“I don’t understand what’s wrong, Vane.”
“Neither do I.” He sinks to the ground. “It’s just . . . the thought of killing people. Making them explode like that tree.” He shudders, pulling his legs into his chest and leaning his head against them.
“They’re hardly people,” I mutter as I lower myself next to him. “People don’t massacre hundreds of innocent Windwalkers. They don’t tear innocent children limb from limb. They don’t launch tornados and hurricanes into human cities because they suspect the Gales are hiding there—oh yeah, the Stormers do that,” I add when he turns toward me. “Raiden will stop at nothing to wipe out the resistance. Not to mention they’re coming here to capture you and force you to share your language. All so Raiden can be strong enough to control the world.”
I glance at him, expecting him to look calmer. But he’s paler than ever. I don’t see what his problem is.
“Remember, Vane. We’re at war.”
We’re at war.
My father said those exact words to Vane’s father, pleading with him to take his training seriously.
A memory flashes back.
I hide in the shadows on the edge of the field, watching my parents train the Westons. The four adults stand in a circle and my father demonstrates how to make a crusher, a thick funnel that tightens on command, annihilating anything inside.
The Westons shake and turn away.
Vane’s dad says they won’t learn.
Not can’t.
Won’t.
Winds rage as my mother screams at them. Calls them selfish. How dare they expect others to risk their lives to protect them when they aren’t even willing to learn basic self-defense?
Vane’s parents just cling to each other in her storm, shake their heads, and say, “No.”
I want to tear across the field and shout at the Westons like my mother. My life is miserable because of them—because my family has to protect them. How can they stand back and let us make all the sacrifices?
But I stay in the shadows.
I ask my father about it when he tucks me in that night. He stares into the night and says, “Westerlies are the peaceful winds.” Nothing more.
I didn’t understand what he meant. What the problem really was. Not until right now, looking at the green tinge to Vane’s skin.
Westerlies are the peaceful winds.
Violence makes them physically ill.
Now I know why none of the Westerlies surrendered to Raiden’s threats and taught him their language. Why they were willing to die to protect it. They aren’t just brave or stubborn, like I thought. Violence goes against their very nature, triggering an actual physical reaction.
Honestly, it’s quite noble. Except it renders them completely vulnerable. And useless.
My jaw locks as I work through the ramifications of this new development.
My only fighting companion is incapable of killing. Which means even if Vane has the fourth breakthrough, it won’t matter. He won’t use it to fight.
My anger kindles, deep and hot.
So I have to die because he refuses to harm a Stormer—the people there to kidnap him? The people who had no problem killing his parents?
Their lives are worth more than mine?
Maybe their lives aren’t. But that doesn’t change the oath I willingly swore. And with that thought, I’m able to snuff the fire out.
I’ve already accepted that I might not survive the fight. All this means is that my job of protecting Vane during the storm will be twice as hard. Five times as hard. As if the water hadn’t complicated things enough.
Vane takes a deep, heaving breath and wipes away the sweat dripping down the sides of his face. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“I do. You’re a Westerly. Westerlies are peaceful. Violence is abhorrent to you. Your nature rejects it.”
His fingers tear through his hair, mussing it into wild peaks. “That actually makes sense. But that probably makes me pretty useless in a battle, doesn’t it?”
Yes.
I can’t say that, though. “I just want you to be able to defend yourself in case you get into a bind. You don’t have to hurt anyone—but I think you should at least know how. Do you think you can handle that?”
Several seconds pass. Then he nods.
I release the breath I’d been holding. At least he’s willing to try—unlike his parents.
Bitterness rises in my throat, but I swallow it.
They were true Westerlies. They spoke the tongue. Rode the winds. Of course their instincts were stronger than Vane’s. He can’t even hear the Westerlies’ call. I never thought that would be a good thing—but maybe it is.
“You ready?” I ask him, squinting at the sky. The sun blazes through the cloudless blue, and soon the last of the morning winds will flee to the mountains.
He stands. His legs are shaky, but his eyes are determined. “Yes.”