Queen of Storm

Chapter 7: Echoes of the Sky-Smith

The path ahead twisted like a scar into the island's ancient heart—

overgrown, slick with moss that clung to her boots like cold, wet fingers.

Cliffs loomed on either side, tall as cathedrals,

carved by centuries of storm and silence.

They rose like stone titans—scarred, solemn, watching.

And Reyna walked between them, blade in hand.

---

Each step was deliberate.

But her mind?

A storm of revelation:

> The saber.

The Leviathan.

The island.

The blade made from stars.

The curse beneath her feet.

Each thought louder than the last.

Each one echoing in her chest,

in the saber's hum,

in her blood.

This place wasn't just dangerous.

It was sentient.

Malevolent.

Remembering.

---

The vines seemed to reach for her.

The wind didn't breathe—it whispered.

Every stone underfoot shifted slightly when she wasn't looking.

Even the path itself was fickle,

like the island was testing her.

Or… warning her.

---

Bandit had vanished back near the mushroom patch,

muttering about fungus and beetle fashion.

He'd disappeared into the undergrowth like a feathered fever dream.

And Reyna didn't follow.

Because this part—this final stretch—

was hers alone.

---

Yet she wasn't truly alone.

There were… whispers.

Not voices. Not words.

Just intent.

Memory.

The sigh of wind through splintered ruins.

The deep groan of shifting stone behind her.

The cry of gulls—far off, too far to be real.

None of it felt like nature.

It felt like the island was remembering.

And it wanted her to remember too.

---

She crested a rise—

And the world fell away.

---

A sheer cliff dropped into nothing below.

The open sea stretched beyond—

vast and bruised, clouds churning like angry gods in mourning.

But it was what lay beneath her that stole her breath.

---

Ruins.

Massive.

Sprawling.

Broken.

Beautiful.

Half-swallowed by vines.

Shrouded in ghostly mist.

And unmistakably ancient.

A temple complex?

A city?

A grave?

---

Reyna stepped closer, heart thundering.

The stone below…

She knew it.

She'd touched it before.

She'd lived atop it.

In her old house.

In her manor.

The home she'd built with Callan.

The nursery where Lyra had learned to walk.

The hearth where they'd danced on frost-bitten mornings.

---

"No…"

The word fell from her lips like an offering.

That manor—her sanctuary—had been built on this place's bones.

Its foundation stones were stolen from sacred ground.

And now…

the island wanted her to remember.

---

The satchel on her back suddenly burned with weight.

Not gold.

Not gear.

Truth.

Reyna dropped to her knees, clawed open the flap,

and dug inside with shaking hands.

There—beneath Callan's old scarf, beside a pouch of worn coins—

A shard.

Rough.

Plain.

A piece of stone she'd kept from the fireplace,

tucked away without thought.

It was glowing.

---

A soft, pulsing blue.

A heartbeat in mineral.

The same rhythm as the saber.

The same rhythm as her own racing heart.

> Thrum.

---

Reyna's breath caught.

Her eyes stung with tears that refused to fall.

> Blood calls to blood.

The blade at her side vibrated with recognition.

The stone shard glowed brighter.

The island held its breath.

---

The foundations of her past were never hers.

They were stolen.

They were cursed.

And now,

they were awake.

---