The storm

**Kelly Thompson's POV**

The coast isn’t a border—it’s a wound.

Saltwater foams crimson where it meets the shore, the tides clawing at cliffs pocked with caves that hum in discordant harmonies. The sky here is a sickly silver, the stars blotted out by a haze that isn’t cloud or smoke but something *older*, a residue of the Veil’s decay. Eden walks the shoreline ahead of me, his shadow fractured by the void-and-lightning scars webbing his arms. The storm I absorbed thrums beneath my ribs, restless as a caged thing, its voice a static-laced growl. *“This place reeks of her.”*

*Her.* The Weaver.

But the Daughters come first.

They descend at twilight, riding comets of starfire that crater the beach, their silhouettes etched in violent light. The tallest steps forward, her hair a cascade of dying constellations. *“Last chance, sister. Surrender the storm. Or we’ll unmake the boy to reach it.”*