Chapter 11 Thou Shalt Not Chain a Storm
Thou Shalt Not Chain a Storm
Maylo
Idon’t remember breathing when it happened.
One second, I’m empty, hollow, same as always. A vessel.
Next — boom.
A spark behind my ribs. A flash across my skin. Something alive and furious snapped into me, like lightning.
I staggered. Laughed. Couldn’t stop laughing. Everyone is staring at the poor, sinless girl. They know who she is. They know what happened.
I’m staring at her for a different reason. I never expected the universe to gift me with a bond. Who would tie someone to a person so broken? But maybe the universe found someone as broken as me.
Mine. My bond.
Ha, I hit myself in the head as the girl next to me scoots further away.
I don’t do mine.
I do no one’s.
I belong to no one but the voices in my head, and my master. My owner.
But then she looks up — eyes wide, pupils blown, a little scared, a little angry — and for half a heartbeat, the noise in my skull goes quiet.
They all scattered after the ceremony. The noble brats. Whispering. Gawking. Pretending they weren’t afraid.
I waited.
Waited until their noise died down, until the heavy doors shut, until I could breathe again.
Hours go by. Then I slip.
Gone.
The air folds easily for me. Always has. I twist it, bend it, disappear right between one blink and the next. The world goes soft and blurred, like a painting smudged by a madman’s thumb.
Invisible, I follow the pull. Normally, I’m on a tight schedule. Tonight is for her.
The bond hums — faint, electric, hungry.
Like a thread under my skin, tugging me toward her. Toward sinless, little, impossible Arwen.
***
I try the handle and find her dorm door unlocked. Rookie mistake.
Or maybe she’s too trusting.
Or maybe the universe just wanted to give me a gift tonight.
Inside smells of nerves and soap and rain.
Oh, rain.
I close my eyes and breathe it in. Not fake perfume or faction-stink, but real rain.
Clean. Honest.
Wrong in this place.
Her things are scattered about—a drawer is half-open, and papers cover her desk like fallen leaves. She’s a mess. I like that. People who keep everything neat usually have something nasty to hide. Messy people? They’re honest. They bleed where everyone can see.
I drift to the desk. There are notes, blotches of ink, and little doodles in the corners. One page is wrinkled from where she pressed her hand too hard — maybe angry, maybe crying.
I grin. “What did they do to you, little rainstorm?”
She doesn’t answer, of course. She’s asleep.
I can hear her breathing — slow, even, stubbornly alive.
I circle the room, invisible, careful not to touch too much. The bond is whispering again, a pulse under my skin. I hate it, but I love it.
Her side of the room is pathetically empty aside from the supplies. She’s wrapped herself in bath towels, using one for her pillow on her bare mattress. “You’re strange,” I whisper. “Strange is good.”
Something in my chest aches.
Not pain. Just... noise. Static. The kind that makes me want to scream or laugh or both.
She shifts in her bed, a quiet sigh, and I freeze.
The moon catches her face just right — pale, soft, tired. Her hair is the color of rich blood. Not some gilded noble brat. Just a girl who stumbled into a pit of wolves the day she walked into the Pride Council office.
The rain starts.
First soft — tap tap tap — then harder against her windowpane, like the sky’s losing patience.
I watch the droplets run down the glass. Each one hits, splatters, disappears.
That’s what she feels like.
Not fury. Soft rain.
The quiet kind that seeps in, fills cracks, wakes things up that should’ve stayed dead. The kind you hear against your dungeon window that silences the mind and allows your body a fraction of rest.
A peaceful rumble of thunder sounds far away.
“Stormcloud,” I murmur, the word curling against my tongue.
“Yes. You’ll be my stormcloud.”
I find a pencil on her desk. Pick it up. My fingers twitch. I don’t draw — not usually. But tonight, the idea feels right.
She can’t know I’m here. Not yet. I’m under strict orders. But I can leave a small piece of myself behind.
I sketch a cloud. Crooked. Ugly. Cracked through the middle by a jagged bolt.
I tear the page out and lay it on her dresser. A gift. A warning. A hello.
The mark on my wrist burns.
I hiss, biting my knuckle to keep from making noise. The air shimmers — and then his voice slides in.
“My Speaker.”
Ah, there it is. The collar tightening.
I roll my eyes at the inconvenient timing. “Master. How can I serve you?”
“You found her.”
Always watching. Always knowing.
I glance back at the sleeping girl. The soft rise and fall of her chest. The moonlight on her cheek.
“She’s quiet,” I say. “The kind that makes everything else stop screaming.”
Silence. Then —
“Be wary of quiet things, Maylo. They break loudest.”
The voice fades. The pain doesn’t.
I stare at my hand. The mark glows faintly green. A curse. My leash.
I can still hear her breathing.
The rain, steady.
“Goodnight, little stormcloud,” I whisper, and the grin creeps back. “Don’t let the monster’s bite. That’s my job.”
I walk to the hall and fade back into existence.