The pen on Orion Veyne's desk trembled.
It was a subtle thing—barely noticeable to anyone not looking for it. But Orion felt it like a scream in his bones as Mr. Harrison droned on about electromagnetic fields and their theoretical applications. The Parker ballpoint quivered against the fake wood grain, responding to the storm of energy Orion fought to contain beneath his skin.
"Fascinating stuff, really," Mr. Harrison continued, his enthusiasm genuine despite the glazed looks from most of the class. "The way electromagnetic fields can influence matter at a quantum level suggests possibilities we're only beginning to understand."
Orion pressed his palm flat against the pen, stilling it. The familiar bead of sweat formed at his temple, hidden beneath the artfully messy fall of his dark hair. Three months since Stellan vanished. Three months of pretending everything was normal while power coursed through him like barely contained lightning.
"Earth to Orion." David's whisper came from his left, accompanied by a good-natured elbow to the ribs. "You planning to actually take notes, or are you too busy looking mysterious for the girls?"
Orion flashed his practiced grin—easy, charming, completely false. "Can't help it if I'm naturally fascinating, David. Besides, electromagnetic theory isn't going to help me score the winning goal Friday night."
"Everything's about football with you," Jessica chimed in from the seat ahead, turning to face them. Her brown eyes sparkled with familiar warmth. "Some of us actually care about our grades."
"Says the girl who spent all of chemistry class sketching in her notebook," Alex added, earning a wadded paper ball to the head from Jessica.
Normal. Safe. Exactly what Orion needed them to be, friends who saw only what he wanted them to see. The athletic seventeen-year-old with the easy smile and the tragic past he never discussed. Not the boy whose parents had been murdered for their power. Not the weapon Stellan Argent had spent six years trying to forge and contain.
Movement in his peripheral vision drew his attention. Three rows over, Nerissa Cai sat with perfect posture, her swimmer's shoulders relaxed as she took precise notes. But her amber eyes weren't on the board. They tracked the faint char mark on Orion's desk where his thumb had pressed too hard during yesterday's lecture on thermal dynamics.
She knew something. Had been watching him for weeks now with that analytical gaze that reminded him too much of Stellan's warnings about staying hidden. Nerissa was too smart, too observant, and too persistent for comfort.
The bell rang, and Orion gathered his things with practiced normalcy. Not too fast, that would draw attention. Not too slow, David would wait and want to talk about weekend plans. Just another student heading to lunch, not a young man who could summon hurricane winds with a gesture.
"Orion." Nerissa's voice stopped him at the door. She'd moved with the fluid grace that had won her three state championships, appearing at his shoulder like she'd always been there. "Interesting pen you have."
He glanced down at the Parker in his hand, noting the faint scorch marks along the barrel where his bioelectric field had leaked through during class. "It's just old. Probably time for a new one."
"Mmm." Her expression remained neutral, but those amber eyes missed nothing. "Old things can tell interesting stories. Like how you missed two weeks of school with a 'severe viral infection' but came back stronger than before. Most people lose weight when they're sick."
The hallway suddenly felt too small. Other students pushed past them, oblivious to the tension crackling between two of their own. Orion's fingers tightened on his backpack strap, and somewhere in the building's electrical system, a breaker trembled.
"I had good doctors," he said, keeping his voice light. "Plus, my aunt's cooking could revive the dead. You should try her mystery meat casserole sometime."
"You don't have an aunt." Nerissa's tone remained conversational, but there was steel beneath it. "I checked. After your parents died, you went to live with Stellan Argent. Retired bookshop owner. No relation. And now he's gone too."
The world narrowed to a pinpoint. Orion's heartbeat thundered in his ears, and he felt static electricity crawl across his skin like searching fingers. One wrong move, one slip of control, and the entire hallway would know exactly what he was.
"You've been researching me?" He let a hint of hurt colour his voice, playing the violated privacy card. "That's... kind of creepy, Nerissa."
Her expression softened slightly, but the determination never left her eyes. "I notice patterns, Orion. It's what I do. And the patterns around you..." She paused, seeming to weigh her words. "They don't add up. Neither does the way metal objects shift when you're agitated. Or how the temperature drops when you're trying too hard to appear calm."
Too much. She knows too much.
"I need to go," Orion said, already moving. "This conversation is—"
"I want to help." The words came out rushed, as if she'd been holding them back for weeks. "Whatever you're hiding, whatever you're running from—you don't have to face it alone."
For a moment, just a heartbeat, Orion almost believed her. Almost let the mask slip and told her everything. About the storm inside him. About parents who died protecting their son from those who would use him. About a mentor who vanished chasing shadows and left only cryptic warnings behind.
Instead, he smiled—not the easy grin he wore for David and the others, but something sadder and more honest. "Some things are better left alone, Nerissa. For everyone's sake."
He left her standing in the hallway, those amber eyes burning into his back, and made his way through the crowded school with the practiced ease of someone who'd learned to navigate without truly touching the world around him.
The apartment above Stellan's dusty bookshop was exactly as Orion had left it that morning—small, sparse, and echoing with absence. Afternoon light filtered through windows that needed cleaning, illuminating motes of dust that danced in the air like frozen lightning.
Orion dropped his backpack by the door and moved to the small kitchen table where Stellan's note waited. Three months, and he still hadn't deciphered its meaning. The paper was worn soft from handling, the cryptic words burned into his memory:
"The storm calls its own. Trust your instincts, not the voices in the tempest."
"What storm?" Orion asked the empty room. "The one inside me? The one coming? Or were you just being poetic because you knew it would drive me insane?"
The note offered no answers, just as it hadn't for the past ninety-three days. Stellan had vanished like smoke, leaving only questions and a boy struggling to contain power that grew stronger every day. The grey streaks in Orion's shoulder-length hair had appeared two weeks after Stellan left, a visible sign of his resonance asserting itself despite his attempts at suppression.
He moved through the apartment, checking locks and wards with the paranoid thoroughness Stellan had drilled into him. The bookshop below was closed—had been since the owner disappeared—but the building's bones hummed with old protections. Resonance dampeners built into the walls. Security systems both electronic and arcane. A fortress disguised as a failing business.
It wasn't enough anymore. Orion could feel his power testing the boundaries, pushing against the constraints like flood water against a dam. Six years of training, and he was still that eleven-year-old boy who'd accidentally called lightning to save himself, leaving two charred corpses and a lifetime of questions in his wake.
The photo on his dresser drew him like always—the last picture of the Veyne family, taken two weeks before everything ended. His father, Darien, stood tall and strong, one hand resting on young Orion's shoulder. His mother, Lira, smiled with the serenity of someone who'd found peace. And between them, a boy who didn't yet know that love could be used as a weapon against those who dared to protect him.
"Trust my instincts," Orion murmured, touching the frame. "You trained me to hide, Stellan. To control. To never let them see what I really am. But what if my instincts are telling me something else?"
Thunder rumbled in the distance, though the weather forecast had promised clear skies. Orion's power responded to the sound, eager and hungry. He pushed it down with the mental disciplines his mother had taught him before she died, the meditation techniques she'd claimed were just for focus and clarity.
Everything had been a lie wrapped in love. His parents hadn't run a simple dojo—they'd been preparing him for a war he didn't understand. Stellan hadn't been just a kindly book dealer who took in an orphan—he'd been a Tempest-rank storm user hiding from his own past.
And Orion? He was the inheritor of legacies he'd never asked for, guardian of secrets that were killing him slowly from the inside out.
His phone buzzed. David, asking about weekend plans. Jessica, sharing a meme about electromagnetic fields. Normal teenage concerns that felt like dispatches from another world. Orion typed responses on autopilot, maintaining the illusion while his real thoughts churned darker waters.
Nerissa knew. Or at least suspected. How long before her curiosity led her somewhere dangerous? The shadow societies that moved beneath Veridian City's bright surface didn't tolerate exposure. The Surge Syndicate that had killed his parents still owned territory six blocks from here. The Tempest Consortium's scouts were always searching for new talent to recruit or eliminate.
And somewhere out there, Stellan was chasing rumors of a Second Convergence that could shatter the fragile balance between the powered and the powerless.
"Trust your instincts," Orion repeated, moving to the window. The city sprawled before him, twelve million people living their lives unaware of the storms that moved through their midst. "But what if my instincts are telling me to stop hiding?"
Night fell like a shroud over Midtown Nexus, and Orion descended to the bookshop's back room for his evening training. The space smelled of old paper and sweat, the wooden floor worn smooth by six years of footwork. Stellan might be gone, but the disciplines remained. Control through repetition. Strength through structure. Peace through perfection of form.
Orion stripped to training pants and began the first movement of the Veyne Family Style—the martial art his father had adapted from a dozen different schools, refined for those who fought with more than just flesh and bone. His bare feet whispered across the floor as he moved through palm strikes that could channel hurricane winds, circular kicks that generated their own momentum, joint locks designed to work on opponents who could bench press cars.
Memory overlaid the present. Stellan's voice, sharp but fair: "Power without control is destruction, Orion. Your father understood this. Your mother lived it. Honour their sacrifice by mastering yourself."
The forms flowed one into another, and Orion let his resonance rise to meet them. Not fully—never fully without supervision—but enough to feel the electric tingle in his muscles, the way air particles danced around his strikes. He aimed a Gale Palm at the training dummy in the corner, channeling just enough wind to make the heavy bag sway.
Instead, the compressed air burst from his hand like a cannon shot. The training dummy exploded in a shower of sand and canvas, and every light bulb in the room shattered simultaneously. Orion stood in the sudden darkness, breathing hard, feeling the storm inside him laugh at his attempts at control.
"Too much," he whispered. "Always too much now."
Emergency lighting kicked in, bathing the destroyed training room in red. Orion surveyed the damage with growing dread. The power was accelerating beyond what Stellan had prepared him for. The careful constraints were failing.
Soon, control would be impossible. And when that happened, everyone around him would be in danger. David, Jessica, Alex—friends who deserved better than to be collateral damage in a war they didn't know existed. Nerissa, whose curiosity might get her killed if she dug too deep.
Even now, he could feel it calling—the tempest that shared his name and sang in his blood. It wanted out. Wanted to rage. Wanted to show the world what the son of Darien and Lira Veyne could become when he stopped pretending to be normal.
"Not yet," Orion told the darkness. "Not until I understand why you left, Stellan. Not until I know what storm you were warning me about."
But his words felt hollow against the sound of his own breathing and the whisper of power that promised so much more than this half-life of hiding. Outside, thunder rolled closer, and Orion wondered if it was answering his call or if he was answering its.
Either way, the storm was coming. The only question was whether he'd meet it as predator or prey.
The rain started as Orion made his way through Midtown's crowded evening streets, his hood pulled low against both weather and recognition. The storm had arrived faster than predicted, sending civilians scurrying for cover and turning the neon-washed pavement into rivers of reflected light.
For Orion, it was torture.
Every droplet that touched his skin sent his resonance humming. The electrical charge in the air made his hair stand on end beneath the hood, and he could taste ozone with each breath. This was why storm users were rare—their power source was also their greatest vulnerability. In weather like this, control became a hundred times harder.
He needed to get home. Lock himself in the dampened apartment and wait for the storm to pass. But the direct route would take him past the spot where the Surge Syndicate had tried to shake down local businesses last week. Orion had been careful to avoid it since then, taking longer paths that kept him away from potential trouble.
Tonight, with the storm singing in his veins, he chose poorly.
The alley shortcut seemed empty at first. Just another narrow passage between buildings, lit by a single flickering streetlamp that buzzed with faulty wiring. Orion was halfway through when his enhanced senses screamed a warning.
He wasn't alone.
"Well, well." The voice came from behind him, casual and mocking. "Look what the storm dragged in."
Orion turned slowly, keeping his hands visible and relaxed. Three figures emerged from the shadows—local thugs, not Syndicate by their clothes, but trouble nonetheless. The leader, a wiry man with prison tattoos crawling up his neck, smiled unpleasantly.
"Bad night for a walk, kid. Weather like this, accidents happen. People slip, fall, lose their wallets..." He pulled a knife, the blade gleaming dully in the bad light. "Why don't you save us all some trouble?"
"I don't want any problems," Orion said, pitching his voice younger, more frightened than he felt. "Just heading home."
"Home can wait." Prison Tattoos stepped closer, and his buddies flanked him. "Empty the pockets. Phone, wallet, anything else you got. Make it quick and maybe you don't bleed."
The smart play was to comply. Give them what they wanted and leave. Let them think they'd won. It's what Stellan would have advised, what six years of training had drilled into him. Stay hidden. Stay safe. Stay controlled.
But the storm was so loud tonight. And these men, these small predators who thought they owned the darkness, they were between him and safety. The knife gleamed, and Orion remembered other blades, in other hands, wet with his parents' blood.
"No," he said quietly.
Prison Tattoos blinked. "What?"
"I said no." Orion let his hood fall back, rain immediately soaking his hair. The grey streaks seemed to glow in the stuttering lamplight. "Walk away. Now."
Something in his voice, some edge of barely controlled violence, made the thugs hesitate. But pride and numbers won out over instinct. Prison Tattoos lunged, knife leading.
Time slowed.
Orion moved with the fluid grace of the Veyne Family Style, body flowing around the blade like water. His palm struck the man's wrist, and there should have been only impact, only the crack of bone and the clatter of dropped steel.
Instead, lightning came with the strike.
Not much—not the killing bolt that had saved him six years ago—but enough. Electricity arced from Orion's palm into the thug's arm, and the man screamed, convulsing as every muscle seised at once. The streetlamp exploded in a shower of sparks, plunging the alley into darkness lit only by the fading traces of electrical discharge.
Prison Tattoos collapsed, twitching and moaning. His friends stood frozen, eyes wide with primitive fear. Then they ran, abandoning their leader, sneakers slapping against wet pavement as they fled into the night.
Orion stood over the fallen man, breathing hard, watching the last traces of lightning fade from his fingers. The thug was alive—the strike had been controlled enough for that—but he'd seen. They'd all seen.
"Shit," Orion whispered to the rain. "Shit, shit, shit."
He ran. Not with enhanced speed—that would only make things worse—but with the desperate pace of someone who'd just shattered six years of careful hiding for thirty seconds of satisfaction. Behind him, the thug groaned and stirred, and Orion knew that by morning, stories would be spreading. Stories of the boy who called lightning, who moved like a ghost, who had storm-grey eyes that flashed electric blue.
The transit station appeared through the rain like a beacon. Orion ducked inside, joining the crowd of commuters waiting for trains and buses, trying to lose himself in their mundane humanity. His reflection in the window showed a young man who looked haunted, soaked, and far too interesting for anyone's good.
"Interesting night?"
Orion's heart nearly stopped. Nerissa Cai stood beside him, having appeared from nowhere like she always did. Her intelligent amber eyes took in his soaked state, the way his hands trembled slightly, the fading ozone scent that clung to him like perfume.
"Just got caught in the rain," he managed.
"Mmm." She produced a small towel from her gym bag, offering it without comment. "The streetlamp on Meridian Avenue just shorted out. Whole block lost power for about ten seconds. Strange how these things cluster around you, isn't it?"
Orion accepted the towel, using it to dry his face while his mind raced. She'd been following him. Watching. How much had she seen?
"Power infrastructure in this city is decades old," he said. "Storms always cause problems."
"Do they?" Nerissa's voice was soft, almost gentle. "Or do problems cause storms?"
Their eyes met, and for a moment, the crowd, the station, the entire world fell away. In that amber gaze, Orion saw curiosity, determination, and something else—concern. Not fear, despite what she might have witnessed. Concern for him.
"My train," he said abruptly, though no train had arrived. "I need to go."
"Orion." She caught his arm as he turned, her swimmer's grip surprisingly strong. "Whatever you're carrying, it's getting heavier. I can see it. And tonight... tonight something changed, didn't it?"
He should lie. Make excuses. Maintain the facade that had kept him alive for six years. Instead, exhaustion and adrenaline made him honest.
"Everything's changing," he admitted quietly. "And I don't know how to stop it."
Her grip gentled but didn't release. "Maybe you don't have to stop it. Maybe you just need to find people who can help you carry the weight."
A train pulled in, doors hissing open. Orion extracted himself from her grip, stepping backward toward escape. "Some weights are too dangerous to share, Nerissa. Stay curious about normal things. Leave me alone."
He boarded the train, leaving her on the platform with his towel and too many questions. As the doors closed between them, he saw her pull out her phone, fingers flying across the screen. Making notes. Drawing connections. Being the brilliant, analytical girl who would probably get herself killed if she kept pulling at these threads.
The train pulled away, carrying Orion into the night, but he knew he couldn't run from what had happened. The thugs would talk. Stories would spread. And somewhere in the city's shadows, the real predators would start to take notice of the young storm user who'd finally shown his teeth.
The apartment was no sanctuary when he finally reached it. Every surface reminded him of Stellan's absence, every shadow could hide an enemy who'd heard the wrong story. Orion stood at the window, watching lightning split the sky, and made a decision.
No more hiding. No more pretending the storm inside him could be contained forever. If the shadows were going to come for him, he'd meet them on his feet, with lightning in his hands and thunder in his heart.
"The storm calls its own," he said to his reflection in the rain-lashed glass. "Maybe it's time I answered."