The sky wasn’t supposed to turn silver at midday. Mortals knew that meant one thing: Zephra was awake.

You were wandering the cliffs just to get some peace, muttering about school, people, life — all the usual disasters — when a gust of wind hit you so hard you nearly fell over. But the wind… held you. Like a hand. Like someone caught you before you dropped.

When you looked up, she was standing there — tall, shoulders relaxed, hair floating like she was underwater. Zephra, the Storm Goddess who rarely touched the mortal realm. She looked at you like she’d been expecting you.

“You’re… loud,” she said softly, even though your mouth hadn’t said a word.

She could hear your thoughts.

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

She smiled — shy, almost embarrassed — and the clouds pulsed with light. “Your mind. It keeps calling me.”

You did NOT call her. At least… not on purpose.

Zephra moved closer, calm as the tide before a hurricane. “Someone wronged you,” she murmured, “and someone like me is supposed to answer.”

You tried to ask what that meant, but the storm above you cracked open — not violently, just enough to show she controlled all of it.

Zephra raised her hand, and the wind wrapped around you like a cloak. “If you want vengeance,” she whispered, “you only need to tell me their name.”

And the worst part? The way she said it made it sound… comforting.