The guardians rise.

  The horns resound.

  The monarch freed.

  The dragon downed.

  The sun rises above Blizzardhaven, and for once, the sky is clear. Torren has always preferred the stormy weather—the wild, crackling energy that courses through the air. But today, as the light spills over the city, she can’t deny that there’s something beautiful about the calm.

  Despite the daily oppression under the Purplecloaks, the people of Blizzardhaven are in high spirits.

  From the edge of the clocktower, Torren’s sharp eyes scan the busy streets below. She watches children weave between the crowds, trade caravans slowly making their way through the city, and the glint of steel as the Purplecloaks patrol, keeping their tight grip on the people.

  Progress. Alia’s efforts to separate trade and economic power from the Purplecloaks have been fruitful. Torren doesn’t understand the details, doesn’t need to, but she knows it’s working. The merchants can move freely now, though they still pay the Purplecloaks’ toll. At least the city isn’t starving anymore.

  Torren hears a soft knock and turns. She spots her Alia through the clock-face, hunched over her maps. Time to get to work.

  She slips inside, her boots light on the floor. Alia looks up from the parchment, her blue-grey eyes locking on Torren’s.

  Alia’s always been driven—studying, writing letters to foreign embassies, and even spending hours trying to understand ancient runes. It’s no secret that Torren doesn’t have the patience for books. She prefers action, her gut feeling, her intuitive connection to the storm.

  But Alia—Alia has always been different. Alia has always found the answers in words, in symbols, in the quiet, calculated study of their enemy.

  They’ve been fighting the Purplecloaks for eight years together, since that day Torren had been given her name, since they first met.

  And in all that time, Alia’s grown. Her grace has only deepened, even in the midst of hardship. The once-lively girl with bright blue eyes is now a poised young woman, her hair like snow cascading past her waist. When she uses magic, her eyes flash blue—but those moments are rare now. She’s learned so much in these years.

  Torren’s heart swells with pride, but it’s tempered by the unease in her bones.

  Alia’s scrawls a letter now, oblivious to Torren’s watchful gaze. But Torren sees the change in her. She’s grown stronger. Smarter. But she’s also starting to show the weight of it all.

  Torren shifts her weight, leaning against the doorframe, and speaks in a low rumble, “We’re going to need a blizzard tonight.”

  Alia doesn’t even look up from her maps. “Of course, you love the challenge.”

  It’s true. Torren can’t deny it. She loves the challenge, loves the way her magic dances in the storm. It’s not easy to coax a blizzard from a sunny sky, but she’ll do it. For Alia. For Blizzardhaven.

  Alia smiles, a sharp, knowing curve of her lips. “You love it,” she repeats.

  Torren can’t help the small grin that tugs at the corner of her mouth. She watches her Alia fully focus on her task. She knows Alia better than anyone. Alia’s always ten steps ahead, always one move beyond.

  Torren watches her, this woman who’s become everything to her. Her companion. Her other half. They’ve fought side by side for so long, but the thought of what lies ahead… the risk tonight, the mission…

  Torren can’t shake it.

  She clears her throat, her deep voice breaking the quiet. “Alia.”

  “Hm?” Alia looks up, her brow furrowed in mild confusion.

  Torren swallows, stepping toward her. There’s something she has to say. Something that’s been weighing on her. She doesn’t say it often. She doesn’t like to voice the fear she feels, but it’s there.

  “I want to make a pact with you,” Torren says, her voice steady but intense.

  Alia looks over her shoulder, her expression confused. She doesn’t grasp the gravity of what Torren is saying, not yet. She turns to attach her letter to the snowy eagle perched by the window.

  “What sort of pact would we ever need?” Alia asks.

  It’s a fair question. They’ve been through so much together, forged in the heat of battle and quiet moments like this. They’ve fought, bled, and nearly died together. What need is there for a pact?

  Torren exhales, the words coming slower now. “No matter what happens, we need to keep going. We need to free Blizzardhaven. Even if one of us doesn’t make it.”

  Alia spins around, her eyes wide, her eagle taking flight behind her. The massive bird’s wings block the light and caste a shadow over Alia as her eyes flash blue before it disappears into the mountain range.

  Alia’s voice hardens. “We will make it.”

  Torren knows that look in her eyes. The resolve. The fierce determination. Alia strides toward her, pressing a finger to her chest, looking up with those intense blue-grey eyes that crackle with magic.

  “We will free Blizzardhaven,” Alia insists. “We will do it together. We will survive. End of story.”

  Torren swallows. She knows this conversation by heart. She’s had it a hundred times. But this time… it feels different. There’s an unspoken weight to it.

  “Alia,” Torren says again, a bit more forceful this time.

  Alia huffs, her shoulders tense. “We have to meet with the rebellion—”

  “Alia.”

  “I had to change the rendezvous point—”

  “Alia.”

  Alia stops, her breath heavy. She turns slowly, her gaze flicking from the floor to Torren’s eyes. She takes a deep breath, gathering herself. She stands tall, every inch of her the princess Torren knows she is.

  “Promise me,” Torren whispers, her voice low, “that you will keep fighting. Until Blizzardhaven is free again. Even if I am not by your side.”

  Alia hesitates, her lip worried between her teeth. But Torren knows she’ll say yes. She always does.

  “I promise,” Alia says, her voice steady but soft.

  Torren’s heart lifts at the sound of those words, but she isn’t done yet.

  Alia’s eyes sharpen, a fire burning in them. “But you have to promise me, Torren. No matter what happens. Even if you’re across the world. Even if you’re in the grasp of the Purplecloaks. You must promise that you will fight to remain by my side.”

  Torren smiles—a small, private curve of her lips. “I swear it.”

  There is nowhere Torren would rather be.

  The sun is high as Torren and Alia make their way through the busy streets of Blizzardhaven. The laughter and bustle of the crowds fill the air, and Torren can’t help but notice the way Alia’s lips tilt up, the energy around them is infectious.

  Blizzardhaven may not be free yet, but if it weren’t for Alia, these streets would be empty and silent.

  Torren feels the tug of the people’s spirits, their resilience, but she quickly schools her expression as they near their destination. Both of them wear their usual masks—carefully crafted wood hiding their identities.

  Torren’s sharp eyes sweep the area before giving Alia a brief nod. They both pull their hoods up, and the city’s people go back to their lives, unaware of the quiet storm brewing beneath the surface.

  They’re about to meet with the rebellion. Not the only group fighting back against the Purplecloaks, but one that’s... lacking. Torren doesn’t expect much from them. They’re too slow, too cautious for her tastes.

  Alia, however, insists on involving them, and Torren, as always, supports her.

  So Torren and Alia have taken a mysterious lead.

  Alia is the princess, but she’s considered dead by the kingdom. The moment she shows her face, she’d be recognized—she’s a spitting image of the Queen. The rebellion could never know the truth of her identity.

  And Torren would just rather nobody perceive her at all.

  So, the two of them don their masks and cloaks, making sure not to stand out too much. Torren carries more parchment than she ever wants to deal with under her bulky robes. It’s an inconvenient weight, but her dragon-strength makes it feel like nothing. Alia’s soft white cloak adheres to her form, but she wears a dark outer cloak to keep herself hidden in plain sight. It would be far too dangerous for her to wear white in public.

  Torren has long given up trying to convince Alia not to wear white. It’s in her blood after all, the royal color of Blizzardhaven’s family, a mark she can’t escape. Alia was born to wear the white of snowstorm lilies.

  Still, it makes their espionage difficult at times. Not that Torren is complaining. She knows Alia was always meant to stand tall and visible, no matter how much she hides behind cloaks and masks.

  They step into a familiar bakery. Torren’s miserable attempt at a distraction all those years ago had worked. Though she is certain that it was more likely due to the baker’s own strength of character. Considering she is now hosts the rebellion in her basement.

  The scent of fresh bread fills the air, and Torren’s stomach growls despite her usual preference for meat. Alia’s graceful steps keep Torren focused, she stays always a half-step behind, always protecting, always watching her princess.

  Torren thinks these meeting are a waste of time.

  She can’t stand the endless arguments, the dithering, the slowness of it all. If the rebellion were more competent, if they simply executed the plans she put together, they could’ve made much more progress. But no, they hesitate.

  Torren has a knack for strategy. Tactics come naturally to her, and she knows the Purplecloaks. She understands how they think, how they react. She can map out a mission and account for every single variable.

  What she can’t do is convince the rebellion to act on it. That’s Alia’s specialty. She’s the one who knows how to make people listen, how to make them believe, even when all seems lost.

  She’s the diplomacy, Torren is the logistics. Together, they make a powerful team.

  Torren doesn’t really need to be here. But Alia insists that her “intimidating presence” helps. Torren thinks it’s just because she doesn’t want to carry all those scrolls.

  As they reach the stairs leading down into the rebellion’s hideout, the baker steps aside to let them pass. Torren nods slightly in approval. She respects the woman. She’s blunt and to the point, and one of the few people in the rebellion that Torren has faith in.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  When they descend into the basement, Torren’s sharp ears pick up the familiar ruckus. She sighs. The cacophony of voices bouncing off the walls will only give her a headache.

  She braces herself. Alia, sensing her discomfort, squeezes her wrist in silent commiseration. Torren offers her a small smile in return. She’ll be fine—she’d had good hearing her whole life, she can withstand it.

  As they step into the room, the bickering dies down. The rebellion leaders are gathered around a table, pouring over maps and scrolls.

  At the head of the table sits a man with shaggy brown hair and thick glasses—Spectacles, as Torren calls him. He leads the rebellion, but Torren knows little else about him. She remembers saving him from the Conquered Palace.

  Beside him stands Lady Amirah Yelwyin (the only person Torren bothers to remember), a sharp-eyed woman who had once advised the Queen. She’s the one Torren respects most in this room. The spymaster never wastes time, and her every action is calculated.

  Torren quietly unrolls her scrolls while Alia steps up to the opposing head of the table.

  Torren can’t help but marvel at her presence. Even with a blank wooden mask adorning her face and the heavy cloak obscuring her figure, the moment Alia steps forward all eyes are on her.

  Alia reaches into her cloak and reveals her trump card: glowing, crackling orbs of thunder, each the size of an acorn. The room falls silent as everyone tenses. Torren rolls her eyes. These people were always so dramatic.

  “You’ll need these lightning bombs tonight,” Alia announces, her voice firm, cutting through the tension.

  Immediately, complaints and objections ripple through the room.

  “You’ve broken out every noble! Why must we cause more disruption?!” one voice shouts.

  “There is one left,” Alia is quiet and unyeilding. This is the most important one, and she will not tolerate their minute complaints.

  “Who could possibly be that important! We’re seeing more and more of their forces arrive and the wizards…” as always the complaints begin. Alia stays quiet, letting them bicker over one another.

  Torren gets more and more irate, but Alia is unflinching. She’s always been more patient.

  Finally, Spectacles finally says something useful, “The guardians have never led us astray. We’d be dead ten times over if we didn’t heed their words. Be silent and listen.”

  “The Queen is in the palace,” some of the council can’t hold their gasps. It’s a reasonable response. Even Alia, who was there when the Queen took a final stand against the Purplecloaks, thought her mother had died.

  Until Torren had stumbled upon the truth during a rescue mission. The Queen was alive, hidden away in the palace, a force of magic keeping her there.

  Alia had been planning this for months. Torren had been the one sneaking into the palace, adjusting runes and messing with engraved stones according to Alia’s careful instructions.

  All for the mission tonight: saving the Queen. Alia’s mother.

  Torren doesn’t understand or care for politics, but she knows that rescuing the Queen would only help Blizzardhaven. They’ll need her, even if they have to smuggle her out of the city.

  “But what about the weather?” Lady Yelwyin asks. “There’s no cover with such a clear sky.”

  “There will be a blizzard tonight. Make sure the citizens are prepared” Alia chooses her words carefully.

  “The wizards have allowed this clear sky. Just so they can call a blizzard?,” Spectacles mutters. “What could they be planning?”

  Most of the time, that would be a reasonable conclusion. The typhoon wizards were always summoning storms to press down on the powerless. Usually Torren or Alia would do a simple bait-and-switch to take control of the storm.

  But this time, the wizards had allowed a clear sky. It made Torren suspicious, but their efforts to find a reason had been unsuccessful. Along with their efforts to find information on the Thunder King.

  Alia had decided that it was best if the rebellion was kept in the dark about their powers. Though Torren doubted it was as secret as she’d like. All throughout the city there have been sightings of Blizzardhaven’s “guardian angels”.

  They come only when the storms are heavy. They leave nothing behind but whispers and broken chains.

  Torren would be calling a storm today, but Alia doesn’t need to tell the rebellion that.

  The council takes her word for it. They’ve always been right about the weather, no matter how ridiculous the predictions sound.

  Spectacles speaks up again, “We can set up a shelter for Her Majesty—”

  “No. She will be taken directly to Twilheim Harbor. On a ship set for Prafulla Archipelago,” Alia cuts him off. It’s too dangerous for the Queen to stay in the city.

  Spectacles nods reluctantly, he understands.

  Alia continues, “You will need to prepare the people. The Purplecloaks will crack down. The rebellion needs to cover it’s tracks and stay under the radar.”

  Lady Yelwyin cuts in, “If I may, I’d like to get on the ship with Her Majesty. I will be of more help to her and Blizzardhaven if I can assist her.”

  Torren doesn’t listen to the rest of the conversation. She only acknowledges Alia’s agreement and the small shift in the plans.

  She gathers that Lady Yelwyin would be able to help the Queen gather allies. That’s good. Blizzardhaven needs that.

  Alia’s letters haven’t had much success.

  Torren thinks they’d work if she actually left Blizzardhaven and negotiated face-to-face. Alia doesn’t want to leave Blizzardhaven, but Torren has a feeling she’ll need to eventually.

  Torren can only hope she’ll be by Alia’s side when that happens.

  As the meeting wraps up, Lady Yelwyin approaches Torren, a rare smile on her lips. The rebellion is well aware that she stays silent, and she won’t speak unless it is to Alia. It’s rare for someone to approach her.

  Spymaster or not—she’d better not expect a response.

  Torren turns curiously to face to face to older woman, tilting her head to acknowledgement.

  The spymaster only smiles knowingly, “Keep your charge safe. She’s Blizzardhaven’s future after all.”

  It seems at least one person was smart enough to figure it out.

  Torren has made the journey to the Conquered Palace thousands of times—for recon, for stealing plans, for breaking out imprisoned nobles.

  The crystalline purple palace glimmers even in a blizzard. Torren would have loved to wander those intricate halls, to admire the beauty of it all. Alia swears that one day, she will.

  But tonight is not for wandering.

  Alia is nervous. Torren can see it in the little quirks that slip past her perfectly composed mask. The slight twitch of her left eye—her only visible tell. Well, that and the way she’s gripping Torren’s hand so tightly that, if Torren weren’t a dragon, she’s certain her bones would break.

  This mission works like clockwork by now. Torren figures Alia isn’t worried about the execution. She’s worried about what comes next. What she’ll say when she sees her mother.

  Torren can hide her own restlessness either. She can’t shake the unease that’s been growing in her chest since the morning.

  Alia whispers the plan under her breath, rehearsing it like a prayer. Torren squeezes her hand gently. Alia exhales.

  “Start the storm.”

  Torren lifts her chin, shifting her focus to the sky, to the wind, to the storm already brewing south of the city, over the harbor.

  She could summon one directly overhead, but it would take more energy. The typhoon wizards would notice it and try to seize it for themselves. Calling a storm is easier.

  Torren hears children groaning as the first droplets hit their heads. A flicker of guilt pinches at her, but Alia’s hand tightens around hers, grounding her. Focus.

  The wizards’ magic slithers upward, reaching for the approaching storm. But Torren is faster. She drives them out with torrents of lightning.

  All around them, the people of Blizzardhaven scramble for shelter.

  She turns the storm cold. Then soft.

  Three deep, echoing horn blares ring through the city.

  Blizzard warning.

  The ground vibrates from the force, shaking the buildings, causing the palace spires shimmer and chime.

  Purplecloaks begin trudging in their direction. Anyone caught in the storm is suspicious. If only they knew this wasn’t their storm.

  Alia lifts her hand to the sky, and Torren passes the storm to her call. They do it as naturally as breathing.

  Blue lightning fills the blizzard. The Purplecloaks behind them fall in a crackling torrent of electricity.

  Torren and Alia break into a sprint, racing toward the palace.

  Torren smirks as she hears explosions erupt across the city—Alia’s lightning bombs. The rebellion is moving.

  She scoops Alia into her arms and leaps, soaring straight into an intricate stained glass window. The thunder outside masks the sound of shattering glass.

  Inside, the palace is alive with movement. Footsteps pound against marble floors. Purplecloaks sprint through corridors. Wizards shout incantations.

  The perfect distraction.

  Torren and Alia race up the spiral staircase of the spire they landed in. They chose that window for a reason. They know exactly where they’re going.

  Normally, they would head for the dungeons.

  Not this time.

  Torren follows the scent of blood—sharp, crisp, and familiar.

  She heads towards the throne room.

  Not there. Beneath it.

  She grips Alia’s wrist and pulls her down another flight of stairs. There’s no need for words. Alia understands immediately. She knows these halls better than anyone.

  They stop in front of a vault.

  They don’t have much time.

  Alia tries the password first. When that fails, she pulls out her lockpicks. She’s an expert at it, but no amount of skill will get her into the royal vault.

  She exhales sharply and turns to Torren. It won’t be a quiet solution, but time is running out.

  Torren steps back, narrowing her eyes. Her pupils elongate. With a powerful leap, she slams her shoulder into the door, ripping it from its massive hinges.

  The sound is loud and grating, but it works.

  The vault door crashes to the floor.

  Alia gasps.

  Inside, the Queen stands frozen, encased in glowing crystal.

  She looks just like Alia.

  Her silken white dress flows like a wedding train, her hair cascades down her back, and her eyes are that same blue-grey.

  She looks like the older version of Alia. Except she’s frozen. Frozen in a glowing crystal.

  Alia leaps over the fallen door, her hands frantically pressing against the crystal. Runes flicker to life across its surface, reacting to her touch.

  Her fingers spark with blue lightning. She looks back to Torren and nods.

  I need to buy her time.

  Torren rolls her shoulders, her own arms crackling with bright golden lightning.

  Footsteps rumble down the hall. Purplecloaks. Wizards.

  Torren’s lip curls and her canines sharpen.

  It’s time to fight.

  Torren doesn’t know how many she’s taken down. Spells lash through the air, blades shatter against her skin, entire squadrons fall before her—but they just keep coming.

  And every time she looks back, the crystal still stands.

  She’s a dragon. But even dragons get tired. But I’ll be damned if I let them touch Alia.

  Another squadron rushes toward her, swords gleaming under the flickering torchlight. Torren plants her feet and draws in a deep, shuddering breath. Power crackles through her veins, through the lines of lightning painted beneath her skin.

  The soldiers hesitate. Their eyes widen.

  Torren exhales.

  A torrent of fire and lightning erupts from her lungs, white-hot and searing. The squadron doesn’t even have time to scream before they’re incinerated.

  She sways on her feet, chest heaving. I can’t do that again.

  She forces herself to check on Alia. Her princess is standing now, hands outstretched, chanting in a whisper. The crystal flickers, runes crawling across its surface, light blooming within.

  Torren’s unease coils in her gut, rising into her throat like bile.

  Her head snaps toward the entrance.

  A man walks toward her, unhurried.

  Torren’s hackles rise instantly.

  He smells of death, of twisting storms and rotting air. His robes are deep purple, his boots clinking with every deliberate step. His skin is dark, but the entire right half of his face is burned and twisted, flesh warped like melted wax.

  His eyes are wild, but his smile is worse.

  Torren knows, without a doubt, that he is the Thunder King.

  The man who commands the Purplecloaks.

  The god who gave the typhoon wizards their power.

  Torren has never felt small before.

  She is a dragon, a force of nature, a storm given form. But the power rolling off this man is suffocating. It crackles against her skin, suffuses the air, warps the space between them.

  He tilts his head, expression mocking. “A little baby dragon, crawling into my den.”

  Torren doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

  Behind her, the crystal shatters.

  She doesn’t take her eyes off the Thunder King.

  “Hmm,” he hums, eyeing her lazily. “Why don’t you shift for me? I’d love to add another dragon to my collection.” His gaze slides past her. “And a pretty little princess along with it.”

  Torren snarls, low and deadly.

  She risks a glance behind her. Alia stands frozen, arms wrapped tightly around the barely conscious Queen.

  Alia raises a trembling hand to cast a spell.

  The magic fizzles out.

  She’s drained. Whatever she did to save her mother took everything she had.

  Torren tenses. If I can just buy her time—

  Pain.

  Blinding, searing pain.

  Her breath catches.

  Torren looks down.

  An obsidian blade, slick with dark, twisting magic, is buried deep in her stomach.

  The world tilts.

  She shouldn’t have looked away.

  The Thunder King chuckles.

  “I’m going to enjoy this,” he murmurs, raising his other hand.

  Thick, black ichor oozes from his palm. The moment he starts chanting, Torren’s bones scream.

  It’s a soundless, grating force, something that rattles through her very core, splitting her apart from the inside out.

  She hears Alia screaming.

  Torren’s vision fades.

  Pain dulls into numbness.

  For a moment, all is quiet.

  Then—lightning.

  Blinding, white-hot.

  Hurricanes. Tornadoes. The winds lash at her skin.

  Something deep inside her uncoils.

  Torren roars.

  Her head slams into the ceiling.

  Her fingers—no, claws—scrape against stone.

  She isn’t standing anymore. She’s looming. Massive.

  I shifted.

  The Thunder King grins.

  Torren doesn’t give him a second glance. She whirls, her golden eyes locking onto Alia. Her princess. Her other half. Her safety is all that matters.

  She scoops up Alia and the Queen as gently as she can, tucking them against her chest.

  Her wings snap open.

  With a single, powerful thrust, she launches into the sky.

  The roof of the Conquered Palace shatters around her as she bursts into the blizzard.

  For one fleeting, blissful moment, she is weightless.

  The storm welcomes her like an old friend, wrapping around her massive form. Winds cradle her wings. The ice and snow melt against her scales.

  Then, she feels a soft current from her within her claws. Alia.

  She tucks her wings and plunges out of the storm, streaking toward Twilheim Harbor.

  A massive dragon appearing in the sky causes a frenzy at the docks. People scatter, voices crying out in alarm.

  Torren ignores them. She lands in front of the harbor, talons digging deep into the wooden planks.

  Carefully, she deposits Alia and the Queen.

  Alia stumbles but looks up at her, eyes wide, hands trembling.

  Torren stills.

  Alia reaches out, placing a gentle hand against Torren’s scaled cheek.

  Torren nuzzles into the touch.

  But the pain—gods, the pain. Her wounds begin to burn, her energy waning fast.

  There are too many people here. She needs to lead the enemy away. She won’t put Alia in more danger*.*

  She rises to her full height, taking one last look at Alia before launching herself back towards Blizzardhaven.

  But something is wrong.

  The blizzard has changed.

  It’s no longer hers.

  It has followed her across the sky.

  The winds twist unnaturally, thick with something wrong.

  Torren smells it—that same freakish magic from before.

  The storm moves.

  No—charges.

  Straight at her.

  Torren veers, trying to escape.

  Too late.

  From the depths of the blackened clouds, lightning strikes.

  Not golden. Not blue.

  Black.

  Ichorous lightning splits the sky.

  And the people of Twilheim Harbor watch in horror as a dragon is struck from the sky.