Storm winds shred her battered wings,

  Rain lashes her lonely form,

  She fights the gale to stay aloft,

  Determined, she wills herself to fly.

  The earth beneath Torren shatters and quakes as her massive draconic form finally collides with the ground.

  Torren can’t hear anything but the dull ringing in her ears. She can’t see anything but red. Thankfully, the twisting storm that shot her down is nowhere to be found.

  Torren knows that she needs to get up.

  It’s not hard to track a giant dragon down. The Purplecloaks will be upon her soon if she doesn’t get moving. But the thought of moving—of more blinding pain—makes her rumble.

  Everything hurts. Every shift for comfort only creates more warm and aching pain. She just wants to lay there. She just wants to rest.

  Unfortunately, her body has other plans.

  Torren’s breath catches in her throat as her body begins to crack and change. She can’t even scream as her world goes white with pain. Suddenly, the gravel beneath feels much sharper and her cheeks scratch against tiny weeds.

  She’s in her human form again. So much for finally transforming. She sneaks a glance down toward her abdomen, where the Thunder King had struck her. Sure enough, her body is a canvas of red. Torren just stares at the angry wound—she can’t feel the pain anymore, just numbness.

  In the end, it wasn’t the storm that caused the most damage.

  Torren shudders at the thought of the insidious tyrant. She clenches her eyes shut as her body reminds her of her wound, but all she can see is that monster of a man with his flashing eyes. He’d seemed so insane.

  And just a moment too late and Alia would’ve—.

  Torren jerks up at the thought. Her body roars in protest, but Torren ignores it. Alia was safe. She left her at the port. But Torren needs to get back to her.

  “You must promise that you will fight to remain by my side.”

  She swore she would.

  Torren leaves a trail of blood as she drags her feet through the gravel.

  She’s found herself at the edge of the Mountains and on the rocky shore of their isolated continent. She’s steeled herself to keep moving, compartmentalizing the pain in favor of covering distance. She doesn’t doubt that there will be people looking for her—especially the unfavorable kind.

  She takes a deep steadying breath.

  Focus.

  Step one: find your location.

  Torren lifts her head to the sky. Normally, she’d ask the weather. But she’s unusually reluctant to converse with the sky. Not when she can still feel the remnants of that twisted storm.

  Instead, Torren focuses on the wind patterns. She recalls Alia mentioning that the Mountains are unique in their behavior—which both helps and harms Blizzardhaven. Not that Torren was paying too much attention to the specifics. It was far more instinctive for her.

  Based on the wind patterns and the faint scent of drifting sulfur in the air, she must have fallen north of Blizzardhaven. Torren takes a sharper glance at the Mountains.

  She sighs in relief as she spots a jagged, crumbling peak.

  She knows where she is. She knows where to go.

  She picks up her pace—clutching the gaping wound in her stomach. If she wasn’t a dragon, she’d be dead already.

  She feels a lump in her throat at the thought of Alia receiving the wound.

  She finally tumbles into a deep valley, fitted between many mountains. The crooked mountain casts a looming shadow over her.

  Torren is too tired to walk. She sees the abandoned hexagonal wooden tower at the bottom of the valley. She lays down—and rolls.

  In hindsight, it wasn’t her best idea. All of the tumbling jostled her body and wounds. But she was so tired. Torren dragged herself the rest of the way, finally slipping into the abandoned resistance outpost.

  For once, she thanked the rebellion’s utter incompetence.

  They’d evacuated this station at the tiniest hint of discovery—and left everything behind. She’d be able to get supplies and get moving.

  Well. Maybe after a quick nap. She can’t quite keep her eyes open as she feels the dry, wooden floor beneath her.

  Alia’s glowing grey eyes meet Torren’s from beneath the mask. She shakes her head. Torren clenches a fist.

  “It’s too dangerous. Let me come with—”

  “It’s okay, Torren. The rebellion will keep me safe.”

  Blood runs down from the top of Alia’s head. Torren scrambles to apply pressure and reach for the bandages.

  “I told you! Now you’re—”

  In the underground meeting room:

  “We backed out. It was too dangerous—”

  Torren splinters the wall beside her.

  Torren snaps up with a jerk. Hands begin to push her back down, which only furthers her struggle. She snarls as she grasps the pair of soft hands.

  There is an older woman in front of her. Her grey-lined hair is pulled into a simple braid and she wears a green cloak over her heavy tunic. There’s a snowflake embroidered into her clasp. A rebel.

  Good. Well—not good, considering how useless—.

  Torren takes a deep breath, willing her anger to calm down. The woman only watches her with tilted concern.

  She gathers herself and identifies her surroundings. Still in the abandoned tower, but she’s been placed in one of the beds. Her wound has turned into a warm ache, and when she touches her stomach she feels the fabric of bandages.

  It makes her angry. She didn’t ask for help! She doesn’t need help!

  She turns to look at the woman accusingly.

  The woman raises her hands in mock surrender. “I don’t know why you’re mad. I just saved your life, young lady!”

  “Well, I didn’t ask—”.

  Torren cuts herself off. It’s not like this woman would understand. Besides, she has more pressing matters to attend to.

  She needs to get back to Alia.

  She ignores the woman’s protests as she swings her legs off the bed. She can handle pain. Pain keeps her focused. Pain means she’s alive.

  “What’s your name?” the woman asks.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “Takar,” Torren is not in the business of truths, then she remembers Alia’s lessons on politeness and responds, “What’s yours?”

  “I’m Olranda—squadron leader for Blizzardhaven,” she puffs out her chest and places her fist over her heart in salute. Torren only watches her blankly. The woman flusters as she tries to keep up with Torren’s long strides and apathy.

  “Then you can tell me—what is happening in Blizzardhaven right now?” Torren commands.

  The wom—Olranda goes to protest at the blatant disrespect, but something in Torren’s eyes stops her. Alia had once told Torren that when she was focused, her eyes were like a flaming whip, trapping the recipient of the stare in place. Torren thought she was being dramatic.

  Olranda sighs, “That’s why I came back here. Blizzardhaven’s been under this horrific storm. The merchants have fled and we need supplies.”

  Torren reaches the ladder. She begins to climb, not caring if Olranda follows. The woman grumbles but grasps the ladder.

  At the top of the tower is a host of maps, papers, and tools. Everything the rebellion needed to maintain and observe the typhoon wizards' movements. Torren rolls her eyes. So much wasted effort and resources went into setting this up, and then the rebels turned chicken within a month.

  Alia had been crushed when she heard the news.

  Olranda continues her “report,” “And worse! Our guardian angels have vanished! We’ve been left in the dark!” she wails.

  Torren can only watch her with sharp, judging eyes. They wouldn’t be in the dark if they’d had an ounce of competence. Her old, familiar rage begins rising out of her stomach. So many of her excellent plans turned to failure because no one in this damn country had the guts or capability.

  She forces a breath.

  She can think about the rebellion later. After she’s found Alia again.

  She begins formulating a plan.

  Torren pores over storm maps. She grabs an empty leather journal and a quill and begins scribbling weather notes. When it comes to the Mountains, the only way to get around safely is to understand the weather. Thankfully, Torren is an expert.

  Even with the new, dark storm over Blizzardhaven, Torren needs weather knowledge.

  She steps onto the wooden deck, Olranda hovering behind her curiously.

  Torren begins to sift through the clouds of her mind, letting her mind match the sky above.

  She can find the patterns. She can see where the typhoon wizards have tainted the clouds. She can feel the unnatural, twisting storm over Blizzardhaven. And from the wind, she can lay a path to Alia and the port.

  She scribbles more notes in her journal then briskly steps inside. Olranda stumbles after her, asking questions. But Torren ignores her in favor of reading up on stolen reconnaissance.

  It’s all outdated, but most of it was written in either Alia’s or Torren’s hand. Given to the rebellion, just to be wasted.

  “Now wait a minute! Who do you think you are! That’s confid—”. Torren finally whirls around.

  She reminds herself to stay calm. She’d like this conversation to be over as quickly as possible.

  “Eyes in the Blizzard,” she harshly whispers the ridiculous code phrase. “I will leave soon. Important Blizzardhaven business.”

  The older woman’s eyes light up in excitement. Torren holds back a groan as she rolls her eyes. All these types want is glory. Instead of doing what’s necessary, they want adventure.

  “Confidential business,” Torren sneers.

  The woman narrows her eyes, tilting her chin up. She’s not a fan of being left out. Unfortunately for her, she’s talking to Torren.

  “If it’s for Blizzardhaven, I must help!” she exclaims, “My squadron is just out—”.

  “Absolutely not.”

  Torren grabs one of the many spare emergency bags. She packs efficiently—just the essentials: a spare set of clothes, daggers, an icebone compass, and her new journal.

  She knows where Alia is headed. And she’s on the opposite side.

  It’s going to be a difficult journey. She’s going over the volcanoes, which means Olranda cannot follow her—not that she’d want her along regardless.

  They’d only slow her down.

  “If you’re going through the volcanoes, at least take someone with you. It’s way too dangerous. With this weather—”

  “With this weather, I’ll be fine,” Torren interrupts. “They’ll just slow me down.”

  Torren shoots through the ashen clouds.

  She takes massive leaps from mountain to mountain, occasionally slipping from the ice and skidding by streams of lava. Her injuries are getting the better of her.

  She’s already too weak as it is.

  What kind of dragon can’t even grow wings?

  She’s barely made any progress toward her destination. If she could get to Twilhelm Harbor, there’d be ships going towards the archipelago.

  Unfortunately, she’s on the opposite side of the Mountains.

  That’s why she’s going through the Crying Volcanoes. To cut straight through the mountain range. It’s the fastest, but most dangerous way.

  But Torren is a dragon.

  She’s supposed to be able to fly these distances in hours. But she can’t fly. She’s never been able to sprout wings. Forget a whole transformation.

  She’d tried for years.

  It took meeting the Thunder King for it to happen.

  Torren grunts as her shoulder collides with rocky ice. She can’t fly, so she’s been using her strength to leap long and far. It’s painful and slow. She can feel her pace slowing, from the injuries, from the exhaustion.

  But all Torren wants is to find Alia.

  Everything would be okay if she was at Alia’s side.

  She remembers the last time she saw Alia—words unsaid, a hand she didn’t take. She lost her other half in an instant. That loss of companionship is beginning to weigh on her.

  She slips as she tries to leap off the snowy peak. Her legs give out and she goes tumbling into the deep, sulfuric valleys below.

  Torren curses her body for being weak.

  She collapses in an ashy ditch, trying to catch her breath. She doesn’t want to stop moving. But the thought of curling up and giving into sleep is so, so attractive.

  Torren is about to give in, about to shut her eyes in the middle of a dark ditch in the depth of the Mountains, when the high winds begin to shudder.

  Her sensitive ears pick up the warning whistle, and she immediately shoots to her feet.

  The whole day has been cloudy but fair weather. The harsh winds of the Mountains have propelled Torren in the direction she needed. But now the wind is lashing and screaming.

  The Mountains begin to rumble.

  Torren turns to face the volcano she has just slid down. From behind its looming figure, a wall of unnatural twisting clouds rises. Black streaks of lightning begin to crackle and rumble through the ground. The ash around Torren lifts at the force of the thunder.

  Torren starts to run.

  Torren soars over a volcanic rift.

  She ignores the gusts of burning heat in favor of dodging the lashing, angry winds.

  Her stomach lurches.

  The storm above is just so unnatural. She can barely breathe. She’s terrified that if she takes a breath, that poison will reach her.

  She keeps pushing through the winds, desperately looking around. For shelter, for respite, for anything. But the dark storm has filled the valleys beneath her with black, ichorous mists.

  She doesn’t know how long she can keep this up.

  She’s been twisting the winds of the storm as they come at her, using them as leverage to stay in the air. She’s not flying—she’s clinging to the violent winds, using them like stepping stones.

  She’s running out of choices.

  I need to be strong enough. I need to live. I need to keep my promise.

  I don’t want to die here. I just want to get back to Alia. I don’t want to be alone anymore.

  A black bolt of lightning shoots past her, the thunder shaking the clouds around her violently. That bolt should have struck. Storms don’t miss.

  Unless…

  Torren braces her body, curling into herself as she carefully reaches for the storm. Her heart begins to pulse a familiar, thunderous rhythm.

  Run, the storm urges. It’s fighting the terrible magic as much as it can.

  Torren ignores the warning, further reaching into the storm. If she can just push the magic out—

  But then the connection is shattered. The storm no longer cares for her as the reins controlling it are pulled tight and unyielding.

  Torren is knocked from the sky in a blaze of lightning.

  She tries to struggle, to move. She tries to flare her blood, to call to the dragon inside of her, anything.

  But nothing happens.

  Torren crashes into the side of an ashen volcano, her head whipping at the contact. She thinks she heard something crack.

  Before her vision goes dark, she watches her limp body slide down a slope of sharp obsidian and into the suffocating black mist below.

  Blood on black glass would be a good secret code.

  That’s the first thought that Torren has as she lifts herself up. She’s not sure how she’s even alive, but she’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

  The terror storm—she’s dubbed it—has disappeared, along with the mists. But now the sun has set and she’s walking on jagged, sulfurous terrain. Normally she’d have no trouble crossing this distance with her physical aptitude.

  But she’s badly wounded, limping, and clutching her broken left arm.

  She falls into a ditch with a quiet groan. It’s getting harder and harder to justify moving. But if I don’t, I’ll die.

  If she could just ease her wounds a little bit…

  She rolls onto her back, massaging her brow with her uninjured hand. This is a terrible idea.

  She’s weak, but she’s a dragon. Even the weakest dragons can use their breath (or at least she assumes so. She’s never met another dragon).

  She lets the lightning crackle in her gut and stomach. The purple light bleeds through her skin and casts a sickly glow over her body. She braces herself as she painfully lifts her bloodied left arm.

  She almost passes out from the pain as she snaps it back into place.

  She doesn’t wait to do the next step—and rains lightning down her arm, cauterizing the wound. She grits her teeth at the pain but remains conscious.

  She sets her head back down with a thud.

  Normally, Alia would help with her wounds. It’s a soft memory, the first time Alia helped her get patched up.

  She’d been so angry at Torren’s insistence that she was fine.

  But since then, it was Alia’s job. “You don’t have to do this alone anymore,” she’d say.

  Torren clenches her fist. I do now. I have to.

  The stars overhead barely move as she waits for her strength to return. She still had a port to reach.

  But even as she hefts her body to stand, her hands tremble. Her heart shakes.

  Hours later, and Torren finally finds shelter.

  A simple rocky overhang that’ll keep her away from the storm if it ever returns.

  She considered returning to her leaps, but she doesn’t know if that would alert the storm or not. And it seemed... painful.

  For a moment, she considers if things would have been different if she had someone else with her.

  She shakes the thought away. They’d only slow her down.

  Besides, the last time she trusted the rebellion, Alia had almost died. Torren doesn’t want to die. But if she does, it better be in a blaze of glory, not because some fool chose to be a coward.

  A distant roar of thunder sounds through the valley.

  Torren clutches a dagger. That didn’t sound happy.

  She forces herself to sleep, eyes flickering over the ashen mountains.

  I don’t need anyone. I just need to survive. Survive and get to her.