The storm did not arrive with thunder.
It came with silence.
A silence so unnatural, even the wind dared not breathe.
Luna woke before dawn, her body alert, her skin tingling with a quiet hum. The pendant from her mother burned cold against her chest. It pulsed in rhythm with her heartbeat—warning her.
She stepped outside her tent.
The camp was still.
Too still.
⸻
Mira stood by the fire pit, her shawl pulled tight around her shoulders.
"You feel it too," she said.
Luna nodded.
"It's not a natural storm," Mira whispered. "The wind carries malice."
⸻
By the time the first howl shattered the quiet, the rogue camp was already in motion.
Vara emerged from her tent with her blade strapped to her back. Her expression was grim. She gave Luna a single glance—ready?
Luna nodded once.
"I'll take the southern perimeter," she said.
Vara didn't argue. "Don't go alone."
But Luna was already gone.
⸻
The sky darkened unnaturally fast.
Clouds, thick and bruised, swirled above Deadwood Grove like an angry vortex. The trees groaned as wind spiraled in unnatural patterns, lashing at the branches like whips.
Rogues scrambled to reinforce the outer barriers—stakes, bone traps, scent shields—but it was clear:
This storm had purpose.
It wasn't here to pass.
It was here to hunt.
⸻
Luna ran toward the source.
Her power swelled in her veins—elemental magic ready to burst at the edges of her fingertips. She reached the south ridge just as the first shape emerged from the trees.
It was massive.
A rogue wolf—but not like the others. Twisted. Scarred. Its fur was patchy, its eyes glowing red.
Warged.
Corrupted by old magic and madness.
And behind it, more followed.
Ten. Maybe more.
Too many.
Luna's heart pounded.
She had trained for this. Had suffered. Had survived.
But this—
She took a deep breath.
And let go.
⸻
The wind answered her call.
It burst forward in a wall of force, knocking the front line of attackers off their feet. Vines shot up from the earth, tangling the feet of two rogue wolves and dragging them into the undergrowth.
Luna moved like water—unrelenting, without pause.
Flames danced at her palms, then streaked across the field, circling the corrupted wolves in rings of fire. She didn't strike to kill.
She struck to contain.
But they kept coming.
⸻
One of the larger wolves broke through her defenses and lunged.
Luna ducked, rolled, and slammed her palm into the ground.
The earth trembled.
Spikes of frozen soil erupted upward, catching the wolf mid-charge and freezing it in place.
It screamed.
Then fell silent.
Luna stood, panting.
Her mark glowed brightly now—both crescents burning silver.
She looked up—
—and saw the storm cloud swirl, coalescing into a shape.
Eyes.
Fangs.
Shadow.
Magic.
⸻
The wind howled—not as weather, but as will.
Something ancient had stirred.
And it had found her.
⸻
A bolt of dark lightning cracked across the sky, striking a tree just feet away. It exploded into splinters. Luna staggered back, shielding her face with an arm.
She felt the pull of it.
The magic.
It was calling her—daring her to fight back.
Or fall.
⸻
"LUNA!"
Thorne appeared from the trees, blood on his shoulder, a gash across his jaw. He skidded to her side, slicing through two corrupted rogues with deadly precision.
"What is this?!" he shouted over the wind.
"A storm," Luna said, her voice steady. "But not born of nature."
She turned to him.
"Can you hold them?"
Thorne glanced behind him at the chaos. "For a little while."
Luna took a deep breath.
Then stepped toward the heart of the maelstrom.
⸻
She reached the hill at the grove's edge, where the winds were thickest. The air crackled with energy. The pendant her mother had given her glowed white-hot against her chest.
Luna raised her arms.
Closed her eyes.
And let the storm inside.
⸻
Power surged into her like a tidal wave.
Wind screamed through her lungs.
The fire beneath her skin roared to life.
Ice spread down her arms, meeting the heat in a perfect, pulsing balance.
The moon above broke through the clouds, casting a silver beam directly upon her.
And she spoke.
Not in words.
But in will.
Be still.
The wind obeyed.
⸻
One by one, the storm's fury faded.
Clouds unraveled like thread.
Lightning turned to mist.
And the corrupted wolves collapsed, their forms reverting to unconscious bodies—cursed, yes—but no longer warged.
Luna stood at the center, arms outstretched, eyes glowing silver.
She had tamed the storm.
⸻
The silence that followed was thick with awe.
Thorne approached her slowly, blade still drawn, blood dripping down his arm.
"You—" he began.
But stopped.
Because what words could reach a girl who had just commanded the elements into submission?
Vara arrived next, panting, dirt-smudged, eyes wide.
She looked at Luna, then at the stunned rogues still recovering.
Then, softly, she said:
"Not a wolf. Not a rogue."
She stepped forward.
Kneeling slightly.
"A force."
⸻
Later, Luna stood alone beneath the now-clear sky.
The pendant around her neck was cracked—its magic spent—but her heart felt whole.
Mira appeared beside her, silent.
Luna didn't speak.
She just reached out and took her hand.
⸻
That night, as the camp gathered to tend the wounded and relight their fires, Luna stared into the flames.
The rogues had seen what she could do.
What she had become.
No longer the runt beneath the moon.
Not a girl hoping to be chosen.
But a storm that chose itself.