Page 59 of Wolf of the Storm
"I'm here to teach you how to survive this. Grayson?"
The massive grizzly shifts back to human form, his transformation rippling through the pre-dawn air. He walks over, naked and unbothered by the cold, and crouches beside Moira's symbols.
"Storm-born shifters spend years learning control. You don't have years."
"So what's the shortcut?"
"Visualization. Imagine the storm as something physical. Something you can hold, shape, direct. For me, I visualize the ocean's currents—steady, powerful, inevitable. For Declan, it's the wind itself." He draws a line in the sand, connecting two of Moira's symbols. "What works for you?"
I think about the transformation. The hunt. The moment Jax attacked me and I felt lightning wanting to strike. The storm isn't something external—it's connected to Declan.
"A thread. Golden. It connects me to him. When I pull on it, the storm answers."
Grayson nods. "Good. That's your anchor. When you call the storm, visualize pulling on that thread. Don't grab it—pull it gently. Let the power flow through instead of trying to force it."
"And if I pull too hard?"
"Then the storm will rip through you like lightning through a tree." Moira hands me a knife—simple, sharp, with a bone handle. "Which is why you're going to practice control first. Cut your palm. Not deep—just enough to bleed."
I take the knife. My hands are steadier than they should be. Maybe I'm too scared to shake, or maybe some part of me has accepted that this is happening whether I'm ready or not.
The blade bites into my palm. Blood wells up immediately, dripping onto Moira's symbols. The moment it touches the convergence point, power pulses through my bones.
"Now visualize your thread. Don't pull yet. Just see it. Feel it. Know that it's there."
I close my eyes. Reach for the mate bond. And there it is—golden and bright, connecting me to Declan where he stands twenty yards away with Jax. The thread pulses with each of his heartbeats.
"I see it."
"Good. Now pull. Gently. Just a trickle of power. Enough to make the hair on your arms stand up."
I pull. The thread vibrates like a plucked string, and storm magic floods through me?—
Too much. Too fast. Lightning explodes behind my eyes. I gasp, nearly dropping to my knees. Every nerve ending lights up with electric pain.
"Control it!" Moira's shout penetrates the agony. "Don't let it control you! Push back!"
I push, visualizing the thread going slack. Slowly, agonizingly, the lightning fades. I'm left gasping, my palm still bleeding onto the symbols.
"Again."
"That nearly killed me...”
"And the actual ritual will be ten times worse. So you practice until you can control the flow. Again, Eliza. Gentler this time."
I pull. Fail. Pull again. The storm magic fights me each time—wanting to explode, to consume, to destroy. But gradually, painfully, I learn its rhythm. Learn to coax instead of command.
My hands shake by the time I can hold it steady—a gentle trickle that makes my skin tingle but doesn't burn. Sweat drips down my spine despite the cold wind. The cut on my palm throbs with each heartbeat.
"Good enough." Moira produces a clay vessel from her bag—ancient, covered in symbols that hurt to look at. Inside, water glows with faint blue light. "This is consecrated with sea-witch magic that's been in my family for ten generations. Once I pour it, you have maybe two minutes before the magic destabilizes. In those two minutes, you need to call the storm, channel it through the salt-water into the seal, and hold it steady while the convergence point absorbs the power. Understand?"
"Two minutes to save lives or die trying. Got it."
Moira almost smiles. "You're braver than most. Ready?"
I look at Declan. His eyes are gold, his wolf close to the surface, every line of his body radiating the need to stop this, to pull me away from danger. But he doesn't move. He trusts me.
"I'm ready."
