“Is that where you think Raiden’s hiding?” I ask.
He jumps and clutches his chest. “Gah—are you trying to scare me to death?”
“No—but maybe now you’ll realize you should be paying closer attention! I could’ve been a Stormer. You need to—why are you smiling?”
“Sorry,” he says, trying to bend his twitching lips into a frown. “It’s just nice to have you lecture me again. I’ve missed it.”
My throat turns thick. “I’ve missed it too.”
A hundred other words bubble up, but I swallow them back. Instead, I offer him my hand to help him to his feet.
His sparks prickle my fingers, and I’m tempted to not let go—but Aston comes charging toward us. “Save the touchy-feely stuff for when we’ve survived this. Right now we need to get out of the circle of death.”
He points to the distance, where dozens of Living Storms are untangling themselves from the sky, stacking into an impenetrable barrier all around us.
So that’s Raiden’s strategy.
Crush us from without and within.
Leave nothing in the center but dust.
“This is more Stormers than I was expecting,” Aston says. “Raiden’s not holding any reserves. Apparently he’s determined to end this today too. Os is on his way to make us a path out of here so we can track Raiden down.”
He points to a figure in black charging across the eastern plain, heading for one of the smaller Living Storms. “He’s going to make it chase him,” Aston explains. “To create a gap for us to slip through. After that, we’ll be on our own.”
“I’m coming with you,” Solana says, landing beside us.
She’s rolled up her sleeves and knotted her shirt to reveal her midriff, despite the flakes of ice peppering her hair.
“Were you windwalking in this?” I ask, checking the sky.
Lightning crackles in threads of gleaming white and electric pink, painting the storm with erratic, unpredictable patterns. Ice and snow swirl among the flashes, their violent flurries building toward a roar.
Even I would never brave such a sky—and I have my father’s gift to guide me.
“I needed to absorb some of the ruined drafts,” Solana says, untying her shirt and covering herself with the wrinkled fabric. “But I only caught a couple. The Stormers are doing a good job of cutting us off from the wind.”
“What are the Gales going to do if they can’t call the wind?” Vane asks.
“The same thing we are,” Aston says. “Fight with anything we have and try not to die.”
I search the air for any brave drafts, and catch the weak pull of a distant Westerly.
It takes a bit of convincing to call it to my side, and I notice Vane watching me the whole time. His smile looks almost proud, but it fades when he catches the wind’s song.
“It’s singing about traitors,” he mumbles. “Lets hope it’s not talking about the Gales.”
I listen to each lyric carefully, trying to piece the full meaning together.
We’re trying to protect you, I tell the wind. We’re on your side. But we need your help.
I beg the wind to whisk away and gather its friends.
Not just Westerlies, I add. We need the full strength of the sky.
It’s time for the wind to rise up and prove that it’s far stronger than any of us have ever been.
I can’t tell if the Westerly understands me, but the draft vanishes toward the horizon.
“Maybe I should send my shield, too,” I mumble. “It gathered the drafts we needed in Death Valley.”
“Uh-uh,” Vane says. “I want that wind as close to you as it’s willing to stay. I’m pretty sure it’s the only reason you’re still alive.”
I’m certain of it—and that’s the truth I’m hoping Raiden’s missing.
If a single wind can save a life—or take it—what will happen when the winds unite?
“Time to go,” Aston says, dragging Vane toward the Storm.
The uneven ground fights to topple my legs as I sprint after them, with Solana right behind me.
We aim for the narrow gap Os has carved into the wall of Storms, but halfway there Solana jerks me to the side.
A wind spike explodes where I’d been standing, showering us in dirt and grass and petals.
“Where are they coming from?” I ask as another volley swallows Aston and Vane in a cloud of debris.
“We’re fine,” Vane shouts, coughing and hacking. “But getting the hell out of here would be a really good idea.”
We try to run in a crouch, the position every bit as fumbling as it is painful.
The wounds on my back stretch, and I feel the W tear open as I twist to avoid a wind spike aimed at my head.
The next blast sends us tumbling across the field, and Solana cries out.
“I’m fine,” she promises, but I notice she’s limping hard.
“They’re out of range over here,” Aston calls, waving his arms as we barely dodge another round of explosions.
I draw a burst of strength from my Westerly shield and let it fuel my arms as I lift Solana and half carry her over to safety.