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“But Aaren has one!" she protested. "Why not me?"

Her mother sighed and ran her fingers through Seren's plaited hair. "Have patience, child. We have something for your birthday."

Seren's stormy eyes brightened. "What? What is it?"

"Patience," her mother chided with a small smile.

Later that night, after her lessons with the crone were complete and Seren had left with her brother, the crone sat before her fire, her mind adrift in the echoes of the unseen. And then, the voices came.

The Three Sisters of Fate—ancient, eternal—spoke through her, their voices weaving together like the threads of a great loom. Urðr, Verðandi, and Skuld—past, present, and that which must come.

"She is bound to the thread," Urðr intoned, her voice heavy as the weight of history. "Marked by the stars, her path was spun before her first breath."

"Yet, she wavers," whispered Verðandi, the voice of the now. "Becoming. Changing. The tide pulls her in both directions."

"A debt is owed," murmured Skuld, voice like the cold wind. "And it shall be paid in sorrow."

The crone's breath quickened, her body trembling with the force of their presence.

"Rta guides the balance," the voices continued, merging now, seamless as the flow of time. "She is one with the order of the universe, and yet she stands apart. The strands may twist to ruin or rise to glory."

Their presence began to fade, slipping back into the unseen, but their final words rang out like a prophecy etched in stone.

"The storm will call her name. And she will answer. But the storm is a wild thing, untethered, merciless and selfish, with teeth that hunger and winds that whisper of ruin, and it may not know the weight of her life, nor does it care for the destiny she must bear "

The crone shivered her vision clearing, the gravity of their message still pressing upon her bones. She knew now—this girl was no ordinary child. And the world would soon come to know it as well.

At that moment, Rayan ran up to the hut, breathless. "Crone! Visitors have come!"

Seren returned home, her older brother Aaren waiting for her at the crone's hut. As they walked through the forest, the scent of damp earth lingered in the air, fresh from the rain that had passed earlier. The cicadas had begun their night chorus, their rhythmic calls filling the air like an ancient song. A squirrel, plump and bold, hopped along the branches above them, pausing to eye them curiously as they walked. Seren slowed, tilting her head slightly. She could almost understand the chittering sounds it made, a curious mixture of caution and amusement.

She reached into the small pouch at her waist and pulled out a handful of pumpkin seeds, offering them with an open palm. The squirrel hesitated, then, with a flick of its tail, skittered down a low branch and plucked a seed from her fingers before darting back up to safety.

Aaren chuckled, watching the exchange. "You're making friends in the trees now, little sister? Perhaps they'll braid your hair next."

Seren smirked, flicking a stray strand of her plait over her shoulder. "At least they have better manners than you, Aaren." She shot him a teasing look before stepping forward, letting the squirrel continue its meal in peace.

As they made their way through the village, whispers floated through the night air. Their uncle, Lumas, stood near the gates, murmuring to another.

"Some guests are here to see you, Seren," he said, his eyes had that line between them which appeared when he was worried.

Guests? A shiver ran down Seren's spine as she turned toward the village entrance. The air was heavy, thrumming with something unseen.

The storm would call her name.

And she would answer.

Chapter 3

Hagan

The village hummed with life as Hagan and his friends strolled through the bustling square. Smoke curled from chimneys, the scent of roasting meat and fresh bread mingling in the crisp morning air. Children darted between stalls, merchants called out their wares, and the clang of a blacksmith's hammer rang through the air like a steady heartbeat.

Hagan, son of the Highclaw, moved through it all with effortless confidence, his presence met with murmured greetings, bows, and proud smiles. He was the future. The heir. The blessed one. And he knew it.

"Morning, Alphason!"

The voice came from Brann, the butcher, wiping bloodied hands on his apron before hurling a piece of jerky through the air.