Stormcaught

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Ethram enjoys storms.

It is a bold preference to have, and not one he’d easily admit to.

In the archipelago, storms bring more than rain and wind.

They bring vicious beasts, creatures spawned from the natural magic in the skies, and it’s a rare year when the summer storms don’t tear an unsuspecting village or two to pieces.

His childhood village had been torn apart like that.

He’d been there when the windows had shattered in, when the air writhed and spat out teeth and scales and claws. He’d been in the jaws of it.

But he’s not in a village anymore. He’s in a stone cottage on the quiet outskirts of Esk, watching the rain run and drip from the old oaks on the street, and he’s enjoying it.

The air is crisp, steeped through with the rich, velvety scent of soaked earth.

He’s got the parlour window open. He’s got a cup of tea.

He’s got one of the dense volumes of history that he loves so much.

With the storm, there is no chance of visitors.

It is a perfect sort of day. It’s the sort of day that makes his nightmares and ghosts seem very far behind him.

The rain batters his garden, beating against the tangled weeds and pitted dirt.

It’s turning into mud as he watches, the rain carving waterways amongst dead clumps of bramble and reaching thistles.

The back garden is even more unsightly, with sprawling ivy grasping the cottage in a green, clinging grip that makes opening the kitchen window a struggle.

He doesn’t mind so much, especially on a day like this.

It feels like the whole cottage might just slip away, swallowed by brambles and rain.

It’s a nice thought.

But it won’t, and when the storm passes, he’ll have to get into town clothes and walk until he can get a tram into the university. He likes the university well enough. He just likes being at home more.

Even if it is a crumbling, tumbling down sort of home.

It had been well-priced because of it, and he’d muddled through the most pressing of the repairs and learned to live without the rest of them.

It has one bedroom, one parlour-turned-study, a kitchen, and an outdoor privy and washroom complete with a dented tin tub.

People from the proper heart of Esk might wrinkle their noses at it, but compared to his village and the crowded university dormitories, it’s a marvel. It’s the best home he’s ever had.

His books live everywhere. His parlour wall is doing decent work at holding up his shelves, and the bedroom has bookshelves everywhere the wardrobe isn’t.

It is the sort of cosy, tucked-away life that suits him.

Everything he loves is close to hand, and though it is a bit run-down, there isn’t anything truly tiresome to deal with.

True, the water is cold to bathe in through winter when the wood-stove beneath the laundry hearth doesn’t quite get hot enough to combat the chill, but that really is the worst of it.

That, and the mess of a garden, maybe.

But it puts off any potential visitors, which is a good thing.

He has enough of dealing with people at the university, and no reason to put up with it outside of work.

And he’s having to put up with more than usual, now he’s finally got his Luminary robes.

There are monthly meetings, and the board is convened for many things—graduating students, potential fellowship decisions, voting in or voting out faction leaders, vaulting new professorships into their ranks…

Frankly, Ethram cares for exactly none of it.

He only aimed to be a Luminary because it meant he could pursue his studies of Esk’s history in peace, without oversight.

He’s still fresh and noteworthy, the first gold threads on his robes gleaming, but he plans on fading out over the coming months.

He’s good at fading. This time next year, they’ll hardly expect him to appear for anything.

So despite the brambles on the front path and the cold tub, Ethram is content with his lot. He has a cup of hot tea, a book, and is watching the rain pour down as the night creeps in. It is a lovely evening.

And then there is a thump against the kitchen door.