The Gathering Storm
Isla stood at the mountain’s edge, her hand resting protectively over her belly, feeling the faint flutter of life beneath her fingertips. Each subtle movement reminded her of the fragile yet powerful reason she had to keep fighting. The sharp, biting wind stung her cheeks, carrying with it the crisp scent of snow and pine, a stark contrast to the warmth of the memories she held of Crimson Fang. It was a reminder of how far they were from home and of the dangers that now loomed. Draven’s steady presence beside her was an anchor in the storm, his warmth grounding her as unease twisted like a serpent in her chest, tightening with every passing moment.
When Alaric delivered the grim news about Malrik closing in on Crimson Fang, Isla’s heart sank, plummeting like a stone into the abyss below. The stronghold she had poured her blood, sweat, and tears into was under threat, a place she had built not just for survival but for the dream of a better future. The thought of it falling into enemy hands made her chest ache with a sharp, unyielding pain. Her voice trembled with urgency as she finally broke the heavy silence.
“We have to go back,” she said, her words carrying a desperate edge as she turned to Draven. Her hand clutched his arm tightly, seeking comfort and strength, her resolve burning behind the fear in her eyes.
Draven didn’t hesitate. He pulled her close, his strong arms wrapping around her protectively, his presence as unshakable as the mountain beneath their feet. “We will,” he said, his voice firm, a steady beacon of assurance. Each word felt like a promise carved in stone. “And we’ll protect everything you’ve built. No one will take it from you, Isla—not while I’m here.”
Her father stepped forward then, his golden eyes gleaming with an intensity that spoke of unrelenting determination. His gaze swept over the distant horizon, a predator ready to strike. There was no mistaking the steel in his voice as he growled, “You won’t face him alone.” His expression hardened further as he added, “Eira and I will bring our forces. Malrik will regret ever threatening my daughter and her legacy. This, I swear.”
The air around them seemed to crackle with unspoken tension, as if the mountain itself could sense the gravity of their resolve. Eira, standing tall and composed, exuded an aura of quiet authority. Her voice cut through the chill like a blade as she spoke, her words a declaration. “We leave at dawn,” she said, her tone brooking no argument, the command resonating with finality. “Rest while you can. Tomorrow, we fight, and we do not falter.”
Isla turned her gaze back to the horizon, where the fading light painted the sky in hues of crimson and gold, a foreboding reminder of the blood that might be shed to protect what they held dear. Her fingers tightened over her belly, a silent vow forming in her heart. For her child, for her people, for the dream she had fought so hard to create, she would stand against whatever storm Malrik brought.
