A Stormy Revelation

The sky wept that night, not with gentle tears, but with the fury of a thousand angry gods. Rain lashed against the castle walls, a relentless drumbeat that mirrored the frantic pulse in Althea’s chest. Wind howled through the battlements, a mournful cry that seemed to carry the very weight of her anxieties. She stood by the tall, arched window of her chambers, the thick glass rattling with each gust. Below, the courtyard was a churn of churning water and flying debris, the torches that usually cast a warm glow sputtering and dying like embers in a gale.

Her gaze, however, was not fixed on the chaos outside, but on the figure standing resolutely before her. Cris. Even in the dim light, the moonlight that occasionally broke through the bruised clouds seemed to catch him, illuminating the strong lines of his jaw, the steady set of his shoulders. He was her anchor in this tempest, her silent promise of safety. Tonight, though, there was a tension in him, a coiled energy that Althea had never seen before, even in the heat of training or the clamor of battle.

"Cris," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the storm's roar. "Are you alright?"