Ward of Storms

CHAPTER ONE

WARD OF STORMS © 2024 ANNE KATIH.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except for brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

CHAPTER ONE

Thunder called across the sky, flashing cracks illuminating the figure of a young woman clasped in the arm of another leaping through the dark clouds towards a shrouded path. Reminiscent of an ancient martial lineage, the man's silver sword reflected the lighting as they tore through the sky. His black locks flowed with his white robes cascading behind him, the fabric caught in the movement. The sky flickered as the storm bellowed through the clouds with a roar of anger and spite that shuddered the fair-skinned woman with dark, frazzled hair.

"Bié huítóu!" he screamed, as from the dark clouds emerged a glowing figure of an old man adorned in white wearing a similar uniform to the one who held her. The young warrior wore a white high-collared tunic with long billowing sleeves that tapered to his wrists. It fell smooth over his form, secured at the waist by a wide belt, and decorated by delicate embroidery. While she had thought it perfect, she noticed the smut and wrinkles on it, but her thoughts were torn upwards when more armed warriors appeared floating through the sky.

This couldn't be real; a delusion, a dream, she thought. All of it strange and different, the world dark and foreboding when the last thing she remembered was pain.

She'd been dying.

A final farewell whispered in her ear.

A plea for her to stay.

Just a moment more,

just a moment with the person

who became a shadow at her bedside.

The firmness of the man's arm on hers grounded her as she avoided looking down, and he took an impossible leap towards rocky mountains. A strong gale and a shout of the armed man who followed broke their trajectory, forcing her to be separated from her savior and spinning into the dark.

A moment ago, she had awakened in a strange world in the arms of a man with a blackened face. His black hair in disarray and a voice screaming for "Xinrui." She didn't understand him, his words rapid and eyes filling with tears. They tapped her one by one as if the tears had resuscitated her, but to where? She didn't recognize the handsome man above her, and wasn't given time when another approached in her blurred vision. The old man with his long beard ripped him from her. She slowly, sat up, watching the strange men argue over her, both wearing beautifully crafted costumes with their long black hair pulled out of their faces in a fashion she had only known in dramas and history books. Yet, the shine of their blades and the heat of the words left her speechless—staring at the men who called her "Èmó" over and over like a war cry as the man who now held her arm fought them off.

She fell onto her elbow, pulling herself up and seeing that he hadn't made it to the rocky outcrop. A sinking feeling in her gut mocked her as she grasped her head and tried to make sense of the world. This had to be a dream, but a dream never brought her pain or the brightly colored liquid now spouting from her elbow.