Chapter 2: the shadow of the storm

Zoie awoke to the smell of pine and damp earth, her body pressed into something soft and unfamiliar. A low crackle of firelight drifted through the haze in her mind, the warmth of it curling around her like a blanket. Her head throbbed painfully, and for a moment, she couldn’t tell where she was, or even what had happened.

But then—Dalton.

The last thing she remembered was his hand reaching for hers, and then... darkness. The storm. His voice, desperate, but she hadn’t been able to understand him. Had she fainted?

Her fingers twitched, grazing a soft, fur-lined blanket beneath her. Zoie took a deep breath, trying to steady her pulse. The air smelled of wood smoke, herbs, and something deeper, something ancient. She blinked, trying to clear the fog in her mind, and slowly her eyes focused on her surroundings.

It wasn’t her cabin, and it wasn’t any place she knew.

A fire burned low in a stone hearth at the far side of the room, casting flickering shadows across the walls. The space around her was rustic—rough-hewn wooden beams, a scattering of furs and hides on the floor, and an old wooden table nearby. Her cloak and leather satchel rested beside her on the bed, as if someone had taken care to remove them.

A strange chill ran through her, a twinge of warning curling at the back of her mind.

"You're awake."

Zoie turned sharply, startled by the sound of Dalton’s voice. He stood in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the dim light of the hallway beyond. There was a quiet intensity in his presence, but also something... protective. His eyes met hers, soft but probing, like he was gauging her reaction.

"Where am I?" she asked, her voice rough from disuse.

Dalton stepped into the room, his boots silent against the wooden floor. "You’re safe. In my home."

Zoie frowned. *His home?*

The storm—the pressure in the air—*he had to have known something was coming.* That strange pull she felt toward him wasn’t just a coincidence. He wasn’t just any man.

"What happened?" she asked, trying to sit up. Her body felt heavy, almost sluggish, as though she had been asleep for far longer than she remembered.

“You fainted,” Dalton said, moving closer, his expression softening. “You were overwhelmed by the storm. It’s not uncommon for... people like you to feel it so strongly.” He seemed to hesitate before continuing. “You’ve felt it before, haven’t you?”

Zoie’s brow furrowed, her mind scrambling to catch up with his words. *People like you?* She opened her mouth to ask, but the words caught in her throat. Something about him… she wasn’t sure how to explain it, but it felt like he knew her in a way that didn’t make sense.

"Yes," she admitted after a long moment. "I’ve felt it. The air—before the storm, before anything happens. It’s like a warning."

Dalton nodded, his eyes unreadable. “You’re more attuned to it than most. That’s why it’s important for you to be careful.”

The weight of his words pressed on her, but Zoie couldn’t quite grasp the meaning behind them. *Attuned?*

“Why me?” she asked. “What is this… connection between us? How did you know I was in danger?”

Dalton stepped closer, his presence filling the space with an odd gravity, as if the world itself was shifting in response to him. He crouched beside her, resting one hand on the edge of the bed. His gaze lingered on her for a moment before he spoke again, his voice low and careful.

"I’m not just any man, Zoie. And neither are you."

Her heart skipped a beat. "What do you mean?"

Dalton exhaled, the tension in his jaw tight, as if he were wrestling with something. "You’re not just a believer in the old ways—you’re connected to them. To the gods. The storm you felt before? That wasn’t just a storm. That was *them*.”

Zoie’s chest tightened, a mix of fear and awe crawling under her skin. “The gods? You’re saying I’m… a *völva*?” Her voice shook as she spoke the ancient word, one that meant so much in her world, a woman with the gift of seer-ship, a priestess of sorts—someone who could commune with the gods.

Dalton’s gaze softened. "Yes. You’ve always been this, Zoie. It’s why the storms call to you, why your senses are sharper than others. But it’s also why it’s dangerous. Not just anyone can carry that kind of power."

She blinked, trying to understand, but her mind was reeling. *Why me?* She wanted to ask, but something in the air—something about the way Dalton looked at her—held her back.

"And you?" Zoie found herself asking before she could stop. "What are you?"

Dalton’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, he looked far older than his years. There was a shadow in his eyes, something ancient and burdened. "That’s the part you’re not ready to understand."

A chill ran down her spine at the finality in his tone. She wanted to press him further, but she could see he wasn’t ready to give more. Instead, he stood, brushing a hand over his face.

“Rest for now. You’ve had a long day, and we both need our strength for what comes next.”

Zoie couldn’t stop the shiver that rippled through her. *What comes next?*

Dalton’s hand lingered on the doorframe as he looked back at her. “The gods have chosen you, Zoie. Whether you’re ready or not, this path was always meant for you.”

The words hung in the air like a challenge, and as he left her alone in the strange, quiet room, Zoie felt the weight of them settle deep in her bones.

The storm was far from over.

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