Queen of Storm

Chapter 4: Setting Sail from Ashes

The manor was gone.

Reduced to soot and silence.

What once was hearth and home…

Now, just ghosts in the ash.

A story scorched out of the world.

Reyna stood at the edge of it all—

Not draped in silk or sorrow,

But in something far heavier.

Resolve.

Behind her, the vault stood empty.

All she had left:

Coin.

Maps.

A blade.

Her future wasn't lit by hope.

It was lit by embers.

---

🕊️ The Last Goodbye

She turned to Edward—one final time.

The hospital courtyard glowed with the golden hush of early morning.

A gentle light poured across cracked stones.

Forgiving.

Final.

Reyna stood—duffel on one shoulder.

At her side: her husband's meteor-forged sword.

Her coat still smelled faintly of smoke.

Of pyres.

Of goodbye.

But her eyes?

Steel.

> "Thank you," she said softly.

"For everything."

"For saving me… when I couldn't save myself."

Edward stood beneath the archway, arms crossed, jacket wrinkled from too many sleepless nights.

He smiled—crooked, tired, real.

> "Don't thank me, Reyna," he said.

"You walked out of that fire yourself."

"You always had that fire in you."

She looked down.

Her voice barely above the breeze.

> "I'm sorry," she whispered.

"There's nothing left for me here."

"My parents… my husband… my daughters…"

> "I have to know if any part of them survived."

"I can't stay in ruins anymore."

Steel. Holding.

Edward didn't stop her.

He wouldn't.

> "You've always had more courage than you gave yourself credit for."

His voice cracked.

Maybe it was love unspoken.

Now, it was smoke. On the wind.

---

A breeze stirred.

It caught a strand of her hair—

Brushed it across her cheek like a child's phantom touch.

> "Someday," she said, not turning back,

"I'll pay you back. Somehow."

And then—

She was gone.

A coat brushing stone.

A scent of ash trailing behind her.

And a man left watching.

---

⚓ Port of Damaya

Chaos. Wrapped in sunlight.

Gulls screamed overhead.

Merchants shouted across crates of iridescent fish.

Children darted barefoot through the crowd like shadows.

Barrels. Spice. Sweat. Tar.

The port was alive.

Indifferent to grief.

Reyna moved through it—

Steady. Silent.

Her boots tapped against planks older than her regrets.

At her side:

– Her husband's sword

– A pouch of coin

– A trinket—

A small, carved bird.

Worn smooth.

Once held by the tiny fingers of her daughter.

---

She spoke to no one.

She didn't need to.

She boarded a ship bound for the Antilles.

Sails already greedy for wind.

She'd heard whispers:

> A girl.

Lyra.

Taken in by a noble family across the peninsula.

A thread. A hope.

It had to be enough.

---

🌪️ Far at Sea…

Clouds twisted—bruise-dark, vast.

A hurricane was forming.

Fast. Violent. Indifferent.

It rolled across the sea like a wrathful god.

But Reyna?

She didn't flinch.

Her storm had already begun.

And hers had a name.

---