The first true storm of autumn arrived not with a gentle warning, but with a sudden, violent temper. The sky, which had been a placid grey, bruised to a deep purple-black. The wind, once a whisper, began to keen through the streets, pulling at shutters and rattling the newly hung net over the stable loft. Then the rain came, not in drops, but in sheets, a roaring deluge that turned the world into a blur of silver-grey.
In Silverport, such weather was a managed event. Drainage systems whirred to life, energy shields flickered over important thoroughfares, and the citizenry retreated into climate-controlled comfort, the storm reduced to a data pattern on a municipal weather grid.
In Aethelburg, the storm was a personality. It was a wild, untamed force that demanded respect and response. Finnian stood in the open doorway of the stable, watching the rain lash the square, turning it into a shallow, churning lake. The sound was immense, a roar that swallowed all other noise.
