Alora's Windsong
Ryker paced near the window, his expression unreadable, while Michael checked comms and status reports.
Blaise sat at the edge of the bed, drenched, shaking, his mind a storm of its own. He hadn’t changed out of his torn clothes. His knuckles were scraped raw, blood mixing with melted snow.
“Rest,” Ryker said finally, voice low. “You’ll freeze where you sit.”
Blaise didn’t look up. “It was him.”
Ryker frowned. “Blaise—”
“No, Dad. Listen to me.” His voice cracked, but carried conviction. “That storm wasn’t just weather. It knew me. When it hit, I felt him. Storm called out to me. He’s trying to lead me to them.”
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