The rain hadn't stopped for three days.
Nyra Thunderhand stood ankle-deep in the mud outside a burned-out chapel, her cloak heavy with water, her fingers crackling faintly with blue fire. The storm liked her. Always had. It clung to her like a lover too jealous to let go.
The five armored zealots fanned out in front of her, shields gleaming with the holy sigil of the Storm Temple she once served. Their helms hid their faces, but she didn't need to see their eyes to know the hatred there.
"Nyra of the Thunderhand," the leader called, voice muffled by steel. "You stand accused of oath-breaking, blasphemy, and blood magic. By the order of the High Stormfather, your life is forfeit."
Nyra smirked, water dripping from her lip. "You forgot treason, theft, and sleeping with the wrong acolyte."
The zealot didn't move. Didn't flinch. Just lowered his blade. "Kill her."
They came at once, shields high, blades raised. Disciplined. Trained. The kind of men who thought faith made them invincible.
Nyra let the storm loose.
Lightning cracked from her palm with a sound like the world splitting open. Blue fire lanced through the first zealot's chest, hurling him backward in a spray of sparks and burning flesh. His scream was drowned by the boom of thunder that followed, rolling across the valley like war drums.
The others staggered but kept coming, shields locking. One swung low — his blade scraped her thigh, shallow but hot. She hissed, spun, and slammed her hand into his helm. Lightning surged through him, snapping bone and cooking flesh inside the steel. He dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.
The last three pressed harder, shield-bashing, trying to drive her into the mud. Nyra gritted her teeth. Power burned through her veins, too much, too fast. Every time she used it, it ate at her, hollowed her out. The storm demanded a price.
She paid anyway.
She ducked, rolled, then raised both hands to the sky. Lightning answered instantly — a blinding spear that tore through shields and armor, blasting the zealots apart in a shower of fire and mud.
When the echoes died, the chapel was ash and smoke, the air sharp with ozone and blood.
Nyra fell to one knee, chest heaving. Her hands shook, fingers smoking. Her vision blurred, dark at the edges.
"Damn you," she whispered, not sure if she meant the zealots, the storm, or herself.
The rain pounded harder, washing the dead into the muck. She pushed herself up, staggered, and spat blood into the mud. That was the third time this week zealots had tracked her down. The Temple wanted her dead badly — badly enough to keep sending their best.
Let them try. She'd burn them all.
A sound made her freeze — boots squelching through mud. Not zealots this time. The rhythm was wrong. Lighter. A rogue's step.
Nyra drew the short blade from her belt, her storm-drained fingers too weak for another strike. She turned, ready to kill whoever thought now was a good time to bother her.
The man who stepped out of the treeline looked like he'd crawled through hell and stopped for a drink on the way. His shirt was ripped open at the ribs, blood still seeping. His hair was dark and ragged, his grin sharper than his sword. Smoke from a pipe curled around his face despite the rain.
"Well," he said, eyes flicking over the scorched corpses. "Looks like I found the right woman. Always did have a thing for dangerous ones."
Nyra narrowed her eyes. "Name."
"Kael Thorne. Currently unemployed. Formerly betrayed." He tapped his sword against his boot. "And you are?"
She didn't lower her blade. "The one about to open your throat if you take one more step."
Kael's grin widened. "Gods, you sound like my type."
Nyra considered killing him right then, just to stop the smugness. But something in his eyes — the weariness, the blood still fresh on him, the way he scanned the shadows for more enemies — told her he wasn't here for a fight. Not yet.
"Why are you following me?" she asked.
"Not following. Stumbling." He leaned against a half-burned post, wincing as his ribs flared. "Seems both of us made enemies tonight. Maybe the same ones. You storm-priestess types don't usually go rogue unless there's a damned good reason."
"I'm no priestess." The words came out harsher than she meant.
Kael raised a brow. "Fine. Outlaw, then. Makes us kin of a sort."
The storm above rumbled, and for a heartbeat Nyra thought about striking him down, ending this conversation before it began. But the exhaustion dragged at her bones, and the last of the zealots' bodies still smoked in the mud. She was too tired to kill another stranger.
"Stay out of my way, mercenary," she said, turning her back.
Kael chuckled. "Oh, I plan to. Just figured I'd thank you for saving me the trouble of finding a healer. If the zealots hadn't bled me already, I'd pay you to keep frying them."
Nyra ignored him and walked into the rain, cloak heavy, boots sinking into the mud. But she felt his eyes on her, sharp and measuring.
Kael Thorne was trouble. She could smell it.
And Nyra Thunderhand already had more trouble than she could burn.