5. She would be his Storm.

On the day she first sang, her voice was balm and breeze. 

It didn't just calm the storm — it hushed the world.

People began to gather, drawn like moths to flame. 

They flocked to her parents' home, arms full of offerings: gifts wrapped in palm leaves, cassava flakes steeped in honeycomb syrup, tokens of awe and gratitude.

She joined the 'Igomgom' dance once — bare feet tapping against sun-warmed clay, her hips swaying beside children her age, tiny bells jingling with every spin. The rhythm of drums, the breath of flutes, the cheer of watching eyes — all of it lived in her.

The 'Igomgom' festival was sacred, held each year in the town's bustling market center. She had never missed a single one. 

Until the year disaster came.

She was ten then, all laughter and light, spinning through rehearsals with a spirit that pulsed louder than the drums. Dancing, to her, was more than joy — it was communion. With nature, with something divine. Each step awakened something ancient in her bones.

But light draws shadows.

Her light unsettled the others. Jealousy began in their stares. They pushed her, mocked her, struck her. And left bruises in her soul.

She told no one. Not even her parents. 

If they knew, they'd keep her from dancing — and that would be worse than the pain.

So she ran — to the trees, to the only arms that had never failed her.

The forest listened.

There, on the soft moss of the earth, she cried. Not with the tears of a child, but the ache of something sacred breaking.

And in her sorrow… 

She sang.

But her songs carried sorrow — deep, aching sorrow — echoing everything she held inside. And with that sorrow came the storms.

The ground split. 

Thunder cracked like a whip across the skies. 

Chaos surged.

From that day on, people recoiled at the sight of her. To them, she was no longer a girl — she was omen, curse, calamity. Even the king summoned her, not to witness the gift in her voice… but to silence it. To erase her.

She tried to heal, to reach inside and find the quiet she once knew. But the hatred thrown at her were like thorns, wrapped around her spirit, leaving no room for nature's breath to return through her.

When she moved in with Granny Naani, she learned to be careful — painfully careful.

She sang only in whispers, in moments folded between the wind and the leaves. It never truly got better… but sometimes, the trees would lean in, listening. 

Sometimes, the wind would carry her sorrow gently instead of tearing it apart.

But it was never hers to control. It never had been.

Now, as she clutched the rose in her hand, petals damp with dew, and walked the winding path back to her home, one question echoed in her chest:

'Why would the Prince of Blackenroot ask her to sing?

Why summon storms? 

Why stir ruin? 

Unless he sought her undoing — 

Unless chaos was exactly what he desired.

The wind howled softly against her skin, a tender murmur that brushed her soul and stirred something deep within. 

It breathed life into her.

She closed her eyes and surrendered to its warmth. 

There was nothing to fear, she told herself even as anxiety clawed at her chest.

"I will meet you here, tomorrow night, when the world has gone to sleep," he had whispered — words spoken with ease, yet sharpened by intent. 

And like a spell, she had agreed.

To obey. 

To leave for the palace. 

To live as a maid — but more than that, to become his instrument of ruin.

His face flashed in her mind, carved from stone, emotionless, cold. He didn't seek salvation. 

He longed to be undone. 

And she would be the storm to do it.

Her voice would destroy, and still… he chose her.

But how could she leave Granny now — not when illness had claimed her strength? 

It wasn't fair. But what choice did she have?

"What if I don't go?" she whispered to the wind, hoping it would answer. 

But deep down, she already knew.

He would find her. 

He was no ordinary man. He was the next ruler of Blackenroot, and the ruler knew the full breath of his kingdom — even the hidden corners, even the outskirts.

He would come. 

And worse, if she stayed, Granny could pay the price.

There was only one path left.

'She would do as he said.'

Perhaps it wouldn't last long. She would sing — just once — and once he saw the ruin her voice could bring, he'd cast her aside. Chase her away. 

That was the hope she clung to.

By the time she reached the mountain, her thoughts had spiraled into restlessness. She began to pace, heart pounding against her ribs.

There was only one thing left to do. 

She had to tell Granny Naani.

But how? 

How could she speak the truth without mentioning the Prince? If Granny knew she had met him — the Prince of Blackenroot — worry would grip her heart, and that was a weight the old woman did not need to bear.

As she stepped into the room, the warm scent of roasted corn kissed the air — sweet, smoky, familiar. 

It mingled with the aroma of ripe pear, charred to perfection — so rich, so tantalizing, her stomach gave a soft growl in response.

She followed the scent to the far end of the room, where a low table had been set.

A calabash bowl cradled the golden corn, steam still rising from it. Beside it lay the roasted pear, its once-purple skin now blackened from the fire. Another bowl held tiny cuts of cooked cassava.

But above all, it was Granny Naani who stood there, her eyes lined with weariness… yet warm.

"You're back just at the right time," she said, voice gentle, as if she had been waiting all day.

"Oh, Granny," Karina pouted, stepping close.

The aroma of food teased her senses, making her stomach growl in protest. Every fiber of her being craved the feast before her, yet worry pressed heavier on her heart. Granny's health had been fading — and it showed.

"You could've waited till I returned," she said, voice soft with concern. "I would've prepared everything."

She embraced her gently.

Granny's skin burned with heat, yet she still offered a faint, warm smile.

"Sit and eat, Karina. You must be tired."

Karina nodded, but refused to take her place until Granny had lowered herself onto her stool with effort.

The table, carved from solid mountain rock, sat low to the ground. Cushioned with woven palm fronds, the stone seats leaned just enough to soften the hardness, allowing for comfort beneath their weight.

Karina folded her hands together and whispered a short prayer, 

"For the gods who bring food and health in return."

"For the gods… for their kindness," Granny echoed beside her.

After placing their faith into the hands of the divine, Karina reached for a roasted corn. She took a bite, her eyes fluttering shut as the sweetness danced across her tongue. 

"Mmm… it's so good," she said through a mouthful.

Granny smiled, her own teeth sinking into the golden maize.

Then came the purple pear — roasted till its skin turned black and its flesh syrupy. The taste of corn and pear mingled on their lips,

"Oh, Granny," Karina murmured, almost on a sigh.

"I'm glad you like it," Granny mused, her voice tinged with joy.

As they ate, Granny Naani suddenly asked, 

"Were you able to find the rose?" 

She'd been weak before, too frail to do anything. But after drinking a bowl of herbal medicine, her fever had eased—though not entirely gone.

"Oh yes!" Karina perked up and reached for the bag on the floor. She rifled through it and pulled out the rose.

The rose glowed softly in the dim room. Karina hadn't even taken the time to admire it—her thoughts had been tangled in chaos, still reeling from what the Prince had said.

"Oh, that's it!" Granny exclaimed.

Karina sat beside her and placed it in her hands. Granny stared at it in awe.

"I never thought I'd see it again," she whispered, holding it to her chest and closing her eyes.

"Why?" Karina asked, nibbling on her corn. "Because it's rare?"

"No," Granny said, shaking her head. "Because long ago…" She paused, eyes fixed on Karina. 

No, she decided. There was no need. No one spoke of it anymore. No one wanted to remember the tale of old. And for Karina—who sang, who heard nature's call like the girl in the myth—it could only bring sorrow.

"Granny." Karina paused her eating, grey eyes fixed on her. "Is there something I should know?"

"No." Granny smiled and gently stroked Karina's hair. "It's not important. But you did well. Tell me, how did you find it? Were you able to sing and reconnect with nature?"

Karina's heart skipped. The tension—gods. She held her breath a moment.

Silence settled between them.

Her hand tightened around the half-eaten corn. Worse—she couldn't meet Granny's eyes.

"Karina," Granny said with a frown, her catlike eyes narrowing. "What happened?"

Karina closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she dropped the corn and turned to Granny, shoulders slumped.

"I was caught," she finally admitted.

"Oh, Karina." Granny gasped and reached for her hand. Now it was Karina's hands that trembled—not hers.

"My voice didn't find the rose," she whispered, shivering as the memory of Prince Hereon stepping out crashed over her.

There was no way she could tell Granny it had been the Prince. So instead, she said, "I damaged the plants... and someone was there. Someone from the royal council."

She bit her lip, shaking. 

Granny's grip tightened, steady and warm—reassuring Karina that she was here. Listening.

"What happened next?" Granny asked.

"They—Th…" Tears welled in her eyes. The fear she had tried to mask now clung to every word. "They want me to work there. As a palace maid."

Granny's lips pressed into a thin line. The palace councils were not to be disobeyed. Still..

"You've been banished. How is that possible?"

"No one will know, if I'm disguised as a maid." 

That's what he said. 

And that's what she willed herself to believe.

"I think I'll help with healing… or something. I don't know exactly. Not when my singing brings only destruction."

Granny stood and came to her side, wrapping her in a firm, warm embrace. She let Karina sob into her arms.

"The palace takes more than it gives. Don't let them take your voice."

"Oh, Granny, what do I do?" Karina shivered in her hold. 

No—Prince Hereon was wrong. If she sang, even for him alone, it would still cause havoc. 

"You know what will become of me if they find out?"

"If the gods truly sent you to that palace, then let them guide your feet. But promise me this—never sing for power. Only for truth," said Granny.

"I don't want to go. The people, the place… it scares me," Karina whispered, clinging tighter.

But Granny stayed calm, rubbing her back with slow, steady hands. 

"My dear Karina, someday the wind will start singing again—and they shall sing your name."