"Whoa, whoa, hang on-that's the freeway. You don't walk across the freeway-not unless you want to get splattered against few windshields."

"We can weave our way through tornadoes, Vane. You need to learn to trust your instincts."

"I've only known I'm a sylph for a month-I don't have any instincts!"

But as the words leave my mouth, I realize I do.

I remember running through the tornado that killed my family, easily avoiding the drafts and debris and keeping my feet on steady ground. I never thought about how weird that was until now.

Still, as I watch the cars and semis whip by at seventy-plus miles per hour, I'm glad I didn't eat my torpedo. Pretty sure I'd be spewing it all over the ground.

"Just watch for the breaks in the air," Os shouts, crouching on the side of the road like a runner before a race.

"You realize that makes no freaking sense, right?"

He rolls his eyes and reaches for me. "If you need me to hold your hand . . ."

I know this is my chance to prove that I'm a big, brave Windwalker king and can do this all by myself. But three more semis whizz by and I grab Os's hand and hold on as tight as I can. He sighs. "Let's go."

And then we're running. Darting forward and sideways through the lanes like a terrifyingly real game of Frogger. I can see the breaks Os means-wide distortions in the air in front of each car that tell where it's safe to step-but I don't dare let go of his hand. And when we finally make it across both sides of the freeway, my legs are so wobbly I can barely stay standing.

I wrap my arms around myself, trying to steady my shaking. "I'm surprised how disorienting this is for you," Os says quietly.

"Some things come so effortlessly, like your windwalking and your mastery of Easterly."

Both of those came from my bond to Audra-but I can't exactly say that. So I shrug and say, "I'm learning as fast as I can." He frowns, like he's not convinced that's true. "Come on-still a ways to go."

"Seriously?" I'm not sure how much longer I can last. The sun is sucking up what little energy I have.

But Os starts walking away, so unless I want to stay here alone, I have to follow.

We hike across the desert toward some weird piles of rocks that look like giant anthills. My shoes fill with sand and I keep sc.r.a.ping my shins on the cacti-but none of that is as uncomfortable as the stillness.

The air doesn't move. It presses down on my shoulders like the sky has turned heavy.

"That's the pull of the Maelstrom,"Os explains as I rub my arms, "a name that is not to be shared-with anyone. Do you understand?" "Why?"That's the second time he's talked about how secret this place is, and it's starting to creep me out.

Os looks up at the sky, his fingers tracing the lines of his scar.

"The Maelstrom is a place that shouldn't have to exist. It emerged from a necessity the average citizen cannot comprehend, and should they learn of its existence it would shake them to their very core. As king, it is your job to protect them from the shadows and secrets that would rob them of what little security they have."

Okay . . .

I would ask for an answer that doesn't make Os sound like he's one Fruit Loop shy of a box-but honestly? I'm too tired to care. If this Maelstrom has a place to sit and some shade, I'm game. The closer we get to the weird clumps of stones, the more my head rattles from some sort of high-pitched sc.r.a.ping sound, like a million angry math teachers dragging their chalk across the blackboard at the same time. I thought it was coming from the wind or the giant black birds lining all the rocks, which- by the way-do not make this place more inviting. But when we reach the base of one of the hills, there's a narrow opening in the ground, and I realize the sand around the hole is moving. It swirls slowly downward, like a tornado has been sucked into the earth and kept right on spinning, and in the center is a walkway leading into the darkness.

"Have I mentioned I'm not a fan of small s.p.a.ces?" I shout over the noise as Os starts to descend. He has to bend his knees so he won't hit his head.

"It's not too late to decide to teach us Westerly instead," he calls over his shoulder.

I gotta admit, as I follow him underground I'm tempted to give in. Fresh air doesn't exist down here. Only a hot, sticky mist that feels too thick to swallow, like I'm trying to breathe inside someone else's mouth. And even though the screeching sound dulls, it's replaced by a low rumble that makes my teeth chatter.

But the scariest part is feeling my connection to Audra fade.

The pain and pull of our bond lessens with every step and I have to remind myself that she's not actually slipping away. I'm the one cutting myself off from the winds.

I wonder if she can feel the change.

"So what exactly is the Maelstrom?" I ask, brushing my hand along the slowly spinning wall. My fingers sink into the sand, leaving tiny trails. I'd be tempted to write "Vane was here," but I'm not sure I want to leave my mark on this place.

"It's a special vortex that can only be woven from hungry winds.

They consume any normal drafts that dare to come close, swallowing them into the earth and keeping this place completely sealed off from the sky."

"How do you make the wind hungry? Wave a cheeseburger in front of it?"

Os spins around, his face all tight and twisted. "You dare to disrespect their sacrifice?"

"Whoa, easy, it was just a joke."

"Altering the essence of the wind is not a joke, Vane. The wind is our kin. It deserves respect and dignity. Exerting our dominance over it is a last resort-a reluctant choice I made because there was no other option."

"Hey, relax, okay? I get it-it's a big deal. I never meant that it wasn't."

He bites his lip, like there's something else he wants to say. But he turns around without another word.

We walk in uncomfortable silence for a few steps. Then he mumbles, "I know you grew up without your heritage, and that you still have much to learn. But you are our king, Vane. People will look to you for guidance." He turns to face me, grabbing my arm like my dad does when he wants to make sure I'm listening. "You have to understand, our world has been ruined by Raiden-scattered and broken by a tyrant who cares only for power. He'll break and destroy anything to serve his own agendas. And in this case, I've had no choice but to do the same. But I-we-all of us-have chosen to put our faith in you because we're hoping that you're going to be different."

Funny, I thought they'd put their faith in me because I'm the only Westerly left.

I'm about to say that when my eyes find the scar on his cheek. "What happened?" I ask, pointing to the deep red marks. He traces a finger over the lines again.

"A gift from Raiden. He branded me a traitor when I refused to be his second in command." He smiles sadly when my eyes widen.

"Raiden used to be my friend, Vane-as he was for many of us in his generation. We worked in the Gales together. Fought together.

Trained in the might and majesty of the storms, pushing ourselves to master their power. I thought we were doing it to be better guardians. To better control the forces that were wreaking havoc on the earth and spare the innocents who weren't strong enough to fight them. But it was different for Raiden. The more powerful he grew, the hungrier he was for more, pushing the lengths and limits beyond any reason. Beyond what was natural. When I saw what he was doing, I tried to pull away, but I now wish I hadn't. Maybe I would've uncovered his mutiny before it was too late."

He looks away, and I take the chance to study his face, trying to guess how old he is. It's hard to tell in the dim light, but he can't be that much older than my parents-which feels wrong to me. I mean, I know the rebellion went down within the last few decades. But I guess somehow it felt farther away than that.

Could an entire world really crumble in one lifetime? Isn't that supposed to take like . . . generations?

"I organized an early counterattack, trying to stop Raiden before it went any further," Os says through a sigh. "But we weren't prepared for his unfathomable brutality. He overran us without a single loss on his side. Bound us all in strange winds that dragged us back to him if we tried to run and made me watch as one by one he murdered my guardians. But he didn't kill me. He told me I should have to watch the rest of our world fall to him and know that I was too weak to stop it. And he's right-I am too weak. I've had to make compromises that shouldn't have had to be made." He runs his hand along the wall, whispering something I can't make out before he turns back to look at me. "But now I have you. You have the power to fix things, bring them back to their natural order. Erase the black marks Raiden has carved into our history and usher in a new period of peace " I swallow the lump in my throat.

I have no idea how I'm supposed to be the savior he expects me to be. But I'm surprised to realize that I want to.

Someone needs to stop Raiden. And if that someone has to be me, well, then . . . I guess I'll find a way.

I wonder if my resolve shows on my face, because Os nods, like he's pleased with what he sees. Then he squeezes my shoulder and turns to head down the dark hallway.

I follow him until the ground levels off and we reach a round cavern about the size of my bedroom. A pale, tired-looking Gale stands between two curtains made of some sort of metal mesh. They look as flimsy as my mother's flowery drapes, but when I touch one it's solid like a wall. Os hisses a word I can't understand and the curtain on the right sweeps to the side.

"You should be able to rest in there for the night," he tells me.

"I'll be back to get you in the morning."

The Gloomy Cell of Doom hardly looks inviting. But hours of nightmare-free sleep sounds pretty dang good to me.

I head inside, relieved to find a pile of soft, feathery things in the otherwise-empty half circle of s.p.a.ce. But an all too familiar voice stops me before I collapse.

"h.e.l.lo, Vane," Audra's mom says, watching me through the gaps in a wall that looks like it's made of chains separating our cells. "It's about time you came to see me."

CHAPTER 8.AUDRA.

I.

can handle this.

I have to.

It's not just about staying alive. It's about protecting the fourth language. Keeping it from falling into Raiden's hands.

I run and squat by the largest piece of driftwood, keeping my back to it as I try to pick up my attacker's trace. But the air is empty. Stripped of any winds. Severing the pull of my bond and leaving me clueless.

Defenseless.

But not completely without hope.

Whoever my attacker is, they couldn't take away the Westerly I'd coiled around my wrist, and I concentrate on the cool draft, wishing there were some secret code word I could say to twist it into the ultimate weapon. Though, at this point I'd almost prefer a shield.

"Shield."

The word slips off my lips without my meaning to, like my inherited Westerly instincts have taken over. And the wind obeys, stretching thin and wide before blanketing me like a second skin of breezes. I have no idea how much protection it will really provide, but I'll take any help I can get.

Without the crisp ocean winds, the beach has turned sweltering. I suspect my attacker is trying to sweat me out. Hide in the shadows of their cave while I bake out here in the sun. But I've braved ten years in the desert.

I can handle a little heat.

I duck into what little shade the driftwood log provides and scour the beach for sharp rocks. The sea has smoothed most of the stones, but I find one with a deep crack, and when I slam it against the side of the driftwood, it splits, leaving me two halves with rough, jagged edges. I shove them in my pockets.

A draft springs to life behind me, whipping my hair with such a frenzy it unravels my braid. I shake the dark waves out of my face as another wind rips away my guardian pendant and sends it rolling across the beach, burying the blue cord in the sand. I move to chase it and a new wind whips me backward, sending me somersaulting so many times I lose track of where I am. But when I pull myself up I have no cuts or sc.r.a.pes.

My shield is living up to its name-though I wonder how much abuse it can really take.

I stand again, facing the caves.

"Your tricks do not impress me," I shout, earning myself another faceful of sand. I spit out the grit and clear my throat. "They're not going to frighten me either."

The winds swell again, shoving my feet out from under me and sending me sprawling into the rocks.

I pull myself back up, tired of getting tossed around and humiliated. Plus, those tricks have given me an idea.

"Is that really all you can do?" I call, letting my voice crack this time, like I'm starting to break.

Two drafts surge in response, but before they can attack, I command the winds to obey me, and mercifully they listen. I coil them into a wind spike, wishing I had a third wind to make it stronger. But the two winds still form a cold spear of air, and I hold it in front of me like a sword as I scan the beach, pointing the sharpest end at every shadowed area.

A strange hiss slices through the air and a new gust appears, weaving itself into my wind spike and spinning so fast the weapon turns hot. I try to bear the pain, but when my skin starts to blister I'm forced to drop it, and it explodes in an enormous blast of scorching air. My shield spares me the cuts and bruises as I tumble across the beach like a fallen leaf. But when I try to run forward, another draft knocks me back.

Then another.

And another.

They shove me into the ocean, and I scream as a giant wave washes me away.

Salt seeps into my blisters as I fight to keep my head above the freezing water, but more waves wash over me, dragging me away from the air. My lungs burn and my head spins as I crash on the sand, gasping for breath.

I crawl toward the beach, but another wave sucks me back, spinning me around before slamming me onto the sh.o.r.e.

Then again.

And again.

It's a never-ending cycle of pain, and my poor Westerly shield starts to unravel. I could command it to re-form, but I know it's not going to save me.

My attacker is too strong-too full of tricks and traps and schemes. I'll never get out of this free, and I won't let them take me. I've seen the horrors Raiden's subjected the other Westerlies to, and I can't let that happen to me. I'm not sure I'm strong enough to resist, and I won't be the one to let the fourth language fall into Raiden's hands.

Ending things now is the only way to protect the Westerly language, and what better chance will I have than in the cold, churning ocean?

Lost to the sea.

It's one of the worst deaths a sylph can face.

Away from the sky.

Away from the air.

But the Westerly tongue will stay safe.

And at least I have a chance to say goodbye.

I rally my strength, and when the next wave slams me into the sh.o.r.e, I use the last of my energy to crawl forward a few extra feet. It won't spare me for long, but it gives me the seconds I need to send one final message to Vane.

I uncoil my Westerly shield, wishing the draft felt faster and stronger. The sluggish wind won't reach him for days, and in its weakened state it will only be able to hold two short words.

The last two words I'll ever say.

"Love you" is on the tip of my tongue, but at the last second I change my mind.

Vane knows that.