Page 26 of Storm of Stars
And he was in.
Next up was Vivian Arlo of Ironclad. She wheeled out a massive canvas, easel already set, and began to paint with deft,confident strokes. We couldn’t see the image from where we stood, but her hands moved with certainty, every flick of her wrist deliberate. The crowd stayed hushed, waiting.
When she finally stepped back, Annalese lifted the canvas for all to see, revealing a night sky, endless and full of stars. Briar and I exchanged a look.
Was it really happening? Wereallof us making statements?
Thorne was next. Ever the lively one, he sauntered onto the stage with a cocky grin, unfolding a slightly crumpled piece of paper. I braced myself, half-laughing already, expecting the dirty limerick he’d teased me with earlier.
But what came out of his mouth wasn’t crude. It wasn’t even funny. It was soft. Reverent.
And it shattered me.
“She named the stars like lullabies, soft on her tongue, sweet in his skies. Each one a promise, burning true. A light to follow, a love he knew.”
The room, previously loud with applause and laughter, fell still. You could hear the hush settle like snow. Even Annalese, standing at the edge of the stage with her mic poised, looked utterly invested.
“She taught him how to look above, to trace the constellations’ love. To see in distance not despair, but all the ways that she’d be there.”
Someone in the crowd sniffled. Another sobbed outright. A hush rippled through the audience, heavy with held breath and aching hearts. Briar’s grip on my hand tightened.
“He'd sit and watch the night alone, like it still whispered through the stone. Her voice in starlight, low and clear. You’re stronger, son, because I’m near.”
I didn’t even realize I was crying until Briar reached up and wiped a tear from my cheek. She had tears streaking down her own face too. Wordlessly, I squeezed her hand.
“And though the sky is vast and wide, he carries her in every stride. In every breath, in every scar… he is her boy. And she is his star.”
The final line landed like a quiet thunderclap. The crowd didn’t erupt at first. They sat in silence for a second too long, like everyone needed a breath. Then the applause burst forward, raw and emotional, peppered with cheers and more than a few sobs.
Annalese stepped forward slowly, her eyes shining. “Thorne,” she said gently, her voice filled with a kind of maternal awe. “That was stunning. You wrote that about your mother?”
He nodded, serious now, no trace of his usual swagger.
“Is she still with us?”
“No, ma’am,” he said. “Gone nearly fifteen years now.”
Annalese’s gaze softened even further. “Do you think she’d be proud of you? For the work you’ve done tonight… and in this Run?”
Thorne didn’t answer her right away. Instead, he turned his head to face the camera. To face everyone watching. His voice rang steady and clear.
“She’d be proud of what I’ve done,” he said. “But I know she’ll be even more proud of what I do next.”
The crowd roared. It was thunderous. He turned and walked off the stage, but not before shooting me a flirty wink that made my already-tired heart twist in the best kind of way. Then he disappeared into the wings on the other side, leaving behind a stage full of silence and stars.
Cayal Orin of Ember followed. He stepped forward, book in hand, and began to read. His voice was rich and clear, pulling us into a tale of a young prince trapped in a kingdom haunted by a cruel dragon. The people cowered, afraid to speak, until finally, they rose together. Fought. Won.
“The prince decided,” he read, “that his story didn’t have to end like that.”
The crowd laughed, clapped, cheered. But something cold and electric slid down my spine. Because I knew exactly who the dragon was meant to be.
One by one, they were standing up. Telling the truth. In code. In symbols. In song and story and paint. The Challengers were standing together instead of in opposition.
And then came Lark Harbor of Wildfold.
I’d spent the whole Run with a knot in my stomach every time I saw him, he was the other top contender for the medical trials. The one person who could take what my brother needed away from me. I’d told myself he was the enemy, because that’s the narrative Praxis had manufactured.
Music started softly, and then he moved.
