I ALMOST MISS Great Aunt Elora's lacy shawl flowing behind her as she slips inside the stable.

I pause by the entrance, taking in the sight without announcing my presence.

Aunt Elora stands in the dappled sunlight, her small frame looks even tinier as she cradles the large, shining golden bridle of the Ceryneian in her delicate hands. Earlier this morning, I had braided Aunt Elora's silver hair into a crown, but loose locks now dance around her face as the sea breeze flits through them.

The golden doe of legend, Solaris, stomps her enormous bronze hooves nervously against the dirt, shifting her massive weight back and forth. Aunt Elora's lips move fast, too quickly that I can't make out what she's reciting, but I'd bet it's another protection superstition. Her bony fingers shakily fidget the bridle. It is impossible for her to completely lift, and Solaris tilts her head down to make it easier to slip on. The polished metal of the bridle looks dull in comparison to the shimmering spun gold of Solaris's coat. Even as it has turned more platinum in age. It's still bright enough that whatever sunlight hits reflects off of her. Every breath, every toss of her head, reflects beams that chase away the shadows around us. Shimmering antlers of ethereal gold, branching like the boughs of an ancient oak, crown her head, reaching towards the sky, luminous as the sun itself.

Mortal doe's do not have antlers- that is for stags, and certainly not antlers of gold.

But Solaris is not a mortal doe.

My father often boasts of how he tamed Solaris. It's a favorite tale of the sailors, and one of the only ones Orion will tell of his time growing up in the Fae Realm. Not much is known of the Fae Realm, of the Fae or their magic within. It is nearly impossible for humans to enter the fae realm, so few even know how. But my Grandmother Cassia did. The myths say mortal babies born in the Fae Realm are supposed to be destined for glory, and us left behind mortals share ghost stories of all those who have been lured by the sirens call of Fae, and how those who leave, very rarely come back.

And Cassia didn't. She died during childbirth in the fae realm, and my father was raised by Fae.

During his time in the fae realm, Orion, fueled by fury over the death of a friend, gathered his allies, and managed to domesticate a Ceryneian, a feat only ever done before by four others. He's never revealed exactly how he managed to do it. Ceryenian's are known for their swiftness. The kind of speed that can outrun an arrow. His only greater achievement is the killing of the Daenara, the large snow leopard of legend.

It is his legacy.

The great Daenara, brought down by Orion, the Hunter of Avalon, riding the golden Ceryneian.

Now, the Daenara rests as my father's most prized possession, made into a pelt with a headpiece of the great snow leopard's face. And, Solaris, has gone from destrier doe, to my father's companion. But at the end of the day, despite their many years adventuring, I think Solaris and Aunt Elora take comfort in their age together. They've shared many seasons, endured many storms together, and she must sense Elora's unease.

In distress, Solaris suddenly huffs, rocking her body into the wall, knocking over rakes and brooms like dominos.

I rush over, refusing to let Aunt Elora bend down. Her grey eyes hold surprise upon seeing me, before a small smile tugs at her lips, though the worry lines on her face remain etched in deep creases.

When everything is restacked, she beckons me closer with a frail hand, and I comply, closing the distance between us.

"Kaia, my dear," she says, her jumpy voice weathered, "I can feel it in my bones, the storm-"

"I know, Aunt Elora," I say, loud enough that she can hear. I clasp her hand with my own. The coolness of her dark skin reminds me of the silver coins adorning our windowsills. "We're doing everything we can. The village is prepared too."

"Not for this," Her face is taut as a drawn bowstring, her gaze fixed on the distant horizon over my shoulder.

Aunt Elora wasn't always terrified of storms. When she was younger, a horrible storm left her with no hearing in her left ear. She's never shared all of the details with me before, but I know it happened in the city, where harsh weather is a regular occurrence. But here, in our village, it's always been peaceful. The most violent weather anyone had ever seen is a few branches falling during a summer rain. The kind that mists nature and cleans out the rotten.

Even now, all these decades later, the mere thought of a storm sends Aunt Elora into a frenzy of superstitions and worry. Her joints will ache the day before, Orion tells me it's something to do with the weather changes, and Aunt Elora urges we must all prepare.

The sudden clash of cymbals interrupts my thoughts, drawing my eyes towards the village. Under the bright sun, shadows dance and laughter echoes through the air, carrying their celebratory shouts all the way up to our hilltop perch. They are much louder now than the past two days.

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Our constant festivities has gathered many new visitors. But today they're also celebrating something else, something even more important.

I blink away stray thoughts of joining them.

"I'm sorry you have to miss Jovanna's birthday, my dear."

She must know what I'm thinking.

"It's alright, Aunt Elora," I say, trying to hide my disappointment. "There will be other birthdays to celebrate. Besides, you know they always come by after sunset to say hi anyway. I can give Jovanna her present then."

"We can only hope for future birthdays," she says, her voice barely audible. She's been inconsolable all summer. Waking in the middle of the night from nightmares. Last night, she dreamt of a raven, and claimed it was the last of our luck run out.

"Do you remember, during your fifth summer, we were preparing for a storm and you were so angry your father and I wouldn't let you go to the village, you ran away?" Aunt Elora's question catches me off guard.

My cheeks flush with embarrassment, as if it happened just yesterday.

"Yes," I reply, my own voice barely above a whisper, so I nod so she knows I do remember.

"You almost made it too, before realizing how far you had gone," she continues. "Only a child, and yet you refused to turn back. So determined. We had to send Solaris to find you."

"I remember. I'm sorry for making you worry."

Aunt Elora's eyes soften, the worry lines easing momentarily. "We were terrified, my dear. Losing you is our greatest fear. But instead of bringing you back right away, you somehow convinced Solaris to take you the rest of the way! You came back in an hour with a salted pickle." She laughs, the sound fragile yet full of warmth.

It feels like a lifetime ago. Now, it is my 17th Summer, and I have not celebrated storm rites in the village since.

"Orion scolded you, of course, but deep down, I could see how proud he was. I know you're strong and independent, my dear. I know if we let you, you'd out dance anyone in the village. I'm sure even your father sometimes wishes he could be playing his flute with them, but-"

"But this storm is different," I finish her sentence, my voice barely a whisper. Aunt Elora nods, her eyes glistening as she pulls me towards her, clinging like she's afraid to let go. This has been her mantra all summer. 'This storm is different.'

"Different or not, I doubt it can do much damage with all your preparations." I reassure, squeezing her again. There is no point in fighting. I have tried every excuse under the sun. Nothing has ever been enough of an excuse for me to go to the village during Storm Rites. Not the fact I already went once as a child, not the fact I'm almost eighteen, and not the fact that this is their village. How could they believe I'm not safe, even in their own village?

My next breath is laborious as I contain myself.

I don't believe a storm is coming, but if staying by the cottage brings her peace of mind, that's enough for me.

She smiles faintly, her grip tightening on my arm. "That's my brave girl."

I leave her to finish the rituals, pick up an armful of branches from near the shed, and make my way to the front. I return to my father's side, dropping my load of juniper onto the already sizable pile beside him. Orion is already back at his chore, his muscles strain under the weight of his work, veins running like rivers across his arms.

The wind carries the distant laughter and cheerful chatter from the village once more. It's as if the celebration is taunting me, begging me to be amidst the swirling skirts and lively music. A pang of sadness tugs at my chest as I imagine Jovanna's radiant smile when everyone gather's around her to present their carefully chosen gifts.

I shake my head at myself. There's no point in reminiscing on how unfair it is. Busying myself with finishing the rituals should make time go faster.

"There are more sailors in the docks than usual," Orion suddenly notes very casually, before splitting another branch.

Looking up, I take note of the ships and huff out an agreement.

"There's been a steady stream of ships docking at the harbor these past few days." He continues.

I nod again.

"Securing all the vessels might take longer than usual." Orion glances at me, as if trying to gauge my reaction.

"They're seeking shelter, I suppose," I say, my voice slightly distant. "Wouldn't want to get caught in the storm, after all."

Orion nods, his hands pausing for a moment before resuming their rhythmic splitting of wood.

"So many ships, I might not have time to get rowan wood from the market..." His words hang in the air, heavy with implications.

Instantly, I recognize the opportunity he's trying to give me. Rowan wood is one of many types of wood Aunt Elora insists we need to burn along with juniper. It is a vital part of her superstitions. She can't refuse.

"I could go," I venture, my heart hitching at the prospect of escape. "Aunt Elora needs that rowan wood before nightfall, she'll run out of time if she waits for you!" I hope my eagerness isn't too apparent.

With a heldback smile, my father nods. "Guess so. Be quick, and be careful."

"Of course," I promise, a grin breaking free.

"Tell her it was my idea," Orion adds, a knowing look in his eye.

"Will do," I say, racing inside and upstairs to my bedroom, grabbing a woven sack for the wood, my coin pouch, and my sandals.

The soft velvet embroidery of the coin pouch glints as I struggle to tie it to my belt as quickly as I can. It holds just enough coins for daily expenses and emergencies, a comforting weight against my hip. As soon as I finish the knot, I slip on my favorite sandals, the ones of shining brown leather with a stunning turquoise gem. I pause briefly at a mirror talisman hanging in the window to assess my appearance, giving myself no more than three minutes.

There's no time to change clothes, but I'm satisfied with my current dress; A kingfisher blue that brings out my eyes, clinched at the waist by a brown leather belt with an iron buckle. Most of the village will be in red, but I don't mind standing out a bit for the sake of getting there quicker.

I race through brushing my black waves, and dab my fingers into perfume, wiping streaks of a citrus blend on my neck. Just enough to cover the scent of sweat from all the chopping and hammering I've done. I barely register the new scattering of dark freckles across the bridge of my nose, more than usual for me, before grabbing Jovanna's wrapped present.

Six steps are skipped when I jump back down the stairs, but my father doesn't have time to scold me this morning.

"Orion!" Aunt Elora's voice calls from the stable.

He gives me a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Go, before she changes my mind."

"I'll bring you back a salted pickle!" I just about start running.