The Inner Storm

The storm tore through the village with a ferocity that left the square unrecognizable. Splintered wood and overturned carts littered the cobblestones, the once-proud well now half-buried under debris. The air reeked of damp earth and smoke.

Mina crouched low with Lyra and Meera beneath the sagging remains of an awning. Rain sliced through the air in cold sheets, mixing with the sharp voices of villagers sheltering wherever they could. The wind whipped their cries of anger and fear into the night.

“This is what comes of trusting him!” a mud-streaked farmer bellowed, his voice hoarse but loud enough to pierce the storm.

Lyra’s head jerked toward the sound. “That’s Jakob,” she muttered. “He’ll rile them up. He always does.”

“We don’t have time for that,” Mina said sharply. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the edge of her cloak, her eyes scanning the debris-strewn square. “Victor’s still out there, and so is the Orb.”

Meera placed a hand on Mina’s arm. “The Orb… have you felt it again? Is it still trying to reach you?”

Mina hesitated, lowering her gaze. The connection had come and gone in faint pulses, like the fading light of a distant star. Now it was stronger, thrumming softly in the back of her mind. “Yes,” she admitted. “But I don’t know what it wants. It keeps saying… it’s time.”

Lyra’s brow furrowed. “Time for what? For Victor to destroy us all?”

“No,” Mina said firmly, though her voice wavered. “The storm… the storm is working against him. I think it’s the Orb. It wants to break free.”

Across the square, the villagers’ argument grew louder.

“Victor came to us when the crops failed!” an elder cried, clutching the arm of a younger woman. “He said he could fix everything!”

“And we believed him,” another voice spat. “Look what it cost us.”

Mina clenched her jaw, forcing herself to block out their words. She focused instead on the faint glow she could sense—somewhere beyond the ruins, Victor’s shadow moved. He still had the Orb.

“They’ll tear each other apart if we leave them like this,” Meera whispered, her voice tight. “Do you hear them? Half of them think the Creche is to blame, too. They’ll never trust us again.”

“They’re scared,” Lyra said bitterly. “People lash out when they’re scared. But we can’t stop to play peacekeeper. Not with Victor so close.”

Mina nodded reluctantly. “We’ll circle around the square,” she said. “If we can get closer, maybe I can—”

A sudden surge of power cut through her thoughts, making her gasp. The Orb’s voice came clearer than ever, urgent and unyielding. 

Mina, you must be ready. The storm is mine. When he falters, you must act.

Mina’s hands trembled, but she forced herself to focus. “We have to move,” she said, glancing at Lyra and Meera. “Now.”

“Move where?” Lyra asked, her tone sharp with tension. “Through that mess? If Victor catches us, it’s over.”

“We don’t have a choice,” Mina snapped, her voice rising. “The Orb says—”

“The Orb says,” Lyra interrupted, her eyes flashing. “How do we even know it’s right? How do we know we’re not walking into another trap?”

“It’s not wrong,” Meera interjected quietly. She touched Lyra’s shoulder, grounding her. “Look around you. The storm isn’t natural, and neither is Victor. Whatever the Orb’s doing, it’s the only thing standing between us and…” Her voice trailed off as another gust tore through the square, scattering debris like brittle leaves.

Lyra hesitated, then nodded tightly. “Fine. Lead the way, Mina. But if this goes sideways…”

“It won’t,” Mina said, more to herself than anyone else.

They slipped from their hiding place, keeping low as they moved through the wreckage. Around them, the villagers’ arguments grew quieter, their voices swallowed by the storm’s growing intensity. Mina felt the Orb’s pull guiding her steps, its voice whispering in her mind.

Across the square, a small group had gathered near the shattered remnants of the meeting hall. A man in ragged clothing spoke with fervor, his voice rising above the chaos. “It’s not just Victor,” he said, his tone sharp. “The Creche let him do it. Where were they before all this?”

“That’s not fair!” another voice shouted. “The Creche saved us before! They stopped the machines—remember? If they hadn’t, there wouldn’t be a village left to save!”

The argument swelled, dividing those who remembered past heroism from those who saw only the present destruction. Beneath their anger and fear lay the same question, unspoken but palpable: Who can we trust in a world so easily broken?

But not all had turned to blame. Near the remnants of a collapsing barn, a handful of villagers worked quietly, pulling free a trapped goat from the wreckage. An old man bandaged the leg of a boy who had fallen trying to help. “Storms don’t care for blame,” he muttered, half to himself. “They only care for what we build after.”

And so, amidst the fear and mistrust, small pockets of resolve began to emerge—people choosing to help where they could, even if they didn’t yet understand the forces at play.

By the time the orb’s light began to intensify in the distance, drawing the storm’s energy toward it, the villagers’ voices had quieted. They watched from their broken shelters, awe and terror mingling as the storm’s fury turned inward, collapsing toward the glowing sphere.

In the aftermath, there would be questions, arguments, and grief. But for now, they simply stared, hoping for an answer from forces far beyond their control.