novelraw Chapter 203 – Storm
Chapter 203 – Storm
She had been killing for many nights now. The work had become second nature—silent, efficient, unseen. The soldiers whispered of her, their fear growing with each vanished comrade, each body discovered at dawn with its throat torn open or its insides hollowed out.
They called her a shadow, a curse, a thing that hunted them in the dark. Some believed it was a demon, sent to punish them for their sins. Others, the more rational ones, reasoned that it must be the remnants of their enemy—the Drakthar—ambushing them from the ruins.
The name lingered in her mind, unsettlingly familiar. Drakthar. A place? A people? A war she had once known? The answer eluded her, slipping through her grasp like mist. She needed to know.
Between the kills, she had moments to herself. Quiet moments, stolen in the dead of night, when she sat among the bones of her prey and thought.
That was when the flashes of memory came. Fleeting, fragile things. She reached for them, but they dissolved the moment she tried to hold on.
One was of a place—white walls stretching high, pristine and cold. A city? A fortress? It felt like a dream half-remembered, real and unreal at once.
Another came with a twinge deep in her chest, an ache she couldn’t name. A presence.
She could see her so clearly, clearer than anything else.
Horns, sharp and spiraling. A wicked, knowing smile. Plush, generous curves. A gaze that could devour.
Her heart, wreathed in storm, shadow, and rage, clenched.
The memory lingered, teasing her, whispering of something important. And yet, like all the others, it slipped away before she could grasp it.
She needed to move on.
But where?
The soldiers spoke in hushed tones when they thought no one was listening, their voices carrying through the ruined streets. They spoke of cities—ones still standing, still defiant. Places they had yet to break. One in particular, southeast of here, had been a thorn in their side for as long as they could remember.
Serkoth.
The name rang through her mind, stirring something deep within. It felt familiar. Something about it mattered.
If these men were its enemies, then perhaps she and Serkoth could find common ground. If they shared foes, they could slaughter them together.
Yes. That would do.
So, under the cover of darkness, she set out alone.
She listened, piecing together a sense of direction from scattered conversations, from maps half-glimpsed through the windows of abandoned posts. Then she ran, the cold air screaming past her as she cut through the snow like the storm itself.
She avoided well-traveled paths, but never strayed too far—if there were roads, they would lead her somewhere useful.
Occasionally, she stopped to hunt.
Small game was simple. Quick. She would pounce, claws flashing, teeth sinking into yielding flesh. Warm.Delicious. The raw meat filled her belly and satisfied something deeper than hunger.
She had tried eating the dead back in that ruined city. Tried sinking her teeth into the flesh of those she had slain.
But disgust had welled up inside her.
She had spat them out, left them to rot.
And she did not know why.
She came across them just as the last light of day began to fade—a small group of travelers setting up camp in the snow-dusted clearing of a wooded path.
Two wagons, sturdy and weathered, were pulled by large six-legged canines that huffed steam into the frigid air. The beasts sat curled near the fire, their bodies radiating warmth.
She watched from the shadows as the travelers worked with practiced ease, unpacking supplies and tending to their mounts. Soon, they gathered around a bubbling pot of stew, the rich scent of meat and spices carrying on the wind.
They ate in quiet murmurs, huddled close for warmth. Their laughter, when it came, was soft—gentle.
She felt the hunger stir in her belly, a gnawing need that would not be ignored.
Would she have to kill them for it?
Her claws flexed, her tail twitched. It would be easy. She could slip in, swift and silent, cut their throats before they even knew she was there. Their flesh would be warm, fresh. Satisfying.
And yet…
Something about it felt wrong.
They were not the enemy.
The enemy was for killing.
These ones… They were something else.
“Who’s there?” one of the guards called, his voice sharp and wary. His gaze locked onto her hiding place without hesitation.
She froze. How? She had been careful. Silent. She was the storm when she fought, the shadow when she hid. No one should have seen her.
Should she run? If she wasn’t going to kill them for the food, then she could always hunt. Small game was easy. Quick.
But… these people might know where Serkoth was.
Slowly, she stepped forward, out of the darkness and into the firelight. A few of them tensed, gripping their weapons. Spears, short swords—small things, much like the enemy carried. They were small too, each of them at least two heads shorter than her.
She let them take her in, her tanned skin, her cerulean eyes gleaming in the firelight.
“Food.” She demanded.
Silence followed. The fire crackled, the stew bubbled, and the wind whispered through the trees, but none of the travelers spoke.
One of the men, the one who had called out, tightened his grip on his spear. His knuckles went white. “You’re awfully bold to come stumbling into our camp demanding food while naked, stranger.” His voice was cautious, but not outright hostile.
Another, a woman with a scar down her cheek, looked her up and down. “You have a cock.”
“Yes.”
“Riiight. You got coin? Food ain’t free.”
“I have nothing.”
“Then you get nothing.”
She growled, hunger twisted in her gut. She could kill them. She shouldn’t, but she could. She had seen them. The moment she moved, she would tear through them like dry leaves in the wind.
Another figure stepped forward from the gathered travelers—a broad man with a heavy cloak draped over his thick frame. His black-furred ears twitched atop his head, poking through a woolen cap dusted with frost. He raised a hand, palm open, in a placating gesture.
“No need for hostilities if it isn’t needed,” he said, his voice warm but edged with caution. “I can spare an extra meal from my merchandise.”
Her head snapped toward him, sharp and predatory. He flinched—just slightly—but it was enough for her to see the truth in his stance. The way his weight subtly shifted, the way his breath hitched for a fraction of a second. He was nervous. Afraid.
And yet, he stood his ground.
“She’s a danger,” the first man said, gripping his spear tighter. His eyes flickered to the others, searching for support. “I think we oughta turn her away.”
“She is naked in the dead of winter.” The portly man’s tone remained steady, but there was steel beneath the softness. “I think we can accept another mouth to feed for tonight.”
A tense silence followed. The first man exhaled sharply through his nose, his grip on the spear tightening before he finally let it lower. “If that’s what you want,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I don’t like this, though.”
The portly man only smiled, his posture easing just slightly. “Come, stranger, sit by our fire and warm your belly with some stew.” He turned, gesturing to the flames where the others sat, their wary eyes never leaving her. “Could I have your name?”
She moved, stepping toward the fire and lowering herself onto the cold, hard ground. The heat licked at her skin, unfamiliar but not unwelcome. The flickering light danced across her bare form, casting long shadows behind her.
The rest of the guards took their places by the fire, but their hands never left their weapons.
A name.
She sat in silence, staring into the flames. Did she have one? A distant feeling, a whisper in the dark corners of her mind, told her she might have once. But it slipped through her grasp, lost before she could seize it.
Her fingers curled against the frost-bitten earth.
“I don’t know,” she grunted.
“You don’t?” he asked, brow raised.
“I don’t remember anything. A fight, many dead. Got wounded. Woke up. Killed the enemy. Too much enemy though. Want allies. Going to Serkoth to find allies to fight the enemy.” She said.
“Well, we can’t just call you stranger. Can you think of a name you would like us to call you?”
She thought hard. Names were hard. Why were they so difficult? Why couldn’t she remember her own name? She shrugged.
“Call me whatever you want.”
The portly man studied her for a long moment, his round face thoughtful. Then, with a small nod to himself, he said, “How about ‘Storm’?”
She frowned slightly, rolling the name over in her mind. Storm. It felt… fitting. She didn’t remember much, but she remembered the cold wind at her back, the way she moved like a gale through the enemy ranks, swift and unstoppable.
“Yes,” she said finally. “Storm.”
“And I am Tennar.” The portly man smiled, though there was still a hint of wariness in his eyes. “Well then, Storm, let’s get you something warm to eat before you freeze to death.”
He turned toward one of the wagons and gestured to a younger woman who had been watching the exchange with wide, cautious eyes. She hesitated for a moment before ladling a portion of steaming stew into a wooden bowl and handing it off to him.
The first man—the one who had wanted to turn her away—crossed his arms, his scowl deepening. “This is a mistake,” he muttered under his breath.
Storm ignored him. If he became a problem, she would deal with him.
Tennar returned and held out the bowl. “Ignore, Jurren. He’s just doing his job. Here. Eat up.”
She took it, staring down at the dark broth. Chunks of meat and root vegetables bobbed beneath the surface, steam rising in lazy curls. The scent was unfamiliar, but it called to her, stirring something deep in her chest.
She brought the bowl to her lips and drank deeply, swallowing down the warmth. It was rich, hearty, filling in a way that raw meat never had. It settled something in her—not just hunger, but something deeper.
This was good.
She drank again, slower this time, savoring it.
“You’re pretty big. What did your parents feed you?” asked the scarred woman, eyeing Storm with a mix of curiosity and caution. Her rough voice carried a hint of dry amusement, though her posture remained guarded.
“I don’t know,” Storm answered honestly, the words carrying no frustration—just simple fact. She had no memory of them, no memory of what she had eaten before waking up in blood and snow.
The woman tilted her head, still eyeing Storm as she continued, “I’m Hara, by the way.” She gave a sharp nod, a simple introduction, but there was a certain sharpness in her eyes that suggested she wasn't just making conversation.
Storm paused for a moment, blinking as she processed the name. She didn’t have one of her own, but she’d learned by now that people liked to use them.
Before she could say anything, Hara’s gaze flicked down to Storm's food bowl, and a quiet chuckle rumbled from her chest. “Well, we can’t say you’re lacking in appetite.”
Storm tilted the bowl back, draining the last of the broth before shoving her face into it. She ravenously tore into the meat and vegetables, her sharp teeth clicking against the wooden rim as she made sure to scrape up every last scrap.
The others around the fire fell silent for a moment, watching the raw intensity with which she consumed her food.
Hara didn’t seem bothered, though she gave a wry smile. “Aren’t you cold? Not that I mind looking, of course.”
“No.” Storm said bluntly, her voice as hard as the snow underfoot. Her gaze remained intense, fixed forward as she finished drinking the broth, the warmth of the liquid briefly comforting her but doing little to ease the coldness inside her.
“You aren’t much of a talker, are you?” Hara’s tone was more curious than critical, her sharp eyes scanning the tall woman sitting across from her.
Storm didn’t reply right away. She set the bowl aside with a slight grunt of satisfaction and wiped her mouth on her arm. "Memory isn't good. Don't remember too much. Don't know what to talk about." Her words were simple, as blunt as the edge of her claws, but there was an unspoken depth to them—fragments of a history too painful to grasp, too fractured to be pieced back together.
Hara didn’t push, though the flicker of sympathy was there in her gaze for a brief moment. She let it pass and leaned forward slightly, narrowing her eyes at Storm. “So who is this enemy you were talking about?”
Storm paused. The question seemed so simple, but there was a weight behind it. The enemy wasn’t something she had a name for until just now, but she knew the shape of them, the coldness of their presence. With a flick of her claw, she scraped it into the snow beside them, leaving the mark of the emblem she’d seen on their armor—an insignia that had haunted her thoughts ever since.
Hara leaned closer, squinting to get a better look at the shape. "Aegis?" she murmured, almost to herself. "Yeah, that's a good enemy to have. They are bastards."
Storm’s lips pulled back in a low snarl. “Aegis.” The name tasted sour on her tongue, but it was a name, something to hang her hate on.
“Stop chatting with the suspicious stranger,” Said Jurren gruffly.
“Oh, shut up, Jurren,” Hara called over her shoulder, not even sparing him a glance. She turned back to Storm, her smile returning, though it was tinged with something knowing. “So why are you going to Serkoth?”
Storm’s eyes darkened at the mention of the place. It had a pull on her, an urgency she couldn’t explain, something deeper than just a desire for allies. She shifted her weight slightly, her muscles taut. “Want allies. Can only kill so much Aegis alone. All Aegis must be killed.” Her voice took on a dangerous edge, a promise and a threat all at once.
Hara’s eyes twinkled with approval, her grin widening. "Yeah. Good. They took down Drakthar, did you know about that?"
The mention of Drakthar caught Storm’s attention. She had heard the whispers, the fragments of memory and rage that had clung to her in the dark of that strange place. Her eyes flashed at Hara, narrowing. “Woke up there. Started killing enemy. They whisper monsters and curses in my presence. They think a monster preyed upon them.” Her voice was low, dangerous, each word dripping with contempt. “They were right.”
Hara’s smile faltered for a second, her gaze flicking to Jurren before returning to Storm. "A monster, huh?" She said, her voice quieter now. "Well, they definitely messed with the wrong one, didn't they?"
“Yes.”
Hara’s gaze softened ever so slightly, but before she could press further, her eyes darted to the other guards around the fire, as if gauging the reaction of those who had yet to speak. After a moment’s silence, she grinned. "We are heading to Serkoth, want to tag along?"
The question hung in the air for a beat, and Storm felt the shift in the atmosphere. The other guards leaned forward, drawn in by the proposition. For a fleeting moment, it felt as though their fates had intersected with hers, as if the road ahead was now a little less solitary.
Jurren's voice cut through the quiet, sharp and disapproving. “Hara, you can’t just invite whoever you want with us!”
Hara didn’t flinch, her grin widening with a playful glint in her eyes. "Why not? She looks capable enough."
Tennar spoke up with a more measured tone. “I don’t mind, though we will need to get her into some clothing first.” His eyes roved over Storm’s exposed skin, and he seemed to make a mental note of the frigid cold that clung to the air. “She looks strong, and the aetherbeasts are more active in the winter.”
Storm’s gaze shifted, feeling the cold prickle against her exposed skin. She could feel the cold, but it didn’t affect her and aetherbeasts were familiar. Were they the big animals that she avoided during her travels?
Hara waved a dismissive hand at Jurren's objection, her tone light as ever. “We’re not going to leave her out in the cold, Jurren. The more hands we have, the better. Especially if they can fight.” She looked back at Storm, an expectant look in her eyes. “So, what do you say?”
Storm stared at Hara, her gaze steady, but she didn’t speak. Clothes? Why did they care so much about clothes? She had managed without them, hadn’t she? Still, there was something about the warmth of the fire, the comfort of the stew, and the pressing cold that made her pause. These people, they seemed to think it mattered, so she wouldn’t fight it. For now.
She didn’t need much. But she was willing to tolerate this.
"Fine."
Hara gave a brief nod of satisfaction before calling out. “Hey, Betheil! You’re the biggest one here. Got a spare set of clothes for her?”
There was an irritated grunt from the other side of the camp. "Ugh. Fine," Betheil muttered, but Storm could tell they weren't thrilled about it. “She still looks bigger than me though. Don’t think I’ve seen a fellow lekine that big, except of course the Serkoth family.”
Serkoth.
The name brushed against her mind once more like something just out of reach. She felt the faintest flicker of recognition, a shadow of something long buried, but it slipped away before she could catch hold of it. The name was important, wasn’t it? It was the name of a family, not just a place. She wasn’t sure why, but it felt like it mattered.
She turned her attention back to Betheil, who tossed her the clothes with a grunt. She caught them in her hands and inspected the tunic and pants briefly. They were far too small, meant for someone much slimmer than her. The tunic strained across her shoulders, the sleeves barely reaching her elbows. The pants were tight around her thighs, but she tugged them on anyway. It didn’t matter. She was used to discomfort.
The woolen fabric itched slightly against her skin, but the warmth seeped in, and for a moment, she allowed herself to relax. This wasn’t much, but it was something. She adjusted the tunic again, trying to make it fit better. It didn’t. She didn’t care.
Storm didn’t acknowledge Betheil, or anyone else. She wasn’t here for their approval. She was here because of Serkoth. And because of the enemy that had driven her to this strange, fleeting existence of survival.
She glanced at Hara, who was watching her closely, waiting for some kind of reaction, but Storm didn’t offer one. The woman’s face showed a flicker of amusement, perhaps, or curiosity, but it didn’t matter. None of this mattered.
She turned her gaze back to the fire. This would be a temporary solution—just like everything else. When she was done with these clothes, she’d find new ones. Larger ones, perhaps. Or maybe she wouldn’t need clothes at all anymore. She didn’t know.
But for now, she’d travel with them. To Serkoth. She wasn’t sure why that name felt like a piece of her past, but she would find out. And when she did, the answers would either set her free—or drive her further into the storm.