The Jilted Storm Weaver's Return

Tonight, I, Sarah Miller, stood ready to claim my birthright as a Moon Bay Guardian, destined to command the skies as a Storm Weaver.

But my power died to a nervous breeze, and amidst the elders' scorn, my fiancé Richard publicly rejected me, proposing instead to my adopted sister, Olivia.

Humiliation burned, yet worse was the invisible force that slammed into me, stripping every last shred of my abilities, leaving me hollow.

In my despair, the powerful leader, Ethan Blackwood, offered me his name, his protection-a lifeline I desperately grasped.

But my savior was my ultimate betrayer.

I soon discovered Ethan had deliberately sabotaged my Awakening, using me as a conduit to siphon Olivia's ritualistic burdens-her "Cleansing Curses"-so she could rise.

His promises of love were cruel lies masking a sinister plot.

Worst of all, Olivia, with a smirk, confessed she engineered my parents' ritualistic deaths, and Ethan, the man who married me, had not only known but covered up her crime.

He watched me suffer, using me as a shield, all for her.

My entire life was a lie, a sacrifice for his twisted ambition for Olivia.

Cold rage replaced my shattered heart.

If they desired my end, they would instead find my beginning.

I meticulously faked my own gruesome death, disappearing into the bayou's shadows.

My tormentors believed me gone, but from the depths of betrayal, I would rise, no longer just Sarah Miller, but a force of nature reborn, ready to unleash a storm far more devastating than they could ever imagine.

They wanted to strip me bare?

Now, they would face the thunder.

The air in the hidden grove crackled.

Tonight was my Awakening, the night I, Sarah Miller, would claim my birthright as a true Moon Bay Guardian.

I was supposed to command the skies, to call storms.

My hands rose.

Wind whipped around me, a small cyclone, just as I'd practiced.

Then, it faltered.

The cyclone died to a nervous breeze. My power, once a budding tempest, shrank. I could barely rustle the Spanish moss hanging from the old oaks.

My fiancé, Richard, stepped back. His face, moments before alight with pride, twisted.

"A mere whisper of wind?" he scoffed. "This is the power you offer?"

He turned to Olivia, my adopted sister, standing demurely in the shadows.

"Olivia," he announced, his voice loud enough for every assembled Guardian to hear. "You will be my bride."

Humiliation burned through me. Whispers followed, sharp and cruel.

Then, a cold darkness slammed into me. It wasn't a storm I could see, but a crushing weight, a vile energy. It felt like being struck by invisible lightning.

What little power I had left vanished. I reached out, tried to summon even a puff of air.

Nothing.

I was empty, a hollow shell where a Guardian's strength once resided.

The elders murmured, their eyes filled with pity and disdain. "She's lost it all. Like a commoner."

Just as the shame threatened to swallow me whole, Ethan Blackwood, the Patriarch, leader of all Moon Bay Guardians, stepped forward. His presence silenced the crowd.

He wasn't young, his face etched with the gravity of his position, but his eyes held a strange intensity as they fixed on me.

"Sarah Miller," his voice was deep, resonant. "I offer you my name, my protection."

He held out a velvet box. Inside lay an ancient silver locket, a key Guardian heirloom, and beside it, rolled scrolls – deeds to some of the oldest properties in the French Quarter.

"Become my wife," he said. "You will be the matriarch of this family."

I stared, stunned. From the brink of being an outcast, I was offered the highest position.

The family gasped. Olivia's smile froze.

I looked at Ethan, searching his face. He offered a small, unreadable smile.

With nothing left to lose, I nodded.

I became Sarah Blackwood, wife to the most powerful Guardian in New Orleans.

My hundredth day as Ethan's wife.

A milestone, he'd called it.

He was often away, tending to Guardian business, leaving me in the sprawling, silent Blackwood Manor.

I tried to practice, to coax back even a sliver of my lost abilities. Each attempt was a failure. The air remained stubbornly still.

That evening, a chill wind, unusual for New Orleans in May, rattled the shutters. Ethan was in his study, a place I rarely entered.

The door was slightly ajar. I heard voices.

Ethan, and the High Priest, Alistair, the one who oversaw all our rituals.

"...just like before, Alistair. Divert Olivia's Cleansing Curses to my wife." Ethan's voice was low, devoid of emotion.

My blood ran cold.

Alistair sounded hesitant. "Ethan, you deliberately sabotaged Sarah's Awakening. Then you drew the Curse to her, stripping her bare. If we continue to channel Olivia's purifications through Sarah... she might not even survive as a mundane."

"If it wasn't for the blood-kin bond being the only way to transfer these burdens, I would endure them myself for Olivia," Ethan said, his voice tight. "To see Olivia reach her full potential, to become the true Storm Weaver she's destined to be."

He paused. "As for Sarah, I've given her the honor of the Blackwood name. She should be content."

The words hit me. Harder than any curse.

My years of struggle, my inability to reclaim even a wisp of wind.

Every time Ethan saw me fail, his eyes would soften with what I thought was sympathy. He'd tell me, "It doesn't matter if you're a whisper or a storm, Sarah. I love you."

Lies.

My weakened state, the sideways glances from other Guardians, the subtle ostracization – all orchestrated by my husband. For Olivia.

I had borne all of Olivia's ritualistic burdens, her "Cleansing Curses."

The sky outside darkened abruptly. A familiar, dreadful pressure built in the air. Another one.

I backed away, desperate to hide, but the force found me, slammed into me.

Pain. Blinding, searing.

I stumbled, disoriented, down a corridor I'd never explored, pushing open a heavy oak door at its end, seeking refuge.

The room inside made my breath catch.

I expected a vault, a treasury of Guardian artifacts.

Instead, it was a girl's bedroom. Swirls of faded pink and lavender, lace and ruffles.

And it was a perfect replica of Olivia's childhood room in our old family home.

On the bedside table, nestled against a lace pillow, was a small, carved wooden doll with Olivia's bright, innocent face.

I remembered Ethan, often quiet, turning a similar wooden doll in his hands, one carved in his own stern likeness.

A matched set. For lovers.

He wasn't just thinking. He was pining for Olivia.

Tears I didn't know I had streamed down my face. This secret room, his hidden heart.

A bitter laugh escaped me.

Ethan Blackwood, you never intended to give me a marriage. You gave me a conduit for endless pain.

He wanted me to absorb Olivia's burdens, so she could soar.

Fine. If he was this ruthless, I wouldn't just lie down and break.

My wounds throbbed. I focused, drawing on the room's strange, residual energy to soothe the raw pain.

When I emerged, Alistair's form was just vanishing into the stormy sky.

Ethan saw me. His composure wavered for a split second.

"Sarah? What are you looking at?" He rushed to my side, feigning concern. "That looked like another backlash from the atmospheric disturbance. I was worried."

I forced a smile. "I'm alright. A little jolt now and then is normal for us, isn't it?"

He studied my face, his eyes sharp, then his expression slowly relaxed.

"You're always so resilient, my dear." He took my arm. "I've told you, whether you command tempests or zephyrs, or even nothing at all, it doesn't matter to me. I only want you safe and happy."

"Today is our hundredth day," he continued, guiding me. "I'll stay home, spend it with you."

His touch felt like ice.

He led me to our cold, opulent bedroom. As he did, I subtly used a nearly forgotten skill, a tiny whisper of telepathic energy, to contact my old friend, Luna Dubois.

Luna, that shielded sanctuary you built in the bayou... can I borrow it? It needs to repel everything.

Ethan pulled me onto the bed, his kisses hungry.

I turned my head, avoiding his gaze, my eyes scanning the room. When we married, I'd wanted to redecorate, to bring some warmth into the stark chamber. Ethan had refused. He preferred a "minimalist" style, he'd said, disliked feminine touches.

The image of Olivia's frilly pink room in the secret chamber flashed in my mind.

Apparently, if the occupant was Olivia, feminine touches were perfectly acceptable.

Ethan sensed my distraction. He pulled back, his desire warring with irritation. "Sarah? What is it?"

I shook my head. "Just thinking... another day older."

Wasted. So much time, wasted.