Months had passed, and Storm was growing like wildfire beneath a summer moon. Every day, something new sparked in him, a sound, a laugh, a light. His eyes glowed like molten lava, liquid gold swirling like a firestorm, just like his father’s. When sunlight hit them just right, it looked as if the lava of creation itself burned behind his irises.Blaise called it his mark. Ryker called it a warning. Kira only smiled knowingly. “Fire and storm,” she said. “The gods made sure the world would never forget those eyes.”The long winter had broken. Snow melted from the mountains, revealing living green beneath. The scent of grass and spring flowers filled the air again. Yet the peace that came with spring felt thin, fragile, like glass before the strike.Storm sat in the grass beside the porch, chubby fingers reaching for a butterfly that danced just out of reach. Every time he laughed, the wind stirred, soft at first, then strong enough to ripple the trees. His energy hummed through the
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