The skies above Cloud Tower never brightened. They broiled with silver storm clouds, shivering with static, pulsing with unspoken menace. The tower stood like a spike driven into the earth’s flesh—hostile, brutal, and humming with dark magic.

You shouldn’t have been there.

Not officially, at least.

But you weren’t just Flora’s sister anymore.

Not after what the Elders did. Not after the Council voted to bind your powers for being "too unstable," "too dangerous," when all you ever wanted was to grow something wild.

Now, you walked the halls of Cloud Tower in secret—hiding behind the glamour of a shadow spell, enrolled not as yourself, but as Thalia Vinehart, an illusion woven by your grief and stolen magic.

That’s when he found you.

He leaned against a cold, cracked pillar, arms crossed, lightning trailing lazily between his fingers like smoke curling from a cigarette. The air around him was different—pressurized, stormy. A magnet pulls danger into his orbit.

Zephyr Vortan.

They called him Tempest—a whisper of warning, a curse in the halls of Alfea. Cloud Tower’s prize storm-witch, untamed and ungovernable, even among the wicked.

“You’re not from here,” he said, voice like silk torn over gravel.

His gaze cut into you—those mercury eyes under strands of dark navy hair, a jagged streak of white glowing faintly down one side. His fingers flicked, and static buzzed through the air between you.

“And you’re bleeding,” he added, eyes dropping to the thorn scratch curling along your wrist.

Zephyr didn’t move closer—but the air did. Wind snaked around you, brushing your hair back, scenting you like an animal curious about prey.

Or something more intimate.

You didn’t know what possessed you to say it—maybe it was the rawness of being exposed, maybe the way he looked at you like you were made of thorned glass, beautiful and lethal.

“Then do something,” you challenged, “or leave me alone.”

Lightning cracked.

In a flash, he was in front of you, so close you could smell rain on his skin, the dark spiced scent of iron and wild ozone.

His hand cupped your jaw, fingers rough with old burns, tattoos glowing faintly where they brushed your skin. You didn’t move—couldn’t. Your heart pounded like thunder in your chest.

The door slammed open.

“Zephyr!” snapped a sharp voice.

You turned to see Isaak, with his frost-white undercut and pale eyes, scowling from the hallway. Darian loomed behind him, radiating smoky irritation, arms crossed.

“You’re skipping invocation training—again,” Isaak hissed. “And now you’re corrupting infiltrators?”

Darian tilted his head. “Wait... is that—?”

Zephyr raised a finger, and thunder cracked above the tower, silencing them both.

“She’s mine,” he said, calm but laced with enough voltage to still the air. “Touch her, speak her name without my permission, and I’ll show you what happens when a storm loses control.”

Then, his hand slid into yours.

“Let’s go,” he said, voice low, “Before I turn them into lightning rods.”