Page 5 of A Storm Rises

Still, the potion did not have the same effect as before. Like the healing seeds, it was running low and almost empty.

Deep lines etched his father’s dark tan face. His almost fully gray hair hung past his shoulders. He often complained about back pain. But most concerning was his developing cough. It sounded like the beginnings of the dreaded Dragon’s Bellow—the same as Floriana’s cough. The disease had claimed Faeryn, Mateo’s fae mother, ten years earlier. Mateo wasn’t about to lose Manny or Floriana. Not after what happened to his mother.

“Father, please.” He needed and wanted his father’s support but was ready to go forward without it. “Winning would do so much for us and the people of the Sublands.”

His father sighed. “The Stromms only know hate.” He held his back and eased into his favorite plush chair. “Hate for humans.” He rubbed his stubbled face. “Hate for the Strongs who sought refuge here so many years ago.” He gripped the chair and gritted his teeth. “Hate for everyone in the Sublands. We are the lowest of the low to them.” His hacking cough returned with a vengeance. Camilla rushed to his side, but he shooed her away. With a swallow, he managed a few final words. “Who we are will never change.”

Mateo kissed the top of Floriana’s head. He pulled her away from his leg but kept her close as he bent a knee and took his father’s hand. “Yes, Father. But we must try. Doing nothing is not an option.”

“You will risk death for the chance to compete?” His father’s sad eyes pleaded for a different response. “Is that what you’re saying, Mijo?”

“Yes, Father. That’s what I am saying.”

“My boy.” Tears slid from Manny’s eyes. He wiped them with dark, weathered hands. “Then I will stand by you no matter what.”

Camilla put her hand on Mateo’s shoulder. “Me too.”

“If that is what you want,” Floriana whispered, wrapping her small arms around Mateo’s neck.

His friends joined in. “Count us in,” Lirien said.

Together they had weathered more storms than Spirit Butte. With their support, a surge of hope sprouted inside Mateo. A tidal wave of expectation and desire that nothing could stop him. He prayed to the Sun, Moon, and Stars that he was right.

Mateo could not remember sleeping. His head throbbed as if he were an oak tree claimed by a relentless woodpecker. His sore eyes stung. His achy legs twitched. He fluffed his feather pillow and turned from side to side. He had been ecstatic about the hunt. Couldn’t wait to be in those mountains putting all the other hunters to shame. But the night and the darkness brought with them thoughts of the last place death penalty. His empty gut twisted tighter. All excitement had evaporated, replaced by the weight of winning and the fear of losing.

He didn’t want to let his family down or go to the Passing Place.

Early morning stillness filled his bedchamber. The hush of nightfall clung to the stone and sun-dried mud bricks of Mateo’s home. His gaze roamed the pressing darkness, landing where Stormshroud lay curled in a ball. He didn’t have to see her to know she breathed slowly, her paws twitching while she dreamed. Those things were a given. Maybe she chased a mouse or a rabbit. Maybe she fled the Passing Place.

A hazy and soft light began seeping into the room from his narrow window. Inch by inch it brought Stormshroud into full view. A ball of strong, sleek muscles with a fluffy black coat with that streak of white. She weighed over one hundred pounds and stood nearly seven feet tall on her hind legs—Mateo’s height. But when he and his father had found her, she barely fit his hand.

They were hunting deep in the Sublands, far from the village. While they were sleeping in a cave, a raging storm rolled in. Through the deluge and over the thunderclaps, they heard whimpering from within their rocky shelter.

Deep in the cave, they found a decimated litter of wolf pups. All had perished, except for one. No larger than a fist, the pup could not have been more than a few days old. Eyes closed, she was helpless and barely had any fur. Mateo and his father brought her home, and she’s faithfully served them since—the best wolfhound in the Sublands.

With the morning light growing brighter, Stormshroud recognized the new day. She lifted her head and yawned. Mateo yawned too and then flung off his thin cotton cover and rose from his narrow bed. The steward of the Sublands, Lady Verona, would be picking him up and escorting him to the Stromm Palace, where the Summit Range Hunt would begin.

Time was running out. He might as well get ready.

After a stop at the washroom, he put on his best travel clothes—dark pants, a long-sleeved silver shirt, and his newly polished black boots. He had already packed his weapons and clothing the night before. Yet, he added two more things from his bedside table—the black scarf his mother made for him when he was little and a wood carving of a cross his father had whittled one winter during a human time known as Christmas. These two items would either carry him to victory or join in death’s defeat. Wherever he went, they went as well.

Head tilted, Stormshroud cast a stare at Mateo. His loyal wolf knew he would soon be leaving. “It will be okay, Stormy.” He stroked her behind the prickly ears. “I will be back in no time.”

He would’ve taken her if he could, but the hunt allowed for hunters and their weapons only. Stormy would’ve been the best weapon he could have taken from the Sublands. That, and the best companion.

The carriage ride from the Sublands to Summit Range Palace would take three days. Once there, he would endure the arrival festivities. The day after that, he’d attend the Gala of the Hunter’s Moon. The next morning, the hunt would commence.

His mind zipped to the possibility of coming in last. How would the last place finisher be executed? His hand paused in the middle of stroking Stormshroud’s back. Forget about that. It wouldn’t be him anyway. That honor would surely go to highborn scum. Mateo would see to it.

He whistled and jerked his chin. “Come on, Stormy girl.” Leaving his bedchamber, he headed for the cookroom. “We have lots to do.”

With a yelp, Stormshroud dashed ahead of Mateo and disappeared around the corridor’s corner. In the wolf’s wake came Camilla. She held a mug of tea in her hand. A trail of steam floated from the top like a white lace ribbon. She favored their father with her small frame, big brown eyes, and long wavy hair. But she’d also inherited much from their fae mother. Pointed ears. Sharpened fae senses. Innate abilities with herbs and alchemy. She made the best herbal drinks.

She eyed Mateo while handing over the tea. “Sun, Moon, and Stars. Did you get any sleep last night?”

“Some.” He brought the mug closer. The smell of mint and sage swirled around his nose. He took a slight sip. The flavors provided a pleasing warmth, and he perked up instantly but not completely. Camilla’s flavored tea in the morning would’ve put him two steps in front of Stormshroud on most days. But today was far from typical.

“You can sleep in the carriage on the ride.” She glanced over her shoulder at the cookroom. She moved closer to Mateo. “Please be gentle with Father and Floriana this morning.” She raised her pleading eyebrows. “They are worried about the last place penalty.”

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