The Wind Weaver (Reign of Remnants, #1)

by Julie Johnson

Sunlight cannot fix a flower on the cusp of death.

“Captain, if I wanted my ass kissed I’d be in a brothel.

According to Eli, I’ve had it since the day he first found me—a newborn babe with a crop of white hair, strange eyes, and a mysterious brand on her breast of such dark tint, it seemed infused with night itself.

I had not even seen Scythe reach for the weapon sheathed across his back. Nor, it seemed, had any of his comrades. The sheep are wholly unprepared for the wolf unleashed in their midst.

Anwyvn is a vast land, and until the past few weeks, I’ve seen precious little of it. The isolated peninsula of Seahaven was my home from the day Eli found me swaddled in a basket on the white shore until the night the invading armies arrived with their flaming torches.

Whoever he is—whoever he has been pretending to be—he is no middling soldier from the woods, no average fighter from the plains. No paper king calls him subject. He is of the Northlands. Of that I am now certain.

For as I struggle, whether by misfortune or something else entirely, the wind swells from a whisper to a shriek—a change so abrupt, it seems to defy the laws of nature. Quite suddenly, currents of air are swirling around us in an unpredictable vortex, tossing the bridge from left to right with such force, I think we truly might turn over.

The retort dies on my tongue as my eyes flicker up to meet his. They are startlingly close. For the first time, I notice their true color—a deep bronze, almost metallic shade, like embers of a dying fire. At the edges of each iris, lighter striations of reddish gold make a stark contrast. Strangest of all, his pupils are not perfectly round, but slightly elongated in a way that is…not entirely human.

Pressed close to Scythe’s chest as I am, a slow heat begins to radiate through my body, starting at my spine and ebbing outward until I can once again wiggle my frozen fingers. After a few moments, my shivers slow, then stop altogether.

“You expect me to believe,” he says, head tilting sideways as he examines me in turn, a small smile still playing at his lips, “this half-starved slip of a thing is the answer to all our prayers?”

For all my life, the mark has been a source of secret shame. Never to be discussed openly. Not even with Eli. Some of my earliest memories in life are of my mentor, eyes grave as his tone, tasking me to keep it covered at all times. No exceptions.

My progress upward is so slow, Scythe eventually catches up to me. He smells of ashes and smoke and the acidic afterburn of insectile corpses. I can hear him breathing one step behind, his body heat immense enough to warm the air between us.

By the time he turns to me, he’s schooled his face into the mask of cool indifference I’ve come to know so well. Still, I feel my tongue parch, my mouth going completely dry at the sight of him without the severe lines of his helm, without the serpentine nose guard to bisect his undeniably handsome features.

To my surprise, Penn answers. “When I found you, I suspected but wasn’t certain which of the four elements you controlled. After the bridge, I knew for sure.” He stares at me, eyes glittering. “You are a wind weaver. You are Air. Air, awoken.”

“Who am I?” The stranger’s mouth twists in a half grin as he finally answers my question. “I am…Water.”

“A wind weaver in my colors. That is something I never thought to see again in all my days.”

“Firstly, a Remnant is no common mark for just any fae who can stir a breeze or spin water in a goblet. Plenty of high fae can do parlor tricks. Some of the oldest bloodlines can do more—cast a glamour, activate a portal. But only four souls bear a Remnant mark. One for each of the elements. Water, air, fire, earth.”

“Four elements. Four Remnants, reincarnated in flesh and blood. A fated tetrad, bearing the marks of the gods. Scattered across the land. Should all four come together and be bound as one, the balance will be restored. Maegic will return, the blight will end, the land will recover, all will rejoice. Bounty, glory, et cetera.”

“We’ve never found the final element,” he says bluntly. “Earth. Not once. Not one single trace of them. Not in all my many years.

“Our time is running short,” he explains, looking back at me. “Your darling prince approaches to slay the villainous dragon who’s captured his fair maiden.”

“It would be a shame, you dying on me so soon.” His voice drops so low, I’m no longer sure he’s speaking to me. “A few hours of conversation in exchange for seventy years of waiting? Hardly seems a fair trade. Then again, the God of Luck has always been a fickle bastard.”

“How long does it take to make yourself pretty?” Jac asks, a teasing lilt to his words. “I’m guessing a while…” I roll my eyes.

“One alone shall perish, Scorching flame unchecked. Two at odds shall falter, Drowning tide unquenched. Three in arms shall fragment, Piercing wind untrained. Four as one shall triumph, Shaking earth unrestrained.”

“Handy to have a Fire Remnant for your prince, infusing the whole city with maegical warmth.” “Indeed, miss. Indeed.” Her smile widens. “But that’s a big part of why Fyremas is so popular. It’s the prince’s personal holiday.”

“Truth be told, I have no real notion of when the men will be back. All I know is that there was another earthquake a few days ago near the border, not far from the range.” “I didn’t know the quakes had moved so far north,” I murmur, brow furrowing at the news. Land tremors were far from uncommon in the Midlands. Eli had told me they were even worse in the far south—strong enough to flatten whole towns. But that was not the case in the Northlands. At least, not until now.

“You don’t have to do this, you know.” “Of course I know. I don’t do anything I don’t want to do. Just ask my husband.”

“Fucking hell, Rhya!” His eyes bore into mine, aglow in the darkness. “I don’t give a damn about the prophecy. Not anymore. I care about you.”

“What if I want you complicating my life? What if I told you I can’t sleep or see straight without knowing you’re safe? What if I said just the thought of you being hurt, being killed, is enough to tear me to shreds?”

“Home?” he whispers finally, voice gruff. Such a small word. Such enormous implications. It scares me, but I say it anyway. “Home.” Fire flares in his eyes, there and gone so fast I’m not entirely sure I haven’t imagined it. His hand reaches out and twines with mine, his strong fingers squeezing like he’ll never let me go. I squeeze back. Together, we leave the woods behind. We make for Caeldera. For…home.

“I’m fine now.” I exhale a shaky breath, feeling steadier already. “I have never been overly fond of confinement.” “Mmm. The deep earth is the antithesis to all that you are. You will never feel at home in places where there is no open sky. Just as I am not destined to turn my hand to sea captaincy. There are some things, for all our power, we cannot overcome.”

“Gods,” I whisper. “Godlike though I may appear, I assure you I am not one.” Soren’s eyes swim with so much maegic, it nearly overflows. Silver flashes in aqueous blue. “And you would not be so impressed by my power if you had learned to wield your own.” “You…you…you suffocated them.” “No, I drowned them. But if you desire, you could suffocate them. You could snatch the air from their lungs in a blink, wind weaver.”

For so many years, I feared the darkness inside. All my life, afraid of what I was. Of who I was. I’d been running long before I ever left Seahaven. Holding back those clouds for fear of what would happen if I allowed them to close in. I am not running anymore.

My eyes slit open at the moment of release. The bolts race through me, shooting from the mark at my breast, then down my arms and out my fingertips. Lightning.