Author: Shannon Messenger

I stop short.

I am.

I feel my lips stretch wider.

“Whoa,” he says, stepping closer. “I think that’s the first time I’ve seen you really smile.”

Blood rushes to my face. Apparently, Vane isn’t the only one changing.

Time to get back to business.

I march to the corner to retrieve the windslicer. “It’s time to teach you some basic attacks. I’ll be the main offensive fighter in the battle, but you still need to learn how to deal with the Stormers.”

I strap the sword to my waist and call two Easterlies—grateful the air has plenty of breezes swirling through the trees before the day’s heat chases them away. I order the winds to twist into a tight vortex, about the width of my leg. They spin so fast I see nothing more than a blur in the air in front of me. “This is called a wind spike,” I tell Vane. “Or it will be in a second.”

I call a Northerly and braid it through the Easterlies. When the winds are properly entwined, I switch to Easterly and say, “Concentrate,” and the winds lock together, tightening into a narrow pole of whipping drafts the same height as me.

Vane leans in for a closer look. “Awesome.”

“Grab it.”

“You can’t—” He stops himself. “Never mind. None of the stuff we do makes any sense. Why would this?”

He reaches out, his hand changing positions several times, like he can’t figure out how to get a grip. Finally he just grabs it. “Whoa, it’s squishy.”

I can’t help laughing at that. “Wind is never fully tangible, but if woven tight enough, there’s something for us to take hold of.”

“I guess.” He tosses it back and forth between his hands. “Now what?”

“Line up your aim and launch it as hard as you can. Try to hit that tree.” I point to an easy target—a stocky palm, branches heavy with unharvested dates.

Vane raises the wind spike over his shoulder. “This is so weird,” he says as he makes a few practice thrusts. Then he lets the spike fly.

His throw is strong, but his aim isn’t true, and the spike curves right, hitting a palm to the side of his target.

The tree explodes. Bark, sand, rocks, and bits of leaves rain on us, sticking to our sweaty faces as the thunderous crack echoes off the trees.

Vane stares at the destruction.

I wipe the filth from my cheeks. “We’ll have to work on your aim, or you’ll never be able to hit a moving target.”

He starts to nod, then turns to face me. “What kinds of things am I supposed to hit?”

“Well, ideally you’ll hit the Stormers. I doubt you’ll be good enough to catch one, but maybe you’ll get a lucky shot.”

He recoils, his skin fading to a ghostly pallor. “I’m supposed to hit people with those things?”

“Only the Stormers. I’ll try to make sure you don’t hit anyone else.”

He swallows, and his face twists as he does, like he’s ill.

“What’s wrong?”

“I never realized you’d expect me to kill people.” He takes another step back, leaning against a tree for support.

I move toward him slowly, trying to understand his reaction. “It’s a battle. What do you expect?”

“I don’t know. I guess I was thinking, like, punching and stuff. Maybe a few wind tricks to knock them unconscious. I never thought I’d be killing them.”

He starts to shake—hard. I reach for his shoulder to steady him, but he flinches at my touch.

“I don’t understand what’s wrong, Vane.”

“Neither do I.” He sinks to the ground. “It’s just . . . the thought of killing people. Making them explode like that tree.” He shudders, pulling his legs into his chest and leaning his head against them.

“They’re hardly people,” I mutter as I lower myself next to him. “People don’t massacre hundreds of innocent Windwalkers. They don’t tear innocent children limb from limb. They don’t launch tornados and hurricanes into human cities because they suspect the Gales are hiding there—oh yeah, the Stormers do that,” I add when he turns toward me. “Raiden will stop at nothing to wipe out the resistance. Not to mention they’re coming here to capture you and force you to share your language. All so Raiden can be strong enough to control the world.”

I glance at him, expecting him to look calmer. But he’s paler than ever. I don’t see what his problem is.

“Remember, Vane. We’re at war.”

We’re at war.

My father said those exact words to Vane’s father, pleading with him to take his training seriously.

A memory flashes back.

I hide in the shadows on the edge of the field, watching my parents train the Westons. The four adults stand in a circle and my father demonstrates how to make a crusher, a thick funnel that tightens on command, annihilating anything inside.

The Westons shake and turn away.

Vane’s dad says they won’t learn.

Not can’t.

Won’t.

Winds rage as my mother screams at them. Calls them selfish. How dare they expect others to risk their lives to protect them when they aren’t even willing to learn basic self-defense?

Vane’s parents just cling to each other in her storm, shake their heads, and say, “No.”

I want to tear across the field and shout at the Westons like my mother. My life is miserable because of them—because my family has to protect them. How can they stand back and let us make all the sacrifices?

But I stay in the shadows.

I ask my father about it when he tucks me in that night. He stares into the night and says, “Westerlies are the peaceful winds.” Nothing more.

I didn’t understand what he meant. What the problem really was. Not until right now, looking at the green tinge to Vane’s skin.

Westerlies are the peaceful winds.

Violence makes them physically ill.

Now I know why none of the Westerlies surrendered to Raiden’s threats and taught him their language. Why they were willing to die to protect it. They aren’t just brave or stubborn, like I thought. Violence goes against their very nature, triggering an actual physical reaction.

Honestly, it’s quite noble. Except it renders them completely vulnerable. And useless.

My jaw locks as I work through the ramifications of this new development.

My only fighting companion is incapable of killing. Which means even if Vane has the fourth breakthrough, it won’t matter. He won’t use it to fight.

My anger kindles, deep and hot.

So I have to die because he refuses to harm a Stormer—the people there to kidnap him? The people who had no problem killing his parents?

Their lives are worth more than mine?

Maybe their lives aren’t. But that doesn’t change the oath I willingly swore. And with that thought, I’m able to snuff the fire out.

I’ve already accepted that I might not survive the fight. All this means is that my job of protecting Vane during the storm will be twice as hard. Five times as hard. As if the water hadn’t complicated things enough.

Vane takes a deep, heaving breath and wipes away the sweat dripping down the sides of his face. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“I do. You’re a Westerly. Westerlies are peaceful. Violence is abhorrent to you. Your nature rejects it.”

His fingers tear through his hair, mussing it into wild peaks. “That actually makes sense. But that probably makes me pretty useless in a battle, doesn’t it?”

Yes.

I can’t say that, though. “I just want you to be able to defend yourself in case you get into a bind. You don’t have to hurt anyone—but I think you should at least know how. Do you think you can handle that?”

Several seconds pass. Then he nods.

I release the breath I’d been holding. At least he’s willing to try—unlike his parents.

Bitterness rises in my throat, but I swallow it.

They were true Westerlies. They spoke the tongue. Rode the winds. Of course their instincts were stronger than Vane’s. He can’t even hear the Westerlies’ call. I never thought that would be a good thing—but maybe it is.

“You ready?” I ask him, squinting at the sky. The sun blazes through the cloudless blue, and soon the last of the morning winds will flee to the mountains.

He stands. His legs are shaky, but his eyes are determined. “Yes.”

I teach him how to meld wind spikes, and I make him practice his aim. He looks queasy with every toss, but I remind him that an accurate aim will be safer. Less chance of hitting an innocent bystander.

After that, his throws rarely miss their mark.

It gives me hope.

The world isn’t black and white, like his parents treated it. Violence sometimes has its place—its purpose. Maybe if they’d accepted that, they could have survived the Stormer’s attack. Lived to see their son grow up. Helped stop Raiden from destroying the world as we know it.

Instead, the responsibility rests on Vane. If I can get him to see the shades of gray, maybe he’ll be the first Westerly to stand up to Raiden. The first Westerly to survive.

His shirt turns a midnight blue from the sweat, and I make him rest in what little shade the walls of my shelter provide. The last thing I need is him taking it off again—even if a small part of me wouldn’t mind another glimpse of his sculpted muscles.

I sit next to him. Our legs touch, but I don’t pull away. “How are you holding up?”

He gives a shaky shrug.

I place my hand on his arm. “Try to remember, if you don’t stop the Stormers, they’ll launch tornadoes into this valley. Hundreds—or thousands—of innocent people will die. People you know. People you love. You’re doing this to save those innocent lives.”

The silence seems to stretch.

“So you have no problem with . . . killing?” he asks.

“No. But I’m an Easterly.”

“The swift, tricky winds,” he recites. “What does that even mean?”

“Easterlies are survivors. They do whatever needs to be done.”

“So you would kill?”

His stare is intense—but not judging.

“If I have to.”

I focus on my fingers, surprised to realize they’re tracing slow circles on his skin. The contact is soothing and thrilling at the same time. It makes me feel daring. Maybe too daring, because I can’t stop myself from asking, “Do you think you could?”

“Kill?”

I lock eyes with him again. “If it saved a life? If it saved your life? If it saved . . .”

I stop myself. I can’t ask him to save me. I’m supposed to save him.

Vane turns away as he considers my question, staring at what remains of the tree he destroyed. “I don’t know.”

He takes my hand, cradling it gently between his palms. Warmth travels up my arms, heading straight to my heart and making it flutter as he looks at me again, knocking my breath away with the tenderness in his haunting blue eyes. “I hope so.”

Me too.

It’s a miracle I don’t say the thought aloud.

I have no right to hope. But if he’s offering it freely, I can’t help but take it.

So I don’t pull away, even though I should. And I let myself believe he might be strong enough to save us all.

To save me.

He’s the only one who can.

CHAPTER 31

VANE

It isn’t until Audra’s bird returns from his second hunt of the day that I notice how late it is. I trained through breakfast and lunch—but it’s probably better. If I’d had anything in my stomach when I realized Audra was training me to kill, I would have heaved it all over myself.

It reminds me of the way my body reacted when the doctors gave me pills. Sweat, hives, spasms, puke, like my system will do anything—everything—to purge the medicine from my bloodstream. The idea of killing feels just as toxic.