Page 30 of Storm Caller

Rook introduces me as his friend, offers only my first name, and very pointedly doesn’t say anything else. Everyone is amicable enough, but I can tell they know what I am. No one refers to me as a Crust, at least to my face, so I guess I’ll take the win.

Once we’ve piled our plates with eggs, toast, and bacon, we find an empty table to sit. A moment later, Calliope and Fisher arrive, settling into seats across from each other.

“You know you don’t have to sit with us,” Rook says. “We won’t be offended.”

“Please,” Calliope says, rolling her eyes at Fisher. “It wasn’t my choice.”

“We need to get our story straight,” Fisher says. “Your father will interrogate us separately, and we need to be on the same page.”

“Why? Are you so worried about me?” Rook asks.

Fisher snorts. “I’m worried about me.”

Rook leans in, his expression turning hard. “There is no story. I’m planning to tell him the truth.”

“You think that will be good enough?”

Rook shrugs. “I do. So don’t try to play the fucking hero. I’ll tell him it was my fault. I will accept the consequences.”

For some reason, that answer pisses Fisher off, and he grunts, staring at his plate before he shoves a piece of toast in his mouth and starts chewing.

They’re half brothers, but there’s plenty of love lost between them. Rook told me he had numerous siblings, but he spoke of them with such fondness. Something tells me he wasn’t counting Fisher in the family he so lovingly recalled to me that night we spent on the edge of the city, touching the storm.

“Poet,” Rook says. “My father has asked that you attend the questioning, since you witnessed the incident.”

He gives me a meaningful look. The truth includes revealing what I am. Rook said his father wants to keep his Storm Caller status a secret. What will he do when he discovers what I’ve been hiding, too?

“Okay,” I say, my stomach coiling with nerves. “Sure.”

We finish our food, and then we’re on the move again, winding through rocky hallways as people stop to salute and say hello to Rook. He greets them all, offering equal attention to everyone in that quiet, steady way that first drew me to him. It’s clear how much everyone respects him and values his calming presence.

At Amery, no one saw who he really was. He had to play a role—one that fit perfectly with the assumptions everyone made about him.

We pass through tiled hallways and approach a set of iron doors before entering a room where High Commander Athira is waiting for us. He’s wearing an outfit similar to Rook’s, and there’s a ruthless coldness in his eyes. I doubt he found himself in the position where he stands today without snapping a few necks. Probably several.

“Good morning,” the high commander says as we enter. “Thank you for coming.”

Rook dips his head, and his father directs us to a set of wooden chairs, then settles into a third seat before us, his feet planted wide and his hands resting on his thighs. “Now tell me what happened.”

“I had to tell them the fence failed,” Rook says as he recounts the moment when the Whisper grabbed me.

“Wait, why can’t Whispers pass through the fence if they’re immune to Spark?” I ask.

“They can,” Rook says. “But Whispers who’ve succumbed to the Silence can’t fully process pain. If they kept moving, they’d be fine, but given how their minds work, the shock causes them to shut down and stop moving. If someone doesn’t offer a push, they stand there until they die. As long as we get to them in time, it doesn’t result in any lasting damage, so we use the fences to offer ourselves a few extra moments in the event of an attack.”

“And you told them the fence failed because you don’t want anyone to know you’re immune to Spark,” I say. “You had no problem passing through.”

“Right. In my case—and yours—we passed through quickly, mostly unharmed.”

High Commander Athira’s gaze jumps between us as his mouth firms into a line. “What do you mean by her case?” he asks.

“Dad,” Rook says. “Poet is like me.”

The slightest widening of his eyes is the only indication that the high commander has been caught by surprise. “She is? You’re sure?”

“I’m pretty sure. She has all the same symptoms as I do when a storm comes.” Rook sits forward, his hands clasped and his elbows on his knees as he goes on to tell the story of the night we held hands and touched Spark together. Though he must be as surprised as we were, Summit reacts only by deepening the groove between his eyes.

“That’s fascinating,” he says, assessing me with a lingering look.