Breaking the symphony

**Kelly Thompson's POV**

The storm isn’t a storm—it’s a *reckoning*.

The sky fractures, shards of light and shadow raining down like glass. The ground beneath us is no longer solid; it shifts and writhes, a living thing made of whispers and static. Eden stumbles, his scars flickering faintly, the melody in his veins a ghost of what it once was. He grips my arm, his breath shallow, his eyes wide with a fear I haven’t seen in him since he was a child.

“It’s not the Maestro,” he says, his voice trembling. “It’s… something else.”

I nod, my own pulse quickening. The air is thick with the scent of ozone and something metallic, like blood but sharper. The horizon is a jagged line of broken light, and from it emerges a figure—not cloaked in shadows or crowned in lightning, but *woven* from the fabric of the storm itself.

Its form is fluid, shifting between human and wolf, storm and void. Its eyes are twin voids, its voice a vibration that resonates in my bones.