The Storm

The sky above the village churned with an alien fury, layered with dense, roiling clouds the color of ash. Lightning spidered across the horizon, bright and jagged, illuminating a wall of rain advancing like a living thing. Winds screamed through the narrow valley, tearing at the treetops and sending debris tumbling across the fields. This storm was no passing squall—it was a colossus born of centuries of climate disruption, the kind of superstorm that had become more frequent and devastating after The Collapse.

The villagers huddled together in the central longhouse, their faces pale with fear. Lyra and Meera stood near the doorway, trying to calm the panicked whispers. Even as they reassured the others, they exchanged uneasy glances. The storm’s intensity was beyond anything they had ever seen.

“Will the Weavers come?” someone asked, their voice trembling.

“They always do,” Lyra said, though her confidence wavered. She had weathered storms like this before but there was something different about this storm. She couldn’t quite define it. .