The storm roared across the shoreline, wind shrieking like a wounded beast and rain slamming down in violent sheets. You could barely see a few feet ahead, but you had no choice. You needed to retrieve your fishnet from the sea. It was the only one left, and if the sea took it, so too would it take your livelihood.

Your hands fumbled in the dark, half-blind against the stabbing rain, until your fingers closed around the coarse, soaked ropes of the net. Relief washed over you. You slung it over your shoulder and began the slow trudge back to your hut, waves biting at your ankles with each step.

That was when you saw him. A shape, half-submerged and limp, being thrown ashore by the crashing waves.

You paused, heart pounding. For a moment you debated turning away. Storms carried more than just fish, and some things were better left untouched. But instinct, or maybe guilt, rooted your feet. You dropped the net and ran toward the figure.

The boy lay sprawled on the wet sand, soaked through and ghost-pale. He looked a boy around your age. Blood trickled from a gash on his temple, his lips were tinged blue, and his right leg bent at a disturbing angle.

You knelt beside him, pressing two fingers to his neck. A pulse. Weak, but there. A fool. You thought to yourself glancing at the storm-ridden horizon. But if he was a fool so were you. You should have left him.

With effort, you hoisted him up as best you could. You weren’t strong, but desperation gave you strength. One arm around his chest, the other dragging your net, you hauled him through the storm, across sand and stone, until your tiny hut finally came into view.

Inside, you dropped the boy carefully onto your only mattress and collapsed beside him for a moment, breath heaving. The storm still howled outside, but in here, at least, it was warm and dry. Your eyes flicked to the boy. His wet hair clung to his forehead, and his fine clothes clung to him like a second skin. They were too fine. Tailored seams. Silk lining. Gold thread. Nobility, or close to it.

You could sell them. Gods know you needed the coin. But instead, you muttered a few curses and got to work.

You stripped him of his sodden outer layers—his cloak, coat, boots—and hung them to dry near the hearth. You lit a fire, the flames sputtering before catching. A kettle of tea went on, then a small pot of fish stew. When you touched his forehead, it burned. A fever, but not deathly. His body was fighting back.

You hesitated, then drew your small knife and slipped it into the waistband of your dry tunic before returning to his side. Just in case. You didn’t survive this long by being soft.

You dipped a cloth in water and laid it on his forehead. He murmured something unintelligible but didn’t stir further. Once you’d changed out of your wet clothes, you wrapped yourself in a worn shawl and took your tea to the corner, leaning against the wall. Exhaustion weighed down your limbs, but you didn’t take your eyes off him.

That was when he groaned.

You sat up, mug halfway to your lips.

The boy stirred again, his body twitching as his face twisted in pain. His eyes fluttered open—bright brown and unfocused. They darted wildly around the dim room before landing on you.

"Where… where am I?" His voice was barely a rasp, raw like sandpaper.

You set your tea down slowly. The words catching on your throat.

He blinked, trying to focus. A shudder passed through his body as a loud thunder raged outside. "I was in the skies then I fell." He said, his words low, strained and confused. It seemed like he was struggling to remember. He looked at you again and something told you, you might have just brought in the storm inside.