A thick gray cloud dampened Daric’s skin with more wetness than he’d felt on his face outside of his own washroom since the last snows of winter, but he saw only fog in front of him.

Disappointed but also a little relieved, he straightened out of the column. Leathen’s summer heat sucked the moisture from the land, its autumn storms sometimes ruined the crops the kingdom’s struggling farmers managed to cultivate, and its harsh winter freezes left too many people huddled around kitchen fires, cold and hungry. The long, ground-watering rains of springtime had abandoned Leathen the moment Daric came into it.

He didn’t know how, or why, but he needed to fix it before the drought forced his parents to sell their kingdom piece by piece to the power-hungry Queen of Raana.

An orin mine for water. More orinore for bread. When Leathen had no riches left, what would become of it?

Other kingdoms would turn covetous looks their way soon, just as Raana did. Land was land, even if it was dead.

Daric appealed to the goddess again, leaning once more into the mist. He knew his actions were dangerous. Reckless, even. But what good was a prince to a kingdom that might cease to exist?

He called to Braylian until he was hoarse. Finally forced to admit defeat, he withdrew his head and torso from the cloud and started back toward the royal camp, his heart heavy with failure.

A lilting female voice stopped him in his tracks. “Who calls?”

The sound was more water than words. Daric turned back in awe, seeing a hand emerge from the column. Small fingers mirrored the tentative movements he’d first made into the mist. As if she’d learned from him, she mimicked his gestures, eventually leaning forward. As she did, her upper body took form, solidifying. Every action matched his, except she was a girl. She was even his age, and the most ethereal, radiant being he’d ever seen.

She stretched out her hand more boldly. Beads of water dripped from her fingertips. Rain. It watered the dying ground between them, turning it vibrant and green.

Daric moved toward the Cauldron, his eyes wide and his pulse beating with wild hope. “I am Daric, of the House of Ash. Are you Braylian?”

“I am her daughter,” she answered. Her speech was slow, as if she were discovering language as they talked.

At the dawn of time, Braylian created the four seasons to help her govern the year. This daughter had new vines for clothing, silver waterfalls for hair, and eyes the color of the lakes he’d seen in Raana.

Spring! She had to be Spring! And she had not yet gone to her rest. This was her last day of the season. At dawn, Summer rose from her bed.

“Why have you abandoned my kingdom?” Daric asked. “Will you not water our fields again?”