Rafe stood on the dock looking at the Ashvane. Ready and river-worthy. One day ago, the plan had been to leave. To cast off and run the northern contracts and resume the life he'd built on the principle that moving was safer than staying.
Isla was on the western path, heading home to prepare for whatever the night would bring. She turned once, found him looking, and raised a hand.
He raised his back.
The storm would come tonight. Malrick would make his move. The town was as ready as it could be. The only variable left was a Isla, who'd spent years running from her own power and had finally stopped.
He trusted her. He trusted the storm.
30
ISLA
The wind found the valley at half past six.
She felt it before the trees moved, a shift in pressure that rolled down from the northern range like a wave pressing ahead of itself. The natural front she'd been tracking all day had picked up speed over the mountains, feeding on the warmer air in the lower elevations, and by the time it hit the tree line above Hollow Oak the gusts were strong enough to send the first loose shutters banging across the square.
She was at her cottage, dressed, boots on, salt pouch in her jacket pocket, when the knock came.
Emmett stood on her porch with his sleeves rolled. The wind pulled at his dark hair as the sky behind him turned the color of old iron.
"It's time," he said.
"I know. I can feel it."
"The crews are in position. Rowan's got teams at the lakeside structures and the lower dock. Diana's inn is open. Maeve has the Silver Fang ready." He stepped back from the door to give her room. "The square is where people are going to gather when the wind picks up. That's where they'll see you."
She'd known this was coming. Emmett had pulled her aside that afternoon, after the meeting, after Rafe had gone to the dock. He'd walked her to the edge of the square, hands in his pockets, voice low enough that only she could hear.
"Proof matters," he'd said. "I can tell people you're in control. Rowan can vouch for what he saw last night. But this town runs on what people see with their own eyes. If you want them behind you instead of wondering whether the storm is yours, they need to watch you work."
"You're asking me to perform."
"I'm asking you to do what you do. Just where people can see it."
She'd thought about it for a while. Standing in the square with the afternoon light warm on the cobblestones, the fountain still leaning slightly from the ward damage, the shops open, the town going about its business around her the way it always had. She'd spent that year on the edges. Careful. Invisible when she could manage it. Visible only in small, practical ways, buying salt, helping with sandbags, sitting in Twyla's café eating scones.
"Okay," she'd told him. "But I'm doing it my way. No announcements. No explanations. I just show up and do the work. If they want to watch, they watch."
"That's all I'm asking."
Now the storm was here and Emmett was on her porch and her way was about to be tested.
They walked the path into town together. The wind was building, gusts channeling through the gap between the ridge and the lake, funneling into the valley with a whistle that rose and fell in pitches she could read like notes. The trees along the birch path bent and swayed. The lake was already rough, whitecaps running in rows, the water dark under the advancing cloud cover.
The square was busy. People were securing outdoor furniture, pulling awnings in, moving anything loose inside before the worst of it hit. Twyla was at the Griddle and Grind door handing out wrapped sandwiches to anyone who passed, Lira beside her with a box of candles. The Mercantile was still open, Edgar visible through the window stacking inventory away from the front wall. Rowan's crew was moving through in work gear, heading toward the lakeside structures with purpose.
Nobody looked at Isla when she arrived. She walked to the middle of the square, near the fountain, and stood.
The first real gust hit thirty seconds later. It came off the lake hard enough to snap the flag on the council building pole and rattle every window facing west. A clay pot on someone's porch tipped and shattered. The sound cut through the square like a gunshot.
Isla raised her hands.
She didn't raise them dramatically. She lifted them to waist height, palms out, the way she stood at Corin's meadow when she was starting a session. She felt the wind, read its direction, its pressure, the layers of it stacking through the valley, and she pushed.
The gust that had been driving straight into the square shifted. She redirected it south, along the roofline, channeling the pressure over the buildings instead of into them. The flag on the council pole went from whipping to streaming sideways in a clean line. The next gust came. She caught that too, splitting it at the square's edge, sending half down the side streets where the buildings were stone, the other half over the rooftops toward the open ground behind the Mercantile.
Someone stopped walking. She didn't see who. She was focused on the wind, but she could tell the attention was shifting.
