novelraw Chapter 214 – Right
Chapter 214 – Right
"Take a seat wherever you want," Tarric offered as he plonked himself down into a large chair, sprawling into it with the ease of someone completely at home in his own space.
Storm surveyed the room with a slow, careful glance. It was a mess—but an organized one, the kind of chaos that made sense to its creator even if no one else could decipher it. Scrolls and books were stacked precariously on nearly every surface, alchemical components sat in haphazard clusters, and loose parchment littered the floor like fallen leaves. Yet, somehow, nothing was truly out of place. It was a disaster that functioned, ordered in a way that no self-respecting lekine would ever allow.
Storm settled onto the couch opposite him, her frame sinking slightly into the plush cushions. The furniture in this room was large—larger than what she’d seen elsewhere in the building. Built for people like me, she noted absently. Across from her, Tarric looked almost comically small in his oversized chair, his legs barely reaching the floor.
"So, you seriously don’t remember me?" he asked, tilting his head as he studied her.
Storm shook her head once, firmly.
Tarric hummed, tapping his fingers against the armrest. “Well, I guess I’ll just have to work extra hard to make sure you do, eventually.” He flashed a grin, but there was something softer beneath it, something uncertain.
Tarric leaned forward, his golden eyes gleaming with intensity, all traces of his earlier playfulness momentarily set aside. “What happened to Viv, Renzia, and Kivvy?”
Storm stared at him, unblinking. The names meant nothing to her. They should have, judging by the way he spoke them, like they were people she ought to know—people important to her. But there was nothing. No flicker of recognition, no buried emotions trying to claw their way to the surface. Just emptiness.
“Who?” she asked, her voice flat.
Tarric recoiled as if she’d struck him. His ears flicked back, and he let out a sharp breath. “Wow. You must have been bonked on the head pretty hard,” he muttered, rubbing his temples. Then, suddenly, his gaze snapped back to hers, bright with curiosity. “Can I run some tests on you?”
Storm frowned, her posture stiffening. “What sort of tests?”
“Whoa, whoa, no need to get angry.” Tarric raised his hands in mock surrender, palms facing her. The movement made Storm glance at his claws—trimmed short, dulled, unlike her own, which remained long and sharp. He didn’t seem like much of a fighter.
He continued quickly, as if trying to reassure her. “I wouldn’t do anything too intrusive on my precious baby sister. Mostly just a few scans. You’re radiating aether, Rara. Way more than before. It’s pouring off you.”
Storm hesitated. She still wasn’t sure what to make of him. He was familiar in a way she couldn’t explain, even if her memories refused to confirm it. Something deep in her bones told her she could trust him, though, and she had no reason to doubt her instincts.
“…Fine.”
Tarric grinned, his ears perking back up. “Fantastic! You don’t even need to move. Actually, I’d prefer it if you stayed right where you are.”
With a flourish, he reached into his robes and pulled out a wand—a slender, polished piece of wood etched with delicate carvings. Storm tensed slightly as he began to channel energy through it, the air between them humming with unseen forces.
A wave of warmth washed over Storm, gentle at first, then seeping into her skin like heat spreading from a fire. It softened the tension in her muscles, dulled the edge of her thoughts, and left her body feeling heavier, her mind drifting. Her breath slowed, her eyes began to flutter shut—
Something was wrong.
A sharp jolt shot through her, her instincts flaring in alarm. With a sudden, violent motion, she jerked back, claws flashing as she raked a deep gash into her forearm. Glowing blue blood welled from the wound, seeping down her skin in thin rivulets. The sting barely registered—what mattered was that the haze was gone.
She shot to her feet, her hackles raised, looming over Tarric. “What did you do to me?” Her voice was low, dangerous, a growl beneath her words.
Tarric let out a long, weary sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “That was just the initial part of the spell,” he said, his voice measured but careful. “It relaxes the target—you—because the scanning process can be a little uncomfortable. I didn’t think you’d react so violently.”
Storm’s glare darkened, her breathing still heavy. “I don’t like it.”
“Clearly.” Tarric raised his hands in a placating gesture, his ears twitching back. He glanced at her arm, at the slow trickle of glowing blood, but wisely chose not to comment. “Fine. If I take that component out, the spell won’t feel as smooth. It will cause some discomfort. But if that’s what you want…” He arched a brow, waiting.
Storm didn’t hesitate. “Do it.”
Tarric muttered a few arcane words, and Storm felt the magic settle over her again. This time, it was shorter, stripped of the strange relaxation from before. Instead, something thick and wet pressed against her from all directions, clinging to her skin, seeping through her fur. It wasn’t painful—just an unsettling, suffocating sensation, like being submerged without drowning.
Still, it was nothing compared to the first time. The first time had made her feel exposed.
A few moments passed before the pressure receded, and the spell faded. Tarric pulled back with a deep frown, his ears twitching. Without a word, he flicked his fingers, and a notebook and quill floated over from a nearby desk, settling neatly into his waiting hands. He wasted no time scribbling furiously, his brow furrowed in deep concentration.
Storm crossed her arms. “Well?”
Tarric’s tail flicked behind him as he kept writing, only glancing up once he’d filled half a page with notes. “Not what I expected,” he admitted. “But it explains a few things.”
Storm narrowed her eyes. “Like what?”
“Well,” he said, twirling the quill between his fingers, “I am now even more certain you’re my sister! Well—mostly. Somewhat. A bit.”
Storm’s glare sharpened. “What do you mean?” she grunted.
Tarric tapped the quill against his chin, tilting his head. “I don’t know what happened to you out there, but it can’t have been good—especially if you’re here alone instead of with your friends.” He gave her a searching look, but when Storm didn’t respond, he simply continued. “According to my spell, you are an aetherbeast.”
Storm frowned. “So?”
Tarric’s ears flicked as he studied her, his golden eyes sharp but troubled. He tapped his fingers against his arm, tail curling behind him in thought. “If my spell is correct, then you should be nothing but a mindless beast, attacking anything with intelligence.” His brow furrowed. “But then again, Vivienne wasn’t exactly mindless either… and I’m fairly certain you ran into another one at some point.”
Storm watched him, silent. His expression had changed—his usual air of easy confidence now weighed down by something heavier, something solemn.
“Honestly, it’d be more accurate to say you’re partially my sister.” He hesitated, then added, “You certainly resemble her.”
Storm’s ears twitched. That word—partially. Something about it sat wrong, though she couldn’t say why.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“I don’t either,” Tarric admitted with a sigh. “I have theories—a few, actually—but I wasn’t there. And theory only takes me so far.” He leaned forward slightly. “You were there. Do you remember anything? Anything at all?”
Storm’s face scrunched as she tried to reach back, to grasp at the pieces floating just out of reach. It was strange—something in her told her that she could trust him, even if she didn’t fully understand why. But the memories were broken, shattered into fragments too small to hold onto. And some of them—
Some of them hurt.
Still, she pushed.
“…Battle.” The word came first, easily. Then the rest followed, slower, dredged up from the depths of something dark and unsteady. “Golden man with wings.” The image was bright, blinding, but she forced herself to keep going. “Laying on the ground. Grey skin pressed against my own.”
A sharp pulse of pain struck her temple. She winced but pressed on.
“Black tears.” The memory twisted—something was wrong about it, something was wrong about her.
Then—pain.
A burst of it, sudden and all-consuming. And then—
“Nothing,” she whispered.
The memory was gone.
She exhaled sharply, shoulders tight.
Tarric had gone still. He watched her closely, something unreadable in his expression.
“…Are you okay?” he asked.
Storm swallowed the lump in her throat. The pressure in her skull was still there, buzzing beneath the surface, but it didn’t matter.
“I’m fine,” she said, voice clipped.
Tarric’s eyes narrowed slightly. He tilted his head. “Then why are you crying?”
Storm blinked.
She hadn’t noticed at first, but—her face was wet.
She reached up, fingers brushing against her cheek. The moisture there startled her. She stared at her paw pads in silence, mind blank.
Why was she crying?
She clenched her jaw, pushing the feeling down. It didn’t matter.
“I don’t know,” she admitted, voice tight.
Tarric hesitated for only a moment before speaking, his voice softer than before.
“May I hug you?” he asked. “I give great hugs, I promise.”
Storm blinked at him. The request caught her off guard. It wasn’t something she’d expected—wasn’t something she was used to. There was something strangely vulnerable about the way he asked, though. No teasing, no bravado. Just quiet sincerity.
She hesitated, her claws flexing slightly against her palms. But then—she nodded.
Tarric’s ears perked up, and without wasting a moment, he pushed himself to his feet. He moved with an easy sort of familiarity, stepping over piles of books and parchment as if they weren’t even there. Some of the books beside her toppled to the ground as he cleared space, but if he cared, he didn’t show it.
Then his arms were around her.
For all his confidence, his hold was careful at first, wrapping around her waist with measured pressure. He was smaller than her, his arms unable to fully encompass her frame, but he squeezed tightly, like he was trying to make up for the difference with sheer conviction.
Storm sat stiffly at first, uncertain of what to do with herself. But then, slowly—hesitantly—she let herself lean into the embrace.
It was awkward. Her arms moved on instinct, uncertain, until she finally settled them around him, a loose but growing hold. She hadn’t realized how tense she’d been until now, hadn’t noticed how the weight in her chest loosened just a little at the warmth of someone else’s touch.
They stayed like that.
Seconds stretched into minutes, the silence between them comfortable, unbroken.
Storm felt something settle in her, something heavy but not unwelcome. It wasn’t that she remembered him—not fully, not clearly—but something about him felt familiar. The warmth of his hold, the steady sound of his breathing, the quiet patience in his presence.
Eventually, she broke the silence.
“…Who am I?” she asked.
Tarric pulled back slightly, just enough to meet her eyes. His golden gaze was warm, his expression soft.
“Well,” he said, “I don’t know exactly who you are right now…” His lips quirked into a small, fond smile. “But you’re still my sister.”
Storm’s chest tightened.
“Do you want me to tell you about what you were like before?” Tarric asked.
Storm hesitated. But then—she nodded.
“…Yeah,” she said. “I think I do.”
Tarric leaned back with a dramatic sigh, though his grin never faded.
“Well, how about we tidy up and get something to eat first?” he suggested, brushing at the damp fabric of his robes. “You got blood on my couch, and, uh… the back of my robes feels really wet.” His tail flicked as he scrunched his nose in mock dismay.
Storm glanced at the couch, noting the smear of blue where she’d bled onto it. She hadn’t even realized how much had seeped into the fabric.
“Fine,” she muttered.
Tarric beamed, clapping his paws together. With a flick of his wrist, a soft glow surrounded his fingers, and he reached out, gently pressing his palm to her wounded arm. Warmth spread from the point of contact, soothing and tingling all at once. Within seconds, the gash sealed shut, leaving behind nothing but a patch of missing fur where she’d clawed herself.
“There we go!” he said, stepping back to admire his work. “Good as new. Well… mostly. The fur will grow back.”
Storm gave her arm a quick once-over. She supposed it was better than walking around still bleeding.
Tarric, meanwhile, was already moving, stripping off his damp robes and tossing them haphazardly onto a chair before rummaging through a nearby trunk. He pulled out a fresh set—deep blue with golden trim—and threw them on with practiced ease.
“Alright!” He gestured for her to follow. “C’mon, let’s get some food in you.”
Storm followed as he led the way through the winding halls, her ears twitching at the shift in atmosphere. The further they went, the livelier the air became. Distant voices carried through the corridors, mingling with the clatter of pots and the rich scent of food.
By the time they entered the kitchen, the warm, savory aroma had fully settled in her nose.
The space was bustling, several people moving about, tending to stoves and chopping boards. The rhythmic thunk-thunk of knives echoed through the air, along with the sizzle of something frying in a pan. But the moment Storm stepped inside, nearly every head turned.
The kitchen staff froze mid-motion, their eyes lingering on her. Some looked surprised. Others… cautious.
Storm tensed.
Tarric, however, seemed entirely unbothered. He strolled in without hesitation, heading straight for a large wooden counter. “Alright! What do you want to eat?” he asked, turning back to her.
Storm blinked. “…Cooked food.”
Tarric snorted, ears flicking in amusement. “Of course! But what kind of cooked food?”
Storm frowned. Was there more than one type? The Otensa wolves had mentioned different foods before, but she’d never paid much attention. She usually just ate whatever was available.
“I don’t know,” she admitted.
Tarric hummed in thought, tapping a claw against his chin. “Well, that’s fine! I do have an idea.” His golden eyes twinkled with excitement. “Trust me, you’ll love it.”
True to his word, Tarric was correct—Storm did love this cooked food.
The first bite sent warmth flooding through her, rich and savory, the texture both crisp and tender. It was hearty, filling in a way that raw meat never quite managed. She wasn’t sure if it was the warmth, the seasoning, or something else entirely, but whatever her past self had loved about food like this, she wholeheartedly agreed.
Tarric grinned as he watched her eat. “That,” he said with a flick of his tail, “is grilled rioa fish. Fresh from the river nearby. Not the most common catch, since they’re more active in winter, but I pulled a few strings.” He tapped the side of his nose knowingly. “Worth it?”
Storm swallowed and nodded. “It’s good.”
“I can tell,” Tarric said, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Your tail is wagging like crazy.”
Storm stiffened, glancing behind her as if she could catch it in the act. “No, it isn’t.”
“Oh, Rara, I have eyes,” Tarric teased, leaning his chin into his palm. “I promise you, that thing is going wild.”
She scowled, but the food was too good to waste energy arguing. Instead, she focused on her next bite, though she shifted slightly to tuck her tail closer to the bench. It wasn’t wagging. Probably.
Storm didn't hesitate. She shoved her face onto the plate, tearing into the remaining fish with wild abandon. The rich, smoky flavors filled her mouth, and she let out a pleased rumble as she devoured every last scrap. Her long, black tongue darted out, curling against the plate, pressing insistently as if she could coax out more. But the dish was well and truly empty.
Across the table, Tarric snorted, barely containing his laughter. “You’ve made a mess of yourself,” he said, gesturing at the bits of fish and sauce now smeared across her chin, cheeks, and the front of her clothes. His golden eyes twinkled with amusement.
Storm barely acknowledged him. “Want another serving?”
“Yes,” she said immediately.
Tarric raised an eyebrow, grinning. “Yes what?”
Storm frowned. What did he mean? “Yes, I want more.”
Tarric let out a dramatic sigh, shaking his head. “I’m going to have to teach you manners again, aren’t I?”
Storm scowled, ears flicking back. “Manners for what? I said what I wanted.”
“Yes, but you said it like a little beastie,” Tarric teased, waggling a clawed finger at her. “You’re supposed to say, ‘Yes, please may I have more, dear brother, who is the kindest and most generous sibling in the whole world.’”
Storm narrowed her eyes. “That’s stupid.”
Tarric gasped, clutching his chest as if wounded. “Oh, the betrayal! After all I’ve done for you!” He dramatically slumped forward onto the table before peeking up at her with a sly smirk. “C’mon, just a little ‘please’? I did make this just for you.”
Storm licked the last traces of sauce from her lips, her ears twitching as she considered the lingering taste. She eyed Tarric, then the empty plate, then back at Tarric.
“Someone else cooked this,” she said flatly.
Tarric, mid-sip of his drink, gave a theatrical gasp and placed a paw against his chest. “Yes, but I arranged it,” he declared, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Ergo, I get at least some of the credit.”
Storm frowned. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“Sure it does! If I hadn’t ordered it, would you have gotten this delicious meal? No! Therefore, I am the provider, the orchestrator, the mastermind behind your very full belly.” He pointed at her plate triumphantly.
Storm squinted at him, unconvinced. “…Thanks,” she muttered after a moment. Then she pointed at the plate. “I want more.”
Tarric sighed, shaking his head. “What happened to the ‘please’ we just practiced?”
Storm groaned but relented. “More. Please.”
Tarric grinned. “See? Now was that so hard?” He motioned to the kitchen. “Another plate for my ravenous sister!”
Despite how annoying Tarric was, he at least seemed nice enough, and more importantly, he fed her delicious food. That alone earned him some favor in her books. His scent was familiar, layered with something that made her instincts settle. She didn’t know why, but she trusted him.
When she had devoured a third fish, licking her claws clean with clear satisfaction, Tarric wasted no time in dragging her through the winding hallways of the massive building. His short legs moved fast, and though Storm could have easily dug her heels in and stopped him, she allowed herself to be pulled along, her ears flicking as she took in the new surroundings.
Then, a voice boomed from the opposite direction.
“Tarric!”
Storm turned sharply, muscles tensing as a massive man approached. He was shorter than her, but only just, and what he lacked in height, he more than made up for in sheer bulk. Broad shoulders, a thick frame, and the kind of posture that came from knowing he could take a hit and keep going. A fighter, without a doubt. His scent told her that much even before her eyes confirmed it.
“Need your help planning out the next—" The man’s sentence faltered as his gaze landed on her, his expression shifting from casual to startled. “Is that Rava?”
Storm narrowed her eyes. She had no idea who this man was, but he spoke as if he knew her. She didn’t like that.
“Hi, Kavren.” Tarric’s tone was breezy, dismissive. “Uh, yes. Sort of. A bit busy right now, sorry, dear brother.”
Brother? Another one?
Kavren’s brow furrowed. “I thought she was off on that Drakthar mission?”
Tarric gave a wave of his paw, already stepping past him. “I’ll talk details later. Really am busy right now.”
Storm didn’t move right away, her gaze still locked onto Kavren’s. He met her stare evenly, his expression unreadable. She could sense the weight of his scrutiny, like he was trying to piece something together. It made her bristle.
She gave a low huff before finally turning away, following after Tarric without another word.
Tarric led her through the hallways, his pace quick but not rushed, until he stopped in front of a plain wooden door. With a casual push, he swung it open, revealing the room beyond.
It was simple, just as Storm liked it. A sturdy bed took up one side, large enough to stretch out in but without any unnecessary embellishments. A small table sat by the window, positioned to catch the natural light during the day. Two chairs rested near the hearth, their placement suggesting quiet moments spent in warmth rather than idle lounging. Against one wall stood a wardrobe—functional, no doubt filled with more of those ill-fitting clothes she’d been wearing. It felt like a familiar place.
No paintings. No drapes of excess fabric. No useless clutter. Nothing wasteful.
Storm gave an approving nod.
“What do you think of this room, Rara?” Tarric asked, watching her reaction closely.
“Simple. Good. No stupid decorations. Only what is needed.” She ran a hand along the wooden frame of the bed, testing its sturdiness. Solid. No nonsense.
Tarric’s grin widened. “I am glad you approve of your own room.”
Storm’s ears flicked, her gaze shifting between him and the space around her. “I am staying here?” she asked, cautious.
Tarric shook his head. “No, this is your room.” He studied her closely, voice gentle but curious. “Does it not feel familiar?”
Storm ran her fingers along the wooden table, tracing the faint scratches in its surface. She wasn’t sure. The room didn’t spark any vivid memories, no sudden flashes of recognition—but it felt… right. Like it belonged to her. Like she belonged here.
She nodded slowly. “It feels…” Her voice trailed off as she searched for the word. Safe? Comfortable? Hers? She settled on the one that mattered most.
“Right.”