The wind whispers for our freedom.

  The thunder crackles against our chains.

  The lightning trembles with our fury.

  We will rise under the wrath of the blizzard.

  We will attack with the roar of the tempest.

  They will hear our echoes of thunder.

  The drumming of the rain has always been a comfort for the nameless girl. She prowls across the patchwork of clay tiles, lithely leaping from rooftop to rooftop.

  She feels at home lurking in the storm. Despite the cold of snowy mountains, she wears only a worn tunic, pants and soft weathered boots. Just the way she likes it.

  She swaps to the tempo of the thunder like a swan waltzing through the wind. The wild, relentless roar of nature was a cocoon of comfort for her.

  Blizzardhaven’s frenetic climate always raised her spirits.

  But there’s something different tonight with the storm above. She can feel something in the air, and it’s making her antsy. It’s like the storm is trying to tell her something. But that’d be ridiculous. Storms can’t talk. Right?

  The thunderstorm bellows in a fit of crackling thunder.

  The girl sighs. Is she going insane? Another boom. The ground beneath her trembles. That felt pretty real.

  Considering her affinity, she relents.

  So the girl closing her eyes, ear raised towards the clouds, and listens.

  The storm’s call is like a war drum sending tremors through the earth. The girl follows the lashing winds as it leads her toward the center of the city. Towards the glimmering Conquered Palace.

  There’s a ruckus near the Conquered Palace, as always. The girl sighs to herself, bracing herself as her sensitive ears readjust to the noise. As far as she’s concerned, the closer she gets to the city center, the more she’s just asking for trouble.

  Lest she get captured by the Purplecloaks.

  Blizzardhaven was besieged two years ago. Hulking, black-veined soldiers donned in purple cloaks burst through the city defenses. They brought distorted storms that trapped the residents in their oppressive grasp.

  The typhoon wizards brought blizzards from all over the mountain range. Despite the name, the onslaught of monstrous weather mixed with the waves of barbarian forces had been too much for the city. Blizzardhaven has never had much military defense, much less magic defense.

  They had fallen so quickly. And now the people have been suffering for two years under terrible rule.

  The girl tries to steady herself at the thought. It’s no good to dwell on the past. Her people are entrapped.

  It’s no longer the safe haven it was. The girl stills and crouches low as she reaches the edge of a rooftop. Her fists tremble as she watches the brutish Purps drag crying citizens away from the premises.

  One day, she’ll find a way to free Blizzardhaven.

  She flattens herself on the roof as a patrol lumbers past. The girl presses her cheek to the tile below. What a ridiculous dream.

  What could a nameless orphan do for the once great city-state of Blizzardhaven?

  What is she even doing here? So close to the Conquered Palace? If she’s caught by the Purps, they’ll smite her down with the storm above.

  Or would they? This storm seems quite fond of her. It urges her forward.

  She slides off the rooftop, landing silently within the narrow, cobbled lanes. The crowd grows louder as she nears. Her vision goes red.

  She recognizes the baker, the kind woman who would give her bread every morning, among the lines of tied up citizens. She’s crying out as her two daughters are taken from her. The Purps are “recruiting”.

  The twins are only ten years old, around same as the girl.

  The entire street is abuzz with shouts and weeping. The Purps trudge around—occasionally silencing protest with their hulking figures or bloodied swords. Blizzardhaven has been subject to “recruitments” every month. Children are separated from their parents. People are forced out of their homes.

  The girl had tried to find where they went, but once they’re taken by the Purplecloaks, they were never seen again. She curses her incompetence. Two years and the Purps are still winning.

  Is anyone even fighting back?

  One of the towering Purps grabs the struggling twins by the collar. Lifting them high into the air with a single massive hand. The young girls shriek and struggle as they reach for their mother.

  The girl readies herself to run after them.

  But a fierce torrent lashes the wall beside her. No. Not there.

  Her people are in trouble! The storm must be mistaken! She can help!

  It wouldn’t take much to pull the ropes apart—

  Her ears pick up another sound.

  She hears the chanting as the dark clouds above begin to twist. A typhoon wizard. She hears the shouting of the Purps. She hears the pattering of tiny, frequent feet and the gasping breath. Then the heavy, booming steps of the barbarians. They’re running after someone.

  The storm above roars. Help her.

  Every muscle in the girl’s body has to stop herself from running towards the Purp in front of her, but the storm has never been more insistent. The rain around her turns harsh and sharp as it tries to pull her away from street of her suffering people.

  The girl takes one last look at the horrible sight, and tears away from them with an angry snarl. She won’t do nothing.

  Instead, the girl leaps up high into the sky. The ground beneath her feet crumbles at the force and shouts ring below her as people catch sight of her silhouette against the crackling lighting.

  She hears people yelling and hopes that the distraction is enough to help.

  The storm whirls in approval. She follows her instincts towards her target. For a single, euphoric moment, it’s as if she is one from the storm.

  She feels power surging through every crack of the sky, every twisting current of air. She feels restless, rolling over the earth with a hunger that cannot be stilled. She feels alive, her voice a roar that shakes mountains and bends trees to her will.

  She feels untamed, a force that answers to no one, surging forward.

  And she feels purpose—not destruction, not anger, but the certainty that she was meant to move, meant to rage, meant to remind the world that even the sky has a voice.

  Then, a thunderclap brings her back to the present.

  Her acute hearing narrows like an owl catching the whisper of a mouse.

  She can hear the typhoon wizard’s murmurs. She can hear the Purps’s unsheathe their metallic swords. She can hear the soft sobs of a little girl.

  There.

  The Girl Of The Storm slices her trajectory, nosediving down into the city below.

  The ground nears quickly, but her hawk-like vision grasps scene. Purps with glinting swords surround a girl with snowy white hair and an flowing alabaster dress. A typhoon wizard stands behind the soldiers, staff raised towards the sky.

  But the storm doesn’t seem to be cooperating. Instead, lightning crackles around the Girl Of The Storm. The wind picks up, guiding her towards her destination. The tempest above her roars.

  The girl with white hair looks up. Her icy blue eyes widen at the sight of the girl diving down towards her.

  She reaches her hand up, and blue electricity crackles around her. A shield.

  The Girl Of The Storm strikes with the force of a collapsing star. The ground splintered beneath her, cracks racing outward and toward the enemies. A violent gust of wind howls as the shockwave of debris and torrents of lightning sweep across the assailents in a relentless force of nature.

  The Girl Of The Storm whirls on her heel to face the girl she saved.

  The lightning barrier around her had dissipated. The girl with hair like snow stares at her with wide, scared eyes.

  Wait. Now she has to actually talk to her. Start a conversation? No way.

  The storm above crackles in humor. A warm gust of encouragement is sent her way.

  The Girl Of The Storm sighs. The girl with white hair smiles softly.

  Before she can saying anything however, her head snaps to the side. Her ears catch the heavy clank of metal boots beneath the drumming of the rain. The blast left them too exposed. Backup is on the way.

  She grabs her new charge and pulls her into another crooked alleyway. The girl in white gasps at the tight grip but quiets at her frantic look. The boots grow louder as they disappear further and further into the cramped city.

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  She doesn’t stop until they’re far, far away from the Conquered Palace.

  When she finally slows, they’re in a dim, overhung alley. The girl in white gasps as she catches her breathe. The Girl Of The Storm winces. She’d forgotten to keep a normal pace.

  The girl in white is shivering. Strangely, she doesn’t seem scared. In fact, she seems—defiant. Determined.

  She gathers herself quickly, though she can’t halt her body’s reaction to the cold. The Girl Of The Storm wish she had something to help, but it’s not like she wears doublet. She doesn’t need one.

  The girl in white straightens her shoulders and puts her feet together. Standing prim and proper.

  “Thank you for your assistance. I am Alia. Who might you be, noble lady?”

  “You’re welcome. I’m not noble nor a lady,” the she responds. She’s not sure why the storm asked her to save someone like this. Hadn’t all of Blizzardhaven’s nobles fled or died during the usurpation?

  She looked up to the clouds above for an answer. Nothing. They swirl above in their usual turmoil.

  “And your name?” the girl in white—Alia presses.

  “I don—” CLANG.

  The nameless girl whips her head around. Alia watches her confused.

  “What are you—” the girl clamps a hand around her mouth and raises a finger.

  Alia cannot hear the footsteps from so far away, but she can.

  How did they find us?

  It could just be a patrol. But her instincts tell her something is wrong. She looks back up to the storm. A single glint in the clouds catches in her augmented vision. A floating sigil made of black crystal floats among the clouds.

  A storm tracker. That typhoon nitwit managed to cast his spell in time. She’ll have to break it herself.

  She looks back down at Alia, “Stay here. Stay quiet. Stay still.”

  Then she backs up and leaps high up into the air. Cutting through the clouds. Right towards the swirling, iridescent rune.

  All it takes is the momentum of her leap and a powerful kick to smash it into pieces.

  She nosedives back toward the ground. But this time, she heaves up just before she collides. The air around her lifts and slows her fall as she glides down.

  Alia looks up at her with wide eyes, “You have wings too?!”

  “What are you on about?” Maybe she’s gone into shock.

  Never-mind that—her presence in the air has given them away. Thankfully, she knows just the place to go.

  The clocktower.

  Alia was exhausted. Every muscle in her body ached, every breath felt like it took more strength than she had left. She had been running and hiding for so long.

  But she promised.

  She would survive. She would escape. She would free Blizzardhaven.

  It’s her purpose. By blood. By honor.

  For her mother.

  Her throat tightened at the thought, but she blinked the tears away. She had to be strong. She promised.

  The biting cold gnawed at her fingers and toes, and hunger clawed at her stomach. Bruises painted her arms, and her legs trembled from days of fleeing. But the weight of her country on her shoulders was heavier than all of it.

  She pressed against the soft clay of the building beside her, huffing in frustration. Somehow, she had wandered too close to the palace again. The alleys twisted in ways she couldn’t quite navigate, and no matter how hard she tried, she kept losing her way. Worse, the Purplecloak patroled more here.

  But the main streets… the main streets were warm with crowds. People. Someone might offer her food if she was lucky.

  It was a risk she had to take.

  The white dress clinging to her frame was little more than a beacon, but she couldn't bring herself to part with it.

  A familiar bakery came into view. She remembered this one. The kind old woman who ran it would sometimes hand out old bread.

  Her heart plummeted the moment she saw the door.

  A jagged symbol—an arch with two hollow, smoking eyes—was scorched into the wood.

  They had been “recruited.”

  Alia’s hands balled into fists. She could do nothing but watch as her people suffered. She was useless.

  She was just an eleven-year-old girl. What could she do?

  She shook her head. No. Not yet. She was eleven now, but if she survived—if she kept running, kept hiding, kept moving—then one day, she could fight back.

  She turned away.

  “There she is!”

  Alia’s head snapped up. A Purplecloak patrol. Charging toward her.

  The towering men shoved aside anyone in their way, carving a brutal path through the crowd.

  Alia ran.

  She wove through bodies, ducked into an alley, but the soldiers stayed on her heels.

  She was fast, but not fast enough. Her legs were weak. Their strides were longer.

  Still, she refused to give up.

  Up ahead, a cluster of market carts. She had seen an urchin do it once—vanish in the chaos.

  She sprinted forward, twisted at the last second, and dove beneath the farthest cart.

  Shouting erupted as the soldiers stormed into the clearing. The merchants roared their outrage, blocking their path.

  Alia didn’t hesitate. She slipped into the nearest alley, forcing her legs to keep moving, keep going—

  She ran until her body gave out.

  Her back hit a wall, and she slid down, gasping for breath.

  Thank goodness—

  CLANK. CLANK.

  Her blood ran cold.

  She turned. A massive Purplecloak thundered toward her. Panic seized her chest, but she pushed herself up and ran.

  She twisted through alleys, searching for an escape. But more men emerged.

  From the left. The right. Behind.

  Her heart pounded.

  Dead end.

  She whirled, pressing her back against the stone. The Purplecloaks loomed, cutting off every escape.

  Rain dripped from their armor.

  Lightning flickered in the distance.

  They had a typhoon wizard.

  Alia swallowed. She had ignored the rain before, but now she could feel it—dark and malicious, turning the clouds above heavy and cruel.

  The largest of the soldiers stepped forward, a smirk curling his lips.

  “Well, looky here, boys.”

  Alia edged back, fingers twitching. She couldn’t see a way out.

  But she wasn’t helpless.

  Slowly, she tucked a hand behind her back.

  Alia focused.

  She called for her magic.

  The soldier’s grin widened, “We’ve found the little snow princess herself.”

  She feels a hint of static, just for a moment. If she can catch them by surprise, then just maybe—

  Suddenly, Alia feels a force of magic. It’s feels familiar. Natural. It’s definitely not coming from the typhoon wizard before her. But up?

  She looks up, and she sees someone diving towards her from the sky. Lightning encircles them and the twisting storm swirls above them like the beginning of a hurricane.

  She sees golden eyes with slitted pupils descending towards her.

  This must be how it feels: the moment right before you are struck by lightning.

  “Stay awake,” the Girl of the Storm frets, her voice sharp with worry. They’ve finally reached the clocktower.

  Alia looks like she’s about to collapse. Her face is too pale, too hollow, and she hasn’t been eating. The Girl of the Storm can see how close she is to freezing.

  Halfway through their journey, Alia finally gave in to her insistence. Now, she clings to the girl’s shoulders, too weak to walk, her trembling hands gripping tightly as the Girl of the Storm carries her.

  The clocktower is strangely plain for something so important. High enough to see the palace, yet hidden against the city wall. The broken clock and the dilapidated state of the building keep it from drawing attention.

  The street outside is no better. The whole area’s falling apart. But no one wants to stay on the city’s edge. It’s too cold. Too dangerous. Death by frostbite is the least of what it could bring.

  It’s perfect for the Girl of the Storm. She never gets cold.

  Alia, however, is freezing.

  “You are remarkably warm,” Alia says, even as her teeth chatter.

  The Girl of the Storm doesn’t answer. She just pushes forward, climbing the narrow stairs to the top. When she reaches the top, she gently lowers Alia to the floor, steadying her before she falls.

  The door creaks open, and a warm gust of air hits them. The Girl of the Storm ushers Alia inside, quickly shutting the insulated door behind them.

  The room inside is simple but welcoming—rough-hewn stone walls, low timber beams, and a soft glow from a crackling fire. A wooden table sits in the middle of the room, beside a chair draped with a patchwork quilt. The rain is muffled, but lightning flashes through the semi-translucent clock face that covers one wall.

  The Girl of the Storm guides Alia to a small bedroll in the corner, grabs the quilt from the chair, and adds it to the thin blanket. Then she busies herself with starting the fire. She’s never been good with words.

  Besides, the girl in white looks like she might drop any second.

  The Girl of the Storm turns. Alia is asleep.

  Wait—sleeping in wet clothes isn’t good, is it?

  When Alia wakes up, the first thing she feels is warmth.

  Warmth? Her eyes snap open. The only reason she would be warm is if she were captured—

  “Wait! Calm down! You’re safe!”

  Alia freezes, her heart racing, but the voice doesn’t sound like the low, grating tone of a Purplecloak. She blinks and looks up, still disoriented, to find a girl about her age watching her.

  The girl has wavy black hair, earth-toned skin, and…

  And her eyes.

  Alia's breath catches as the flurry of memories rushes back—events from before. The girl’s eyes are glowing golden now, and her pupils aren’t slitted anymore, but they’re still a bright, burning amber.

  She stares back at Alia with an intensity that somehow calms her. She doesn’t say anything, just quietly sidles closer with a bowl of soup. Alia hadn’t eaten properly in months, and now that she’s sitting by a fire, wrapped in blankets, she can only reach for the offered meal with gratitude. The soup is nothing like what the castle chefs would prepare for her, but at this moment, it tastes like the most delicious thing she’s ever eaten.

  The girl—dragon?—watches her with her head tilted like a curious puppy.

  Alia blushes when she realizes she’s eating too quickly, too sloppily. She hadn’t eaten like a proper lady in so long. She looks up, half-expecting the girl to be judging her, but the dragon’s expression doesn’t change.

  When Alia finishes the soup, the girl takes the bowl from her, then returns with a rag and another full bowl.

  Alia itches to grab it, but she remembers her manners. She wipes her mouth and sits up straighter. The girl tilts her head again, raising an eyebrow expectantly.

  “You don’t talk much, do you?” Alia blurts before she can stop herself. What was she even saying? This girl just saved her life.

  “No,” the girl responds simply.

  “Well, that’s… quite alright,” Alia mutters, then clears her throat. “I must thank you sincerely for rescuing me…”

  The girl waves her hand dismissively.

  “All good. Did what anyone else would do.”

  Alia’s doubt must show on her face, because the girl quickly adds, “Well, not what anyone would do. But—what I would do.”

  Alia smiles despite herself. “May I know your name, dragon?”

  “I don’t have a name—wait, what? Dragon? What are you talking about?”

  Alia blinks. “You don’t have a name?”

  They both fall silent, speaking over each other in unison.

  “You are a dragon, right?” Alia asks. She’s sure of it. If her glowing eyes weren’t a clear sign, the wings she saw earlier—the lightning wings—confirmed it.

  The girl stares at her like she’s crazy. “Do I look like a giant lizard to you?”

  “Most dragons stay in human form,” Alia says, thinking back to all the dragons she’s met before the invasion. Many of them were nobility or associated with it. They would visit the castle often.

  The girl looks even more confused. “You have inhuman strength! Your eyes were glowing! You had wings!”

  Alia pauses, realizing something. “They weren’t wings, though. They were lightning in the shape of wings.”

  The girl seems to consider this for a moment, clearly deep in thought.

  “…Do they talk to storms?”

  Alia blinks. “Do you talk to storms?”

  “Maybe?”

  “Well, unless you’re a storm dragon, but they don’t—”

  Both of them freeze, their gazes locking.

  Storm dragons disappeared a decade ago. Even Blizzardhaven had heard about their sudden disappearance. But they were the only ones who could naturally influence the weather.

  The girl clears her throat. “Well, maybe I am. But what about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “Why were those Purps going after you?”

  Alia shudders at the mention of the Purplecloaks. She hates those blasphemous soldiers.

  Then it hits her: what if this girl turns her in?

  But before she can voice her worry, the storm outside erupts in a sudden flash of lightning. The thunder shakes the building, and Alia jumps, startled. Her magic stirs at the sudden shock.

  Blue electricity crackles around her fingertips.

  The girl’s warm hands are steady around her wrists, and Alia meets her gaze—those bright amber eyes, full of something like understanding.

  “You’re important to Blizzardhaven, right?”

  Alia’s heart skips. “H-how did you know?”

  “The storm told me.”

  Alia stares at her in shock. “That was the storm?!”

  The girl shushes her, her voice calm. “Listen to me. I will help you. I will help Blizzardhaven.”

  Alia looks into the girl’s determined eyes. She can see the conviction there. She sighs and lets herself believe it. She prays she won’t regret this.

  “I am Crown Princess Alia Snowreign of Blizzardhaven. Heir to the Frost-Kissed Throne.”

  The girl nods. “Makes sense.”

  Alia narrows her eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  The girl shrugs and stands, taking Alia’s empty bowl with her. She places it on the table and walks over to the clock wall. She motions for Alia to follow.

  Alia rises, pulling the warm quilt tighter around her shoulders. She joins the girl, standing beside her at the window. When she looks out, she gasps.

  The storm has passed, leaving a blanket of soft snow in its wake. From here, Alia can see all of Blizzardhaven—the colorful districts, the glimmering purple palace, the snow-covered peaks surrounding the city-state. It’s beautiful, serene, and it makes her heart ache.

  Tears fill her eyes. She hastily wipes them away, not wanting the girl to see. She can’t afford to cry now.

  But when she turns to the Girl of the Storm, she sees snowflakes swirling around her arms. The girl turned the thunderstorm into snowfall.

  “I want to free Blizzardhaven. You want to free Blizzardhaven. I will help you,” the girl says, reaching out her hand.

  Despite every lesson her mother taught her about trust, something in Alia knows she can trust this girl. The electricity crackling around their arms seals it.

  “Well, if we’re going to do this, I’ll need something to call you.”

  The girl shrugs. “Don’t have a name.”

  Alia thinks back to the first time she saw the girl. She had dove toward her in a torrent of lightning.

  Torrent—no.

  “Torren.”