Queen of Storm

Chapter 2: Echoes in the Ash

She awoke to the soft crackle of firelight and the bitter tang of dried herbs—a scent like embalming fluid clinging to the air.

The walls around her were rough-hewn stone and splintered wood—old, uneven, washed in the faint, trembling glow of a single candle. Somewhere nearby, the wind chattered like old teeth through loose shutters, humming a mournful dirge.

A bowl of cold water, steeped with lavender and bruised mint, sat beside her on a crude table. It promised relief—but the kind that never lasted.

Her body felt like it had been dredged from the bottom of the sea.

Heavy.

Broken.

Her ribs screamed with every shallow breath. Her hands, wrapped in layers of rough linen, throbbed with a dull ache. The bandages were stained with the ghosts of smoke and dried blood. Her lips cracked and split as she tried to force air past them.

A man sat at her bedside. Silent. Still.

A sentinel.

He was broad-shouldered, even in repose. Silver streaks threaded his sun-worn hair, catching the candlelight like spun moonlight. His boots were scuffed from long travel, his dark coat worn thin at the cuffs—yet there was a careful dignity in his posture.

Edward Thornholt.

"You're awake," he said softly. His voice was gravel underfoot, rough and worn—but warmer than she remembered. It reached the frozen edges of her heart and knocked gently.

She blinked. The room swam into focus.

"Where... am I?"

Her voice rasped like sandpaper. Foreign. Alien, even to herself.

"A safe house. South of the coast. Far from Damaya."

He paused. His gaze softened—darkened—with grief.

"Far from the fire."

Her breath caught. Ice in her chest.

Then came the memories. Not whole, but in savage flashes:

Screams that tore her throat raw.

The iron tang of fear.

The clash of steel.

Flames—alive, roaring, greedy.

A tiny heartbeat, fragile and fast, pressed to her chest.

Lyra.

Then—absence.

Callan's blood. Hot. Slick. Slipping through her fingers.

She sat up too fast.

Pain stabbed through her chest, savage and immediate.

"My daughter," she croaked. Her bandaged hand lashed out, gripped his sleeve. Desperation gave her strength.

"Where is she?"

Edward's face changed—tightened, like a man bracing for a blow.

"Lyra... was found. Badly hurt, but alive. A noble family took her in. They didn't know who she was—just a child pulled from the flames."

He didn't meet her eyes.

Didn't need to.

The silence between them buzzed with truth unspoken.

There were rumors.

A child, stolen by the Indigo Cartel. Smuggled onto a slave ship. Bound for the Southern Isles.

But Edward had no names. No proof.

Only fear.

Only failure.

She turned away, her face to the cold stone wall. Her eyes burned—but the tears refused to fall.

Her daughter. Lost.

Her husband. Buried beneath ash and ruin.

"I should've died with them," she whispered.

Edward stood. Slowly. His shadow stretched over her.

"You didn't."

He placed something on the table.

Cool. Metallic.

A silver locket.

Scorched at the edges. Miraculously intact.

Inside, a delicate charcoal sketch:

Reyna and Callan, smiling.

Softer. Younger.

Between them—Lyra. A tiny, perfect detail.

Edward's voice cracked, raw with conviction.

"They took everything from you, Reyna. But not your fire. I remember that fire."

She stared at the locket.

At the ghosts inside.

Once, they had danced beneath swaying lanterns. Winter festival. His hand warm in hers.

But she had chosen Callan.

Still—Edward came back.

Found her. Broken. Buried beneath ash and grief.

Carried her here. Paid in coin, in blood, in dangerous silence to keep her hidden.

And now?

Now, the night closed in.

But something stirred beneath the ruin.

Beneath the pain. Beneath the grief.

A cold, unyielding spark.

I will not be forgotten.

She reached for the locket. Closed it with a sharp, decisive snap.

Her voice was hoarse, but steady.

"I will find my daughter."

"I will burn the sea if I must."

"And they will know the name—Reyna Amara Delacruz."