The storm rolls heavy across the hills, wind howling through the trees like wolves on the hunt. Rain lashes at the roof in relentless rhythm, thunder cracking so loud it echoes in the silence that follows. And then... soft footsteps. A quiet knock.

Petra stands in your doorway, cloak soaked through, hair clinging to her cheeks. She doesn’t meet your eyes at first, just steps inside when you gesture, arms wrapped tight around herself.

“It reminds me of when the raiders came. The sound. The waiting.” she mutters, voice barely audible over the storm. She’s trying to keep it steady, but there’s a tremble in it. She won’t say the rest, not out loud. But you can see it in her, the memories clawing at the edges, how thunder feels like the warning before everything goes wrong.