The Ride Of The Storm

The rogue lunged, a blur of black and steel slicing through the stillness. His blade whistled through the air, aimed for her throat. Diva twisted low, the knife grazing her ear, drawing the first blood.

She didn’t flinch.

With a snarl, she kicked the small stool near her foot toward him. It cracked against his shin, throwing him off balance for just a second—long enough for her to strike. Her claws extended mid-swing, slicing across his chest. He hissed, staggered, then regained footing with unnatural speed.

"You’re quicker than I was told," he growled, circling her, one blade reversed in his palm, the other spinning lightly between his fingers. His voice was calm, too calm for a predator stalking his kill.

Diva’s breathing slowed. Her body moved on instinct now. Every muscle remembered Caleb’s teachings. Every step, every breath felt like it belonged to someone far older, far deadlier.

She whispered under her breath, "He taught me well."

He charged again, blades aimed in a deadly cross-cut, but she ducked under the first and caught his wrist mid-swing on the second. Her grip was solid. She twisted hard, a sickening pop echoed in the room as his wrist dislocated. The blade clattered to the floor.

But he was not done.

With his other hand, he jabbed a hidden dagger forward, slicing across her ribs. She cried out, the sharp sting flashing white in her vision. Blood spilled fast, hot and metallic.

The rogue grinned. "You're not ready."

Then it happened.

A heat surged through her veins, not from the wound—but something else. Something ancient. Her vision blurred, then refocused with shocking clarity. The candlelight dimmed, the shadows warped, and the room seemed to still.

She heard everything.

The rogue's breath faltering. The blood pumping through his veins. The shift of his foot just before he moved.

Her eyes glowed—no longer green, but a luminous silver, like moonlight caught in storm clouds. Her pupils narrowed. Her heartbeat slowed, then steadied. Power—raw, primal, and furious—uncoiled from her core like a sleeping beast awakened.

The rogue paused. "What are you?" he muttered.

She didn’t answer.

She attacked.

Faster than before, more agile. She struck low, claws slashing across his thigh. He roared in pain, leaping back, but she followed. She remembered Caleb’s voice in her head—“Strike where it hurts, not where it looks strong.”

She feinted left, then spun, using her injured side as bait. When he reached for it, she pivoted behind him, elbowed the base of his skull, and swept his legs in one smooth motion. He hit the floor with a heavy thud.

But he wasn’t finished.

He rolled, grabbed his knife, and slashed blindly upward.

It caught her arm. Another cut. Another sting.

Still, she kept moving. Blood dripped, but her body was already mending. The gash on her ribs had closed halfway.

"What are you?" he asked again, this time with something close to fear.

She stepped over him. “The storm you should’ve run from.”

He charged one last time—wild, desperate. She sidestepped, using Caleb’s signature move: she twisted mid-air, spinning with precision, and slammed her knee into his chest. As he staggered, she landed behind him and hooked her arm around his throat.

"Sleep," she growled in his ear.

She clenched, cutting off his air. He fought—clawed, kicked, thrashed—but her grip was steel.

Moments later, his body went limp.

She let him drop, gasping, her arms trembling. The rogue lay unconscious at her feet, blood pooling beneath him.

Her own blood still dripped, but she didn’t feel it now.

She stood in the silence, chest heaving, eyes glowing.

Not a girl.

Not a servant.

Not a shadow.

A storm.

And the storm had just begun.

---

She collapsed to her knees, not from weakness, but from the sheer release of everything she had held in for weeks. The shame, the fear, the helplessness—it poured out of her in the form of hard, shaking breaths. Her hands trembled as she looked at the rogue's body, his chest barely rising with shallow breaths. She hadn’t killed him. She could’ve.

But she hadn’t.

Something deep inside her recoiled from that final step. She’d won. That was enough—for now.

Footsteps sounded outside the door.

Her head whipped toward the sound, body instantly back on edge. She crouched, claws ready, ignoring the ache in her side and the blood drying on her skin.

The door creaked open.

It was Nora. The young healer gasped, her eyes wide as they fell on the unconscious man and the glowing eyes of the girl she once called weak.

“Diva?” she whispered, almost too stunned to breathe.

Diva turned to her, breathing heavily. “Don’t come any closer,” she warned. “I don’t know what I am right now.”

Nora hesitated, then stepped forward anyway. “Whatever you are... you just saved yourself. That’s more than most could do.”

Diva blinked. The glow in her eyes began to dim. The rush faded. Exhaustion swept over her like a crashing tide.

“I need to see Caleb,” she whispered.

Nora nodded, rushing to her side. “We’ll get you to him. But Diva…” She looked down at the rogue. “This was no ordinary attacker. Someone sent him.”

Diva’s jaw clenched. She already knew.

And whoever it was—they were going to regret underestimating her.