Chapter Two - Allie

The ride to William’s workshop took twelve minutes. Allie counted them without meaning to. The further they drove from the apartment, the more the strange undertone in her bond settled beneath her ribs, steady and patient. Not storm. Not fire. Something else entirely. Something that seemed to listen to her heartbeat more closely than she wanted.

  Erik drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift. His eyes scanned the road in the same quiet vigilance he carried everywhere. It was a habit that never left him.

  “You feel it too,” Allie said softly. “The earthline. Whatever that is.”

  Erik hesitated. “I feel something. But it is faint. You feel it more strongly because you carry storm. Storm touches every element. Storm notices imbalance before anything else.”

  “Great,” Allie muttered. “Storm girl. Living early warning system.”

  Erik’s mouth curved slightly. “There are worse things to be.”

  She did not answer. Her attention drifted to the window, to the blur of storefronts and sidewalks. The world looked normal. Mundane. Yet her pulse refused to settle. Something pulled beneath her chest with every mile, like an anchor dragging along the bottom of a river.

  They turned onto Elm Street. Two blocks from William’s workshop, a faint brush of stormlight crossed her senses. It flickered once, then vanished. Allie frowned.

  “Did you feel that,” she asked.

  “Wind shift,” Erik said. “Probably nothing.”

  She almost believed him.

  Erik pulled into a parking spot near the corner. They stepped out into the sunlight. The air tasted ordinary, but the ground under Allie’s shoes hummed with a slow vibration. Too subtle to be movement. Too steady to be imagined.

  She checked the sidewalk. Nothing. Just concrete and the cracked trunk of an old tree at the far end of the block. Its bark had split down the middle years ago. One drooping branch brushed a bent street sign.

  A faded orange tag hung from its limb.

  Slated for removal.

  Just like the tree outside her apartment.

  Allie frowned. “Another one.”

  “What,” Erik asked.

  “That tree. It looks the same as the one at home.”

  Something shifted inside her chest, not in the air. Not in the world.

  In her.

  The undertone in her bond surged once. A deep thrum that pulled her forward without permission.

  “Allie,” Erik said sharply. “Wait.”

  She did not remember choosing to move. Her feet carried her toward the cracked trunk. The air around it felt wrong, too warm and too cold at the same time. Heat pressed against her palms as if something inside the bark tried to breathe.

  She touched the trunk with the tips of her fingers.

  The tree shuddered.

  Bark cracked. Leaves rustled although the air was still. A low groan rose from the center of the trunk, ancient and strained.

  Allie stumbled back. “What in the world.”

  The tree straightened.

  Roots shifted beneath the pavement.

  Branches trembled.

  Two dark knots opened like eyes. Amber glimmered within them.

  “Allie.” Erik’s voice dropped into warning. “Step away.”

  She could not move.

  The tree leaned toward her, bark creaking like ribs. Twigs fell from its shoulders. Its voice rose from deep inside the hollow trunk.

  “Storm girl.”

  Allie’s skin prickled. “No. Absolutely not. I am not doing this again.”

  The tree blinked slowly. “Storm girl wake tree. Loud wake. Hurt.”

  Erik stepped forward, hand raised. “What are you.”

  The tree ignored him. Its eyes stayed fixed on Allie.

  “Storm girl touched root. Root touched egg. Egg touched storm girl.”

  Allie froze. “Say that again.”

  The tree lifted one limb. Bark cracked. A long branch snapped off and clattered to the sidewalk.

  “Pieces fall,” it muttered. “Tree old. Roots thin.”

  “Who are you? Are you a dryad,” Allie asked.

   It scoffed. “Humans. Always naming.”

  “I just asked for your name. What do other trees call you.”

  The dryad blinked slowly. “Tree.”

  Allie stared at him. “They call you tree.”

  “Yes. Tree.”

  “That is not helpful.”

  The dryad pointed at a tree across the sidewalk. “Him tree.”

  Allie followed the gesture. “Yes.”

  He pointed again at a larger oak. “Him tree too.”

  “All of them are trees,” Allie said, dragging a hand across her face.

  “Yes,” the dryad replied.

  She pointed at a small thin tree near a drainage grate, a sapling barely formed. “And him.”

  The dryad looked. “Him sapling.”

  “But them tree,” she said, pointing back at the row of trunks.

  The dryad tilted his head, as if waiting for her mind to catch the shape of his logic. “Him sapling, not tree yet.”

  “Why him not tree,” Allie asked.

  “Because him sapling.”

  She shut her eyes. “That is not an answer.”

  The dryad blinked again. “Answer is answer.”

  Allie groaned under her breath. “I hate that I understand him.”

  Erik shot her a look. “This is something you started.”

  Allie ignored him. “Fine. Tree. Why me storm girl.”

  The dryad leaned closer, bark creaking. “Stormline loud. Woke egg.”

  “Egg,” she repeated. “What egg.”

  “Egg egg,” the dryad said with a rustle that sounded like irritation.

  Allie sighed. “Right. Egg egg.”

  The dryad pointed at her with what remained of a branch. “Storm girl speak tree.”

  “I am not speaking tree.”

  “You did.”

  “No, I really did not. You are impossible.”

  The dryad leaned forward again. Its voice dropped. “Storm girl help tree. Egg in danger.”

  Her breath caught. “Danger from what.”

  The dryad shook its head. A soft shower of brittle leaves fell.

  “Shadow coming. Old shadow. Hungry.”

  Erik stepped in front of Allie. “Allie, this thing is unstable.”

  The dryad sagged. Its bark split further. A hollow sound echoed inside the trunk.

  “Tree dying,” it whispered. “Roots thin. No forest. No Keepers. No balance.”

  Allie stilled. “Keepers. What do you know about Keepers.”

  The dryad’s dim eyes lifted.

  “Keepers kept roots. Kept sky. Kept dragons. Kept balance. Gone now.”

  “Gone where,” she asked.

  “Broken,” the dryad said. “Broken when fire fell. Broken when curse fell. Storm girl must mend.”

  Allie felt heat rise in her throat. “I do not know how.”

  “Storm girl learn,” the dryad said simply.

  Its body shuddered again. Bark peeled like old paper. A deep, splintering crack ran through the trunk.

  Erik gripped her arm. “Allie, we have to go. Now.”

  The dryad opened its eyes one last time.

  “Egg calls storm girl,” it whispered. “Find egg. Before shadow does.”

  The words hit her like a blow.

  The dryad’s eyes dimmed. Its limbs sagged. Another branch snapped off and hit the ground.

  Allie reached toward it. “Wait. Please wait.”

  A piece of bark broke away under her fingers, and she stumbled backward. Erik pulled her aside as the tree listed dangerously.