ease then."

"Storms are just wind and rain," I say flatly.

He teases me with a gentle smile, "Your positivity is a charm greater than any horseshoe."

"Let's hope so. If it hails, Aunt Elora won't ever let me live it down."

Orion laughs, and together we carry the branches to the front, stacking them neatly by the door. We'll burn them later, once the sun sets and the rain begins. Inside, we'll be safe, with Aunt Elora sipping her tea, my father tending the fire, and me, trying to find space for dessert. We'll have our own little feast here, garlic butter shrimp and red pepper salad. But it can't compare to what the village is doing.

I lean against the cottage door, pressing my back against the sun-warmed wood and look down.

Nestled along the gentle curve of the coastline, concealed by nature's design rather than intention; a scattering of houses lining narrow streets, winding to open courtyards. Smoke rises lazily from chimneys, blending with the salty breeze swept in from the sea.

Down by the harbor, a noted abundance of fishing boats bob gently on the water, their sails furl against the horizon. And even further than that, the tall white silhouette of our lighthouse in the distance, reaching towards the sky.

If I concentrate, I can hear the Songs of Protection.

Around this time, the men of the village will be gathering, humming their low chants, words of superstition meant to cast safety over us.

Very faintly rings the distant peal of the lighthouse bell, the ultimate musical accompaniment.

Real preparations for the rain storm should be nearly finished, and by now, everyone was sure to be crowded in the marketplace, eating pickled vegetables, playing games, and dancing. All festivities I will not get to experience with them.

The village has never actually experienced a bad storm before. There's never been anything more than the necessary rain needed to keep our crops flourishing. I've never even seen lightning before in person, just in paintings.

People respect Aunt Elora, though. She and my father arrived here years ago, after the death of my mother. Aunt Elora and Orion shared their knowledge and gifts with the village, and it's thrived under their guidance ever since. The elders came to elect my father as village head, and homes rose under Orion's leadership- Sails hoisted and docks built.

The once quaint port at the edge of our shores, is now renowned for its bustling trade and welcomes ships from distant lands to exchange their exotic goods, drawing merchants and travelers like moths to a flame.

After everything Aunt Elora and Orion had done, the villagers were more than welcoming for their village heads superstitions and traditions. Eventually, the increasingly absurd list of rituals to preform became habitable, and it was an opportunity for festivities.

Maybe the villagers would toss some salt, light a candle or two, but the day became mostly something of a holiday. Storm Rites would be celebrated all day until sunset. The actual rain would start after it was fully dark.

Light drizzles, but nothing more.

The next day, I'd be free to go where I'd like again. But I was not to leave our cottage on Storm Rites. "For my own protection," Aunt Elora would try to convince me.

Suddenly, the low, draw of a brass instrument sounds.

I've heard it countless times, and still, it's just as powerful, rising and falling like the breath of a slumbering giant. Then, another instrument joins in, its voice distinct yet harmonizing with the first.

"Listening for the storm?" Orion asks.

"No, I'm listening to life happening without me," I murmur, more to myself than to him. It's not right to take out my feelings on him, but I can't help myself today.

"Elora's fears are not without reason," he says, approaching with an armful of juniper branches that he adds to the pile by the door. "But I know it's hard for you."

"Hard is watching summer pass by under a blanket of salt. My feet haven't been clean since solstice," I complain, brushing off my bare soles which are indeed gritty and dotted white with salt. I lean inside to see the grains scattered across the wooden floorboards, remnants of Aunt Elora's latest attempt at cleansing.

Typically, we'll only celebrate Storm Rites about 20 times a year. But this past summer, Aunt Elora's woken up every week feeling the 'ache of a storm' in her bones. Now, we're on Day 3 of Storm Rites. The first time we've ever celebrated multiple days in a row. I'd be shaking salt out of my sheets until Winter.

Orion chuckles, a deep sound like the rustling of leaves.

"It'll be all cleaned up soon, I promise. Just bear with it a while longer," he says, his tone a mix of humor and understanding. Sweat stains his shirt and trickles down his forehead, but he doesn't complain. He never does.

Just as the men are about to begin another song, inside, I hear Aunt Elora moving about—pots clinking, the faint rustle of herbs. Her rituals are like a dance, each step precise, practiced.

Orion's voice grabs my attention, rough with age, but still potent with strength.

"More branches by the greenhouse," he grunts, his hands busied with tying up the cut branches.

I peel myself away from my spot on the door to carry out his instruction.

To my surprise, Great Aunt Elora has also made it outside.