CHAPTER ONE
CROWN OF STORMS
Kira
“Not again!”
The espresso machine hisses like an angry cat as I slam the steam wand down harder than necessary.
Another phone, dead. Third one this month, and my paycheck can’t handle replacing it again. The cracked screen glares up at me from the counter, dark as my mood after pulling a double shift at Grind Coffee on a Tuesday night in Portland.
“Seriously, Kira?” my coworker Jamie asks, shaking her head, blonde ponytail swishing as she counts the register. “What did you do to it this time?”
“Nothing.” I wipe down the counter with more force than it deserves. “It just... broke.”
Like everything else I touch. Like the microwave last week that sparked and died the moment I walked into the break room. Like the streetlight outside my apartment that flickers every time I pass underneath it. Like the ancient coffee grinder that shorts out whenever I’m within three feet of it.
Jamie calls it bad luck. I call it Tuesday.
Sometimes, I wonder if it’s not just bad luck.
If maybe there’s something inside me—something electric and wrong—that breaks things just by being close.
The overhead lights flicker, and I curse under my breath. Not tonight. I need this job. I need the tips from the late-night study crowd to make rent, and if the power goes out again because of whatever weird electrical thing follows me around, Marcus will fire me for sure.
“You okay?” Jamie glances up from the twenty-dollar bills she’s sorting. “You look like you want to murder someone.”
“Just tired.” I stack the ceramic mugs with steady hands, even though my skin feels like it’s buzzing with static electricity.
One more month. That’s what I keep telling myself. One more month of doubles and maybe I can afford to fix the car, get back to class, stop feeling like I’m always one crisis away from losing everything.
“Ready to go home and crash.”
“Same.” Jamie finishes counting and shoves the bills into the deposit bag. “My boyfriend’s picking me up in five. You sure you’re good to close alone?”
“Yeah, go ahead. Just the usual cleanup left.”
She grabs her purse from under the counter and heads for the door, flipping the sign to “CLOSED” on her way out.
“See you tomorrow. Try not to electrocute anything else.”
The door chimes as she leaves, and I’m alone with the hum of refrigerators and the distant buzz of neon signs outside.
I finish stacking mugs and start wiping down the espresso machine when the door chimes again.
“We’re closed,” I call out without looking up.
Footsteps approach the counter anyway. Expensive shoes on tile, too quiet for normal people. The temperature drops ten degrees in two seconds, and my breath comes out in a small puff of steam.
What the hell?
Three men in dark suits stand at my counter.
Something’s wrong with these men.
The realization hits me like ice water as I take in their too-pale skin, the way they move like liquid shadow, and eyes that catch the fluorescent light wrong—reflecting it back like a cat’s.
Their fingernails are too long, too sharp, more like claws than anything human.
Whatever these things are, they don’t belong in my coffee shop—or my world.
What the fuck?
“We’re looking for someone,” the tallest one says. His voice sounds like winter. “The Storm heir.”
I blink. “The what, now?”
“Don’t play games.” His smile reveals too many teeth. “We can smell the lightning in your blood.”
My hand tightens on the cleaning rag. “Look, guys, I think you’ve got the wrong coffee shop. We don’t serve crazy here.”
“Wrong answer.” His hand moves to his jacket. When he pulls it back out, he’s holding something that looks like a knife made of shadows.
Terror explodes through my chest as he lunges forward.
Lightning erupts from my fingertips.
The coffee shop explodes in white-hot electricity. Every window shatters. Every electronic device dies in sparks and smoke. The cash register melts. The overhead lights burst in showers of glass.
When the light fades, the three men lie unconscious among the wreckage. And there’s a hole in reality itself, crackling with purple energy. The floor beneath it warps, tile blistering from the heat. My hair lifts off my shoulders, static crackling in the air like it’s alive.
My lungs drag in burnt air. The register is fried. The lights are gone. My life might be, too.
But what if this is a hallucination?
What if this is shock, or a breakdown, or some messed-up dream born from too much caffeine and not enough sleep?
I want to believe that. I need to.
But the rift is still there—glowing, pulsing like it’s breathing—and it’s not going away.
Something is coming through.
And deep down, I know it’s not a dream.
Through the rift steps the most dangerous-looking man I’ve ever seen.
He’s tall—probably six-five—with shoulders broad enough to fill doorways and the kind of lean muscle that says he knows how to use his hands for more than signing checks.
Dark hair falls across his forehead, and when he pushes it back, I catch sight of a jagged scar cutting across his left temple like a lightning bolt carved into his skin.
His jaw is sharp, cheekbones like he was sculpted for a Vogue cover but decided to set it on fire instead.
He’s pale like he hasn’t seen sun in years—not sickly, just cold.
His coat fits like a designer hitman fantasy—tailored black with silver clasps that catch the light like warning signs.
He doesn’t just enter the room. He owns it.
But it’s his eyes that make my breath catch.
Storm-gray and intense, like the sky right before a tornado hits.
They sweep across the destruction I’ve caused—the melted cash register, the shattered windows, the three unconscious men sprawled among broken glass—and something that might be satisfaction flickers across his face.
Then those eyes lock onto mine.
“Found you,” he says.
What the fuck?
“You’re coming with me, Storm heir. Whether you want to or not.”
I press my fingers into the counter behind me, trying to ground myself. My hands are still tingling from the electricity, and the coppery scent of scorched wiring fills my nose. One of the bodies shifts—just a twitch—and my breath stutters.
“You have no idea what you are, do you?” He tilts his head, studying me like I’m a puzzle he’s been trying to solve for years. “How old are you?”
“None of your business.” I back toward the emergency exit, but my legs feel like jelly. “Look, I don’t know what kind of weird roleplay thing you’ve got going on with these guys, but I’m calling the cops.”
I reach for my phone before remembering it’s dead. Along with everything else electronic in a three-block radius, probably.
He actually smiles at that. It’s not a nice smile. “The police can’t help you now, Kira Thorne.”
Ice shoots down my spine. “How do you know my name?”
“I know a lot of things about you.” He takes another step closer, and I swear the temperature rises. “I know you’ve been having electrical problems your whole life. I know you’ve never met your real parents. I know you’ve been having dreams about storms lately.”
My back hits the wall. “I haven’t been?—”
“Lightning dancing across mountaintops? Wind that calls your name? The feeling that you’re meant for something bigger than making coffee for college kids?”
My mouth goes dry. Those dreams started three weeks ago, and I haven’t told anyone about them. Not even my therapist.
“Who are you?”
“King Draven Blackthorn.” He says it like I should recognize the name. Like it should mean something. “Storm King of Aethermoor.”
“Aether—what?”
“The realm you’re going to rule beside me.” His gray eyes lock onto mine. “Whether you want to or not.”
His expression darkens. “Those things that attacked you weren’t human, Kira. They were Shadow Court assassins—creatures twisted by generations of dark magic.”
“Shadow Court?” I cut in, my voice sharp. “What the hell is a Shadow Court?”
“They’ve been hunting Storm bloodlines for decades,” he continues, “searching for the last heir.”
I don’t want to look at the men again. But I do. Their skin is definitely gray. Their fingers—claws. The shattered remains of the coffee shop feel miles away from the version I opened this morning.
“Storm heir?” I want to laugh. To call this bullshit. But the fear coiling through my chest holds me back.
“The rightful ruler of my people. The one person who can legitimize my claim to the throne.” His expression softens—just slightly. “The granddaughter of the woman I killed seven years ago.”
The world tilts.
“You what?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Complicated?” My voice rises to a shriek. “You just told me you murdered my grandmother!”
My throat tightens. My chest feels hollow—like some part of me just dropped away. I never knew her. Never even knew I had her. The grief hits out of nowhere—sharp, unwanted. It doesn’t make sense, but it’s real. Heavy.
I was nothing five minutes ago. A nobody. A barista with fried electronics and bad dreams. And now I’m the granddaughter of a queen. A murdered queen.
“I killed her in battle. And I won’t let sentiment stop me if you put the realm at risk.”
I shouldn’t believe him. But I do. Deep down, I know he’s telling the truth. He killed my grandmother.
“You bastard.”
“I’ve been called worse,” he says with a shrug. “We don’t have time for chit-chat. More assassins will come, and next time, they won’t underestimate you.”
One of the bodies on the floor groans, starting to stir. Draven’s head snaps toward him, and electricity crackles around his fingers—controlled, precise. Nothing like my wild, explosive bursts.
“We need to leave. Now.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you.” I edge toward the back door. “I don’t care if you’re a king or a serial killer or the damn Easter Bunny. I’m calling 911 and letting them sort this out. And trust me, you will spend your life in prison for killing my grandmother.”
“Kira.” My name on his lips freezes me. “Look around you. Look at what your power did. Do you really think the human authorities can protect you from this?”
Shit.
He’s right, and I hate him for it. The coffee shop looks like a war zone. When the police arrive, how am I supposed to explain any of this? Three men with gray skin and knife-hands? A portal tearing open reality? Lightning exploding from my fingertips?
“The Shadow Court will keep sending assassins until you’re dead,” Draven says. “They can’t let you live—your very existence threatens everything they’ve built. But in Aethermoor, under my protection, you have a chance.”
“Protection?” I laugh bitterly. “From the guy who just admitted to killing my family?”
“From the only person who can teach you to control your power before it kills you.” His gaze sharpens, voice low. “I’ve seen what happens when Storm magic burns out of control. You don’t want that, Kira. Not for you. Not for anyone near you.”
“That lightning storm you just unleashed?” he continues. **”If you don’t learn to control it, it’ll burn you out—and everyone around you.”
The words hit like a punch to the gut.
“No. That’s not—I don’t?—”
“Your power knocked out three city blocks. Traffic lights, streetlights, car alarms—all dead. How long before you kill someone you care about?”
Jamie.
I think of her—tired, smiling, just trying to make rent—walking out only minutes before everything exploded. What if she’d still been here? What if my explosion had hit her?
What if next time, I’m not so lucky?
The image guts me. Jamie, standing right where I stood. And me—turning this place into a death trap.
This isn’t just a power I don’t understand. It’s something wild. Deadly. Coiled inside me, waiting to burst.
My heart pounds like it’s trying to run without me. Every instinct screams to bolt, to scream, to run. But the scorched smell of ozone, the unconscious assassins, the rift tearing through space—it all says one thing:
This is happening.
“Fine.” I square my shoulders and meet his storm-gray eyes. “Let’s go to your magical kingdom, your majesty. But if you think I’m going to be some grateful little princess you can boss around, you’re about to be very disappointed.”
His smile turns predatory. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
He extends his hand. I stare at it like it might bite.
“Come willingly, Kira. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
Sirens are closing in. People are shouting outside. And even though every part of me coils in resistance, I know—this isn’t giving in. It’s surviving. It’s choosing.
I take his hand.
“Let’s get one thing straight,” I whisper. “I’m not yours. And I don’t trust you.”
“Good.” His fingers tighten around mine. “I wouldn’t trust me either.”
A sharp flare of electricity leaps between us, buzzing through my teeth.
“That’s not supposed to happen,” he mutters.
“What’s not supposed to happen?”
He doesn’t answer. His jaw tightens. Behind him, the rift pulses—once, then again—like a heartbeat.
Through it, I glimpse a city of jagged towers wrapped in lightning, suspended from the sky by crackling bolts of energy.
Glass bridges stretch between floating platforms, and a massive spiraling spire hums with blue light.
The sky churns with stormclouds, and beneath it all, there’s a sound like thunder… or war drums.
Then one of the assassins groans, raising a gleaming shadow blade.
Draven doesn’t hesitate. “Now.”
He yanks me forward, and I stumble with him into the tear in reality as the world I knew burns behind me.
And the last thing I feel—is the storm calling me home.
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