Wind swept against Phyra's face, carrying burnt wood and wet dirt. The rain beat down on her, her clothes clinging to her cold body. This was it. She peered over the cliff's edge. The sound of rain and thunder echoed across the valley. Lightning flashed across the sky, illuminating the ravaged landscape down below. Trees lay snapped and uprooted from the dragon attack.
In the distance, she could barely make out the smoldering remains of her village. Her home. How had everything gone so wrong? She and her friends were playing just days before. Now she was alone. A deep, burning grew in her throat. Pressure grew behind her eyes. She had prayed to all the gods, but none answered her prayer.
Father had left two days ago in search of her mother. He bade her stay in the caves. But she had grown hungry. She had to get out. She had to find him. What if he got hurt? What if he was trapped? Only now did she see the truth. She was indeed utterly alone.
So here she was, standing at the cliff's edge. Her hand gripped the necklace her mother had given her. Rain battered against her closed hand. She was so cold. She took a deep, shaky breath. She lifted her foot. Images of her father flooded her vision. She paused and closed her eyes. She let out a sigh. She was going to see Father again.
"Beautiful, is it not?" a voice said from behind. It was melodic, feminine. A voice Phyra had never heard before. She whirled around, finding a tall, slender form, dressed in the robes of a witch, standing there. Unlike her own cold, soaked, tattered clothes, the witch's clothes were dry.
"B-Beautiful?" Phyra stammered out, her mouth quivering. Her teeth chattered.
"Indeed, beautiful. I, too, like to come out during storms like this." She smiled, walking to stand right next to Phyra. "It makes me feel alive."
Phyra grimaced. Her throat tightened. "How is this," she gestured to the storm, to her village, her home, "beautiful?" She spat the question out. Was this witch mad? How could she say such a thing? The sky flashed once more, lightning darting across the distant horizon. Thunder rumbled, echoing throughout the valley.
"Storms are the very incarnation of life," the witch said. Phyra looked up. The witch gazed across the valley, eyes resting on the smoldering ruins. "There is beauty in this chaos, as violent as it may appear." She sighed.
Phyra clutched her necklace tighter, the blue crystal pressed deep into her palm. Warm blood flowed, dripping upon the wet ground. She shook violently, wanting to cry, wanting to yell, wanting comfort. She looked at the witch, her eyes questioning.
The witch started to speak. "Life is also—"
"Shut up!" Phyra yelled, throwing herself at the witch. Her arms wrapped around the witch's body. Her knees gave out on her as she collapsed. "Shut up…" she said. She bit back tears she had long thought gone. She let out painful heaves of breath, unable to cry. Her eyes were red and raw, her nerves shot.
There was only the roll of thunder and rain then. The witch knelt, her face calm, her smile warm.
"What is your name?" the witch asked.
A sense of calm washed over Phyra then. She still wanted to cry, she needed to, but soon she found the courage to speak. "P-Phyra. M-My name is Phyra," the girl stuttered.
"How old are you, Phyra?" The witch's face grew stern.
"I-I turn eight next week." Phyra stuttered.
The witch went still for half a breath. "Eight…" Her hands hovered for a moment. "You have been such a brave young girl, Phyra."
The witch pulled her into her arms awkwardly. The smell of roses filled Phyra's nose as she found it pressed against the witch's shoulder. "I'm not that good at this, but I am here."
Phyra looked up, her eyes red and sore, "Y-you won't go?" She stammered, "I don't want to be alone."
"Never."
Phyra took in the witch's warmth, the comfort she offered. She collapsed into sobs, her body shaking against the witch's shoulder as the storm raged on.