Lena hurtled around a corner into a cavernous tomb, where Ancestors were laid out on their sarcophagi, gem-eyes glittering. The storm cloud was thicker here, and she sank into it gratefully, enveloped by the thick, cloying vapor. A second rumble of thunder sounded in the darkness, the timbre of a groan. Impossibly, the steady footsteps grew yet closer—even though Lena had been running—and she ducked down behind a tomb, cupping the butterfly close to her chest.

“You can’t hide from me,” said the voice nearby.

The footsteps were so close she could hear the distinct footfall of heel-toe, heel-toe, the swish of robes against the dusty ground. She trembled, hugging her knees. She felt very small suddenly, like a child. She shut her eyes, but it made no difference: the storm cloud swirled behind her eyelids too.

And that’s when she heard the other voice, a grumble of thunder separating into words.

She who spins the cloud weaves the storm.

Lena woke with her head cradled in Emris’s arm, lying on the floor of the Holy Council with bright light filtering through the glass-and-crystal dome far above. She was slick with sweat and her head felt like it was stuffed with wool. Her mouth was dry.

“Lena, are you all right?” Emris said.

She nodded, raised a hand to her clammy forehead as the world spun. “I had the strangest dream.” She sat up slowly, vaguely aware that the room had emptied out, the long white benches standing vacant. Emris offered her a tall glass of water and she drank deeply. The silence felt peaceful now, the light soft. “How long have I been out?”

“About thirty minutes.” Emris glanced over his shoulder. “She really shouldn’t have done that. It might’ve been much worse.” The anger in his voice was unmistakable, though whispered.

The remnants of Lena’s dream were already melting from her body, tension leaking from her shoulders and neck, her fists slowly unclenching—the imprints of nails red and sore in her palm. What had happened? All she remembered was the butterfly in her hand and those curious words spoken in a voice of thunder: She who spins the cloud weaves the storm.

What did it mean? And who or what had spoken?

Emris offered her a hand and she rose unsteadily to her feet. She now saw that Grand Master Auris was standing, unapologetic, in front of the table. The seven other masters had left. The Grand Master spoke without preamble.