Mother of Midnight

Chapter 213 – Familial Familiarity

“That would be Serkoth,” said Hara, her hand outstretched toward the horizon, where a jagged silhouette of towering walls rose against the sky.

Something in Storm’s chest twisted, a sharp pang that felt almost like the echo of a forgotten memory. It was a feeling she couldn’t name—familiar, yet distant, like a half-remembered dream slipping away when she tried to focus on it. The sight of those walls, the rough, weathered stone… it stirred something deep within her. A fleeting connection, as if she’d been here before. Had she fought here? Had she once stood against something—someone—in these very lands?

Her mind felt fractured, pieces scattered, but the ache was undeniable. There was something about Serkoth that gnawed at her, but the details eluded her. The harder she tried to grasp them, the more they slipped through her fingers, like smoke dissipating in the wind.

Was she from here? Had she been a part of this land's war before? What was her story? The questions clawed at her, yet the answers were just out of reach, as if hidden behind a veil she couldn’t lift.

It made her angry. And frustrated.

When she'd first heard of Serkoth, the enemy had spoken of it with reverence and dread. Unassailable. Unbeatable. That was the word they used. The thought had intrigued her. If Serkoth was so strong, perhaps she could find allies there. Perhaps they could help her understand why she couldn’t remember what came before the battlefields, before the endless carnage.

But now, looking at it from a distance, she wasn’t sure if it was the fortress that was calling to her or something else—something buried deeper, in the recesses of her mind.

“Sure,” she grunted, more to herself than anyone else.

Bethiel, as always, didn’t seem to sense the weight of the moment, instead turning their attention to the practical. “What are you going to do when you get there?”

The question hung in the air, and for a moment, Storm faltered, trying to piece together an answer that would make sense, even to herself.

“Find…” She searched for the right word, a brief flicker of recognition lighting up in her mind but quickly fading. “Allies. To fight against the enemy.” She hesitated, the name sitting just on the tip of her tongue, mocking her. "Aegis," she finally said, her voice flat.

Bethiel nodded, seeming satisfied with the answer, though there was a faint curiosity in her gaze. “Well, Serkoth hates the Sovereignty more than almost anyone else in the steppes, so you’ll have good luck there. They mostly keep to their walls and the surrounding grasslands, though. Not many venture beyond.”

“Are you sure you won’t stay on with us? You’ve been really helpful with the aetherbeasts,” Jurren offered, his tone almost hopeful. He wasn’t the type to beg, but it was clear he wouldn’t mind having her around a little longer.

“I agree! Never felt safer traveling with my wares,” Tennar added from his seat on the wagon, his usual cheer undampened by the long road behind them. “Ain’t often a merchant gets to travel with someone who can wrestle a beast down with their bare hands.”

Storm didn’t even hesitate. “No.” The word came out flat, absolute. She had no interest in playing caravan guard, no matter how much they liked having her around. She wanted to fight, not kill wandering beasts on the road.

“You warmed up to her quickly, Jurren,” Gunter chuckled, smirking at the mercenary leader. “You were real apprehensive about her before.”

“Caution is never a bad thing,” Jurren sniffed, crossing his arms. “But for what it’s worth, I’m glad we took a chance on her. She earned her place.” His gaze flicked to Storm, assessing, but there was something almost like respect in it.

Storm said nothing, only focusing on walking.

Hara cocked her head. “Why’d you stay with us, then? You probably could have gotten here faster if you went alone.”

Storm scratched idly at her chin, considering. She hadn’t really thought about it before—hadn’t needed to. She just did what made sense at the time. Maybe it had been the convenience, the meals, the ease of it all. But in the end, the simplest truth came to her first.

“Food was good.”

That was enough to send the mercenaries into laughter. Jurren let out a tired chuckle, Gunter clapped his hands together, and Tennar wheezed between breaths.

“Spoken like a true warrior,” Gunter said, shaking his head.

But then his grin widened, and his gaze flicked toward Hara. “And banging Hara? Is that not worth staying around for?” he teased, waggling his brows.

Storm turned her head slightly, staring at Hara for a long, slow moment. She looked her up and down, gaze sharp and unreadable. Hara stared back, a smirk creeping onto her lips, clearly expecting some sort of remark.

But then Storm shook her head. “No.”

The smirk wavered. “No?” Hara repeated, arching a brow.

Storm gestured vaguely at her. “She is missing… things.”

Hara blinked. “Things?”

“I don’t know what,” Storm admitted, frowning as she searched for the right words. “Doesn’t feel right.”

That sent the others into another round of laughter, though this time Hara crossed her arms, looking equal parts amused and mildly offended. “Well, damn,” she muttered. “I don’t even know what to do with that.”

They continued to chat and tease as they walked alongside the wagons, the conversation ebbing and flowing like a slow-moving river. Storm listened more than she spoke, letting their voices wash over her while her gaze flicked over the surroundings.

The line into the city was long, stretching ahead in a slow-moving crawl. It took half a bell before they reached the front, and all the while, Storm’s attention lingered on the soldiers patrolling the area. They moved with purpose, eyes scanning the crowd, hands resting near their weapons—not relaxed, but not overly tense either. That was good. It meant they were prepared. A city like this, on the edge of conflict, couldn’t afford to be complacent.

When their turn came, a guard stepped forward, his expression neutral but scrutinizing. "Name and affiliation?" His voice was clipped, professional.

Tennar stepped forward, answering with a merchant’s practiced ease. "Tennar Aldebat. Thalrynn merchant." Storm had no doubt he’d repeated those words a hundred times over in his life.

The guard’s gaze shifted to the others. "Who do you travel with?"

"The Otensa Wolves," Tennar answered smoothly. "Led by Captain Jurren."

The guard’s expression shifted just slightly. Recognition. "Yes, we know of you. We will need to inspect your wares. Please wait a few moments."

Storm stood still, towering above the others as the soldiers began to check the wagons. Her arms hung at her sides, thick-furred and muscular, claws relaxed but unmistakably sharp. She kept her expression flat, letting her ears flick subtly with each voice and footstep.

A soldier broke off from the group and approached her. Male, younger than most, but with the squared shoulders of someone trying to project authority. His gaze lifted slowly, up her chest, her broad shoulders, her neck, and then settled on her face.

“What’s your name?” he asked evenly, though there was a slight edge of curiosity beneath the professionalism.

“Storm,” she replied without blinking.

The name sat heavy in the air for a moment.

“You seem familiar. Have you been to Serkoth before?”

“Dunno,” she said, voice low and gravelly.

“You don’t know?” His tone was skeptical now.

“She has some memory problems,” Hara called from the front of the wagon. She hopped down to stand beside Storm with a polite smile. “Don’t worry, she’s a good sort. Keeps to herself. Works hard.”

The soldier gave a small, uncertain nod, eyes returning to Storm. “There aren’t many lekines built like you,” he said, trying to ease the tension. “You’ve got a bit of a resemblance to Lady Ravnyr. Are you… related to the Serkoth family, by chance?”

Storm’s ears twitched, but her gaze didn’t waver. “No.”

The guard looked her over one more time, searching her face as if hoping to catch a flicker of something. Recognition, anger, denial. But she gave him nothing.

“Right. Understood.” He straightened his tunic and took a step back. “Well, I’d best finish the inspection.”

Storm gave a single nod and said nothing else.

The process was quick after that. The guards moved with efficiency, checking supplies, asking a few questions, but never pressing too hard. It was clear the city was tense—watchful—but not hostile.

Within minutes, the gates were opened, and they were waved through.

The moment Storm stepped inside, she stopped.

Something twisted inside her chest, sharp and jarring. The city spread out before her, familiar in a way that sent a chill down her spine. The layout of the buildings, the scent of the market air thick with spices and roasting meat, the towering structure in the city’s center, every part of it felt like it had been carved into her memory.

But why?

Storm’s fingers twitched at her side. Had she been here before? Had she fought here? Lived here? The memories were fractured, just out of reach, like trying to grasp smoke in her hands.

She didn’t move, didn’t breathe for a long moment. Then, slowly, she stepped forward, her jaw tightening.

"You alright there, big girl?" Hara nudged Storm with her elbow, peering up at her.

"I’m fine."

"Uh-huh. If you say so, Miss Fine." Hara’s smirk was easy, but her eyes searched Storm’s face for something more.

"We’re getting lodging," she went on after a moment. "You coming with?"

"No. We part here."

Hara clicked her tongue. "Ah, well, that’s a shame. You know, if you ever need a group to run with, we’ll probably accept you."

From behind, Gunter let out a rough chuckle. "Hara, stop thinking with what’s between your legs."

Hara huffed. "Oh, please. I meant it seriously."

"It was good traveling with you," Jurren said, stepping forward, his expression as composed as ever. "If you ever need work, I will take you on in my company."

Storm met his gaze. "Understood."

The goodbyes were swift after that, little more than nods and parting words. The others turned toward the heart of the city, moving in a loose, easy formation, chatting amongst themselves. Storm didn’t watch them go—there was no need. Even if she had, they wouldn’t have vanished into the crowd.

Not like she would be able to herself.

She stood taller than most here, a head or two above the shifting mass of city folk moving through the streets. There was no blending in for her, no easy way to disappear into the press of bodies.

So she didn’t try.

Instead, she walked.

There was no plan, no real sense of where she should go. Just that same gnawing feeling in her chest—that something here was familiar, even if she couldn’t grasp why. The streets stretched ahead of her, winding through the city in twisting paths, flanked by sturdy buildings that felt known in a way they shouldn’t.

People glanced at her as she passed, some wary, some merely curious. But none mattered. None of them held answers.

She kept walking.

The cold air cut at her skin, but the city was alive despite it. Merchants called from their stalls, their voices raw from the crisp wind. Workers trudged through the streets, their boots crunching against the packed snow. The scent of roasting meat drifted from a nearby alley, mingling with the sharper tang of tanned leather and the faint iron bite of smithy work.

It felt real. Lived-in.

And it clawed at something in her mind.

She turned a corner, stepping into a broader street, and her gaze landed on the towering structure at the city's center.

The breath caught in her throat.

She knew this place. Not by name. Not by memory.

But by something deeper.

Her hands curled into fists. She kept walking.

When she neared the great wall encircling the massive structure, she slowed, her gaze tracing the smooth stone and iron reinforcements. The building was imposing yet familiar. Why?

Something gnawed at her from the inside out, a pull she couldn’t ignore. Without thinking, she followed the perimeter, her steps slow but deliberate. The cold air bit at her skin, but she barely felt it, too focused on the way each brick, each curve of the architecture, seemed to whisper to her.

Eventually, she rounded a corner and found herself facing a heavy iron gate. Two guards stood flanking it, their post marked by disciplined stillness.

Storm approached.

The moment she stepped forward, the guard to the left—a stern-looking lekine with sharp, angular features and grey-streaked fur—lifted a hand. His expression was impassive, but his amber eyes held a cautious edge.

"Halt," he ordered, voice firm. "State your business."

Storm stared at him, unmoving.

Before she could respond, the second guard—a younger woman with dark, thick fur—suddenly stiffened. Her posture snapped straight, and her ears twitched as her golden eyes went wide with something like shock.

Storm barely had time to react before the recognition bloomed on the guard’s face.

"Lady Ravanyr," she breathed. "Is that you?"

Storm’s body tensed. The name rang in her ears like an echo from deep within a cavern—distant, yet familiar. Ravanyr.

She didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she stared at the guard, searching for something, anything, that might tell her what she was supposed to feel about that name. It wasn’t the first time someone had claimed to recognize her, but this was different. This wasn’t just some passing resemblance. There was certainty in the guard’s voice.

“I am Storm.”

The severe-looking guard beside her shot a sharp glance her way, his hand shifting toward the hilt of his weapon.

“Rava has grey hair and fur, and her eyes are golden. This woman has blue eyes and black hair and fur.” he said, his voice carrying suspicion.

The older guard’s lips pressed into a firm line, his suspicion deepening. His golden eyes flicked between Storm and Riorna, his hand never straying far from the pommel of his sword. “She doesn’t look the same, and she doesn’t claim to be. That should be the end of it.”

Riorna’s tail flicked sharply. “She’s only been gone a few months, not years. Do you really think it’s strange for her to show up now?” She gestured toward Storm’s broad frame. “How many Lekine do you know that stand this tall? Who could it be other than Lady Ravanyr?”

“I am Storm,” Storm said again, flatly. She didn’t like them talking around her as if she weren’t standing right in front of them.

The older guard scoffed. “See? She admits to not being Lady Ravanyr. That should be enough.”

Riorna’s ears pinned back. “With all due respect, sir, I think the High Fang should be the one to decide.”

The other guard hesitated, jaw tight. His tail bristled slightly, but after a long pause, he exhaled sharply through his nose and stepped aside.

Riorna turned to Storm, expectation in her eyes. Hope.

“…Come with me,” she said, stepping toward the gate.

Storm didn’t move at first. The pull she felt toward this place was strong, but something about it made her uneasy, like stepping into a story she couldn’t remember.

She walked forward anyway.

As they made their way up to the large doors, Storm caught glimpses of recognition in the faces around her. Some stared outright, their eyes wide with shock. Others whispered among themselves, their hushed voices carrying just enough for her to hear snippets—Is it really her?—But her eyes…—Could she have changed so much in just a few months?

The heavy doors groaned as they swung open, revealing the hall beyond. Storm hesitated just inside, her eyes sweeping over the space. It was large but sparsely decorated, the high ceilings giving it an almost cavernous feel. Tapestries adorned the walls in muted colors, depicting battlefields and old victories. A few paintings broke up the otherwise plain aesthetic, but even they were somber—portraits of stern-faced warriors, their golden eyes watching over the room. The furniture was sturdy, built for function rather than flair.

It was familiar.

Storm’s claws twitched. Why?

“Rara!”

Before she could react, a blur of fur and movement slammed into her side with enough force to knock an ordinary person off their feet. She didn’t budge.

Storm barely had time to register the small figure clinging to her torso before instincts took over. Her arm shot forward, snatching the man by his throat and hoisting him into the air.

Riorna moved instantly. With a sharp cry, she swung her poleaxe at Storm’s side.

Storm caught the haft in one hand and ripped it from the soldier’s grasp as though it weighed nothing. Riorna stumbled back, wide-eyed, weaponless.

The man in her grip kicked weakly, his hands scrambling to pry her fingers from his neck. His ears were pinned back, but there was no fear in his eyes. If anything, he looked almost… pleased.

Storm bared her teeth, bringing him closer until their noses nearly touched. Her voice rumbled low in her throat. “Who are you?”

He made a strangled sound, his mouth opening but no words coming out.

Storm loosened her grip just slightly.

A mistake.

The instant he could draw breath, he muttered something in a strange, sharp language and traced a glowing circle in the air.

Chains of light erupted from the ground.

Storm barely had time to react before the bindings snapped around her limbs, slamming her to her knees. Her muscles tensed against them, but they held firm, glowing with a strength beyond mere steel.

The man wheezed, rubbing at his neck, then grinned up at her through watery eyes. “Don’t you recognize me?”

Storm glared at him.

Her face twisted in frustration.

Did she?

Could he tell her who she was before she became Storm?

“Who are you?”

The chains of light still held Storm in place, pinning her firmly to the ground. She tested them, feeling them strain against her muscles, but they did not break. The small man before her rubbed at his throat with one hand, the other resting casually on his hip, as if this was all some minor inconvenience.

“Don’t recognize your coolest and most talented big brother?” he said with a lopsided grin, his tail flicking behind him.

Storm’s eyes narrowed. Brother?

A murmur spread through the entrance hall. A small crowd had gathered to watch the scene unfold—curious onlookers peeking out from doorways, whispering among themselves. Some were servants, others soldiers, and more than a few noble-looking types who stood at a careful distance, their expressions wary.

Riorna, still weaponless, turned to the small man in disbelief. “That’s really her?” she asked, her voice hesitant.

The man dusted himself off, then stretched, rolling his shoulders like he’d just finished a hard day’s work. “Yeah. I’d bet my life on it.” He let out a short laugh. “Nearly did, even! Rara, you gave me a bit of a fright there!”

His golden eyes studied her more closely now, his grin slipping just slightly. “Why do you look so different?”

Storm barely heard him.

Her mind was a storm of emotion, thoughts racing too fast to catch.

He knows me.

She had come here with no memories. Just a name—a name given to her by others, a name she had made her own.

But this man—this brother—he knew the person she had been before.

“Who am I?” Storm demanded, her black eyes burning as she stared down at him. It wasn’t just a question—it was a challenge, an order.

The small man—her supposed brother—met her glare with an easy smile, but there was something measuring in his golden gaze. He wasn’t afraid, not really, but he wasn’t stupid either.

“Well, before I answer that,” he said, rubbing his throat one last time, “if I release you, are you going to promise not to snap my neck with those awfully big claws?”

Storm held her glare for a moment longer, the weight of the gathered onlookers pressing in around them. She could still feel the phantom grip of the chains that had pinned her down, her body remembering the restraint even as it faded.

Finally, she gave a sharp nod.

Tarric let out a breath, relief flickering across his face before he snapped his fingers. The chains of light unraveled in an instant, vanishing like mist in the morning sun.

Storm stretched, rolling her shoulders as she adjusted to standing freely once more. Her gaze drifted back to him, taking in his smaller frame, the way he barely reached her chest.

"You are very short," she observed.

A bark of laughter burst from Tarric, loud and genuine. A few of the gathered onlookers chuckled as well, though most still looked on in uncertainty.

“Compared to the rest of our family, maybe,” he admitted with a broad grin. “But I prefer to think of myself as fun-sized. Don’t you think I’m fun, Rara?”

Storm’s expression didn’t shift. “You are annoying.”

Tarric clutched his chest in mock injury. “Ooh! Ouch! That stung a bit!” He let out a dramatic sigh, then turned on his heel, motioning for her to follow. “Come along, dearest little sister. We have so much to catch up on.”

Storm hesitated for a fraction of a second before following. If he had answers, she would hear them.