Chapter 9—Under the Rumbling Sky

“The sky moans before it weeps”

The tenth morning of stable labor began before dawn, the four of them moving almost without words. Habit had carved its groove: Raiden with his rake, Randall with his bucket, Ophelin with her brush, Tadari overseeing, steady and sharp-eyed. What once felt like punishment had become routine.

Yet this morning was not like the others.

The bell had rung, but the sun had not. Over the eastern horizon, where light should have broken through the mist, only a wall of dark clouds rolled in, heavy and bruised, smothering the sky in leaden gray. The air was thick with dampness, every breath heavy with the promise of rain. Horses stamped and tossed their heads uneasily, ears flicking at the distant growl of thunder.

Inside the stables, the rhythm continued. Straw swept, troughs filled, coats brushed to gleaming. Ten days of labor had honed them into a quiet, efficient crew.

Raiden tested his left leg as he worked. The stiffness was almost gone—he no longer limped, though each step still burned faintly. Ms. Lila’s healing had mended much, yet part of him wondered if it had worked too well. A wound that deep, knit together in less than two weeks? It felt unnatural. He pushed the thought aside, but unease lingered in his chest like a splinter. Ever since the visions began, strange changes seemed to follow.

Stormfoot Courser nickered when Raiden approached with fresh hay, nudging his shoulder impatiently. The lean, long-legged horse had tested him for days, but now allowed Raiden to brush its coat and check its hooves without protest. The bond was fragile, tentative, but real. Raiden found himself warming to the Courser’s restless energy—it was a horse built for speed, not brute power. Like me, he thought quietly. Not for smashing lines, but for weaving through them.

Randall, meanwhile, practiced with a practice bow once chores were done. Mounted archery drills were still forbidden on account of the approaching storm, but Randall worked on the ground, loosing shafts at straw dummies. His movements were steady, patient, adjusting his aim with each shot. He had the natural calm of a born hunter—Crotis blood, though Raiden didn’t voice the thought aloud.

Instead, it flickered quietly in his mind, a whisper that wasn’t entirely his own: Crotis ancestors were tamers of beasts, men so trusted by nature that no predator dared strike them. Horses, wolves, hawks—it mattered not. No sane beast would harm a Crotis.

Raiden blinked at the thought. Where had it come from? He didn’t remember reading it, nor hearing it from an instructor. Yet the memory sat in him as though he had known it all his life. He frowned, shaken, and returned to his work before Tadari or Randall could notice.

Ophelin was the strangest of all.

She brushed a bay gelding with slow, absent strokes, her mind clearly elsewhere. She had stopped cursing and fighting the horses days ago. Her voice, once sharp and unrelenting, had gone quiet. She moved as if half-asleep, the usual fire dimmed. Tadari noticed at once.

“You’re out of it,” he said, tone matter-of-fact.

Ophelin didn’t answer.

But Raiden noticed something she did not. The gelding under her brush did not toss its head, did not snap its teeth, did not swish its tail. It stood calm, ears relaxed, as if it sensed her subdued state. Even the skittish Ironmane she passed earlier had only snorted once before settling, following her movements with oddly patient eyes.

Raiden watched quietly. She doesn’t even realize… she’s closer to them now than when she fought them.

But Ophelin was lost inside herself, her silence heavier than the storm rolling in outside.

When a roar of thunder cracked, one of the horses reared in panic, kicking hard against its stall. The wooden slats groaned under the force, hooves striking wild. Ophelin stood closest, brush still in hand, but she froze. Her eyes flickered, caught between stepping forward and holding back, her breath shallow. For a heartbeat too long, she hesitated.

Raiden moved instead, raising his arms and speaking low, calming the restless horse back into its stall with slow, careful strokes. The horse quieted under his hand, snorting hard but no longer thrashing.

Ophelin clenched her jaw, turning away before anyone could read her face.

Tadari’s brow furrowed as if to speak, but he let it go. The storm outside drowned the silence.

When the chores were done, they split for their classes. Randall headed for a lecture on wilderness flora, bow still slung across his shoulder. Ophelin trudged toward the history hall, silent as stone. That left Raiden and Tadari, who had no classes scheduled.

The two remained by the stables, the dark clouds creeping closer, thunder rolling in deeper waves. Tadari gestured toward Stormfoot. “Ride him. Slow pace.”

Raiden mounted, the Courser shifting under him with a nervous step, but Tadari’s firm hand on the reins steadied them both. Raiden tried to move with the horse’s rhythm, body stiff at first but slowly learning to give.

Between instructions, Tadari spoke, voice more casual than usual. “You ever wonder why I don’t go to many classes?”

Raiden glanced down at him. “I assumed you already knew most of it.”

“Not wrong.” Tadari shrugged. “But it’s more than that. I’m waiting to graduate, but I haven’t decided what comes next. Exemplar course, maybe. Or adventuring. Sometimes I want something bigger. Other times… I think about living as I please.”

Raiden tilted his head. “Bigger, how?”

Tadari didn’t answer right away. His eyes drifted to the storm. “Doesn’t matter yet.” He tightened Stormfoot’s bridle. “But if you were me—what would you choose?”

Raiden thought for a long moment before answering. “In Rymboven, titles don’t matter much. We’re small—two villages, one town. Laudenfel’s where I grew up. My father protects the village from beasts and bandits, my mother tends the fields. My House isn’t like most noble houses. We’re more… neighbors than lords. If someone has the skill to help, my father welcomes them, no matter the name. He’d welcome you.”

Tadari’s lips curved faintly. “Tempting. Maybe I’ll go to Rymboven after I graduate. Work for you, if you’re still there.”

Raiden chuckled. “Do it, if it feels right.” He hesitated, then asked, “How long have you been training with the sword?”

Tadari looked up, puzzled. “Since I was five. Six, maybe. Why?”

Raiden shifted in the saddle. “Your movements aren’t raw talent. They’re polished. Randall’s a natural marksman, born with keen eyes. You, though… it’s all training, precision, habit. I just wondered.”

Tadari raised his brows, surprised. “You notice things like that easily, don’t you? That’s a gift in itself. Don’t dismiss it.”

Before Raiden could respond, thunder cracked overhead, closer this time. The horses shrieked and stamped, tails lashing. Together, he and Tadari hurried them inside, shutting the stable doors as the first heavy drops fell.

By the time the rain thickened into a curtain, Randall had returned, Ophelin trailing behind him. Both joined them in the shelter of the stable, breath fogging in the damp air. Tadari shook his head. “No riding practice today. Not in this storm.”

Randall left soon after, pulling his cloak tight, muttering something about not wanting to miss supper. Ophelin lingered, silent, leaning against a post as rain drummed against the roof. Raiden tried to speak to her, but she turned her face away. Tadari tried as well, with no better result. She stayed withdrawn, as if the storm outside had seeped into her.

Then lightning flashed, blinding white, followed by a crack so loud it rattled the beams. The horses screamed, hooves clattering in panic. In the chaos, Raiden saw movement at the edge of the downpour—figures, cloaked and hooded, twelve in number, approaching with steady steps.

Even through the rain, he knew them. The gait of the broad-shouldered Rad, the hunch of his shield arm carrying a short spear. And another, the fifth-year mage from Garid’s team, his stride unnervingly calm.

Raiden’s gut twisted. Garid’s lackeys.

He opened his mouth to warn the others, but thunder roared again, drowning every word.

The storm had come.