(Or: How to Accidentally Become a Natural Disaster at Age 14)
[Part 1: Where Libraries Go to Die and Boys Go to Feel Things]
There was exactly one place left in Draelen that Kael considered sacred, and it wasn't the crumbling chapel or the dried-up fountain where lovers used to toss coins before love got outlawed. No, it was a skeleton of a building—a forgotten carcass of stories called the village library.
"Library" was now a generous term. If you squinted really hard and tilted your head just right, you might think it was a half-ruined stable. It had no roof. No walls worth mentioning. The beams had retired early due to workplace stress and had collapsed inward like an overworked waiter just deciding, "Nah, I quit."
Still, Kael came every day.
Sometimes twice.
He didn't tell his father, mostly because his father didn't ask anymore. The man had become a walking paper cut—fragile, silent, and lowkey depressing. Kael would sneak out with a crust of whatever-passed-for-bread, tuck it into a satchel that smelled like smoke and forgotten socks, and tiptoe away like a tiny ninja powered entirely by unresolved trauma.
His destination?
A slab of stone that looked suspiciously like a very sad loaf of bread. That's where he'd sit—legs crossed, eyes half-lidded, trying to look like a meditating sage instead of a 14-year-old with exactly zero life plan and a growing list of existential questions.
And there, in that broken place, he felt… lighter.
Not happy—let's not get crazy. But something like less-suffocated.
The wind helped.
It slinked through shattered window frames like a curious cat with commitment issues. It rustled what few vines had survived the overseer purges. Sometimes it curled around him like it was listening. Sometimes, it seemed to nudge his hood back so it could ruffle his hair, as if saying, "Hey, I see you."
It didn't say much. But then again, neither did Kael.
[Part 2: Insert Three Idiots in Red Cloaks]
It was a morning like any other. Meaning: grey, drippy, and dead inside. The kind of morning that makes your soul sigh and your bread taste even more like regret.
Kael was just settling in—satchel placed just-so, crust of bread positioned like an offering to the book gods—when he heard it.
Bootsteps.
Again.
Now, bootsteps in Draelen weren't rare. The Overseers wore them like status symbols. Big, stompy, obnoxious things that screamed, "I have power and daddy issues!" But something about these steps was different. Sloppier. Swaggerier. Like the boots were worn by men who thought they were cooler than they were.
Kael didn't even turn around. He just sighed.
Then he heard the voice.
"Look at this dump. You sure this was a library? Looks like a goat exploded in here."
Kael didn't move. Not yet.
Another voice, deeper and dumber: "I heard they used to read stories to kids in here. Real sappy stuff. Princesses and dragons."
Third guy, clearly the one in charge because he had the most nasal tone and was probably insecure about his jawline, added, "No need for fairy tales. They don't help anyone here."
That's when Kael opened one eye.
Three Overseers.
Great.
They were young. Maybe late teens or early twenties. The type who looked like they practiced intimidating glares in reflective puddles. Red cloaks, like all Overseers, but theirs were annoyingly clean. Their boots sparkled like they'd never walked through actual dirt. One of them even had fingerless gloves.
Fingerless. Gloves.
Kael judged him immediately.
[Part 3: You Know What'd Make This Better? Arson]
The "leader" stepped forward and kicked over a pile of scrolls, probably thinking it made him look tough. It didn't. It made him look like a toddler who'd just discovered gravity.
Dust spiraled upward like the ghosts of knowledge long dead.
"Burn it," he said.
One of the others hesitated. "Here? Now?"
"Yes, now, genius. Unless you're planning to read it to sleep tonight."
Kael bit his tongue.
He'd heard Overseers say cruel things before. But there was something about setting fire to a library—his library—that made his stomach twist.
The third guy pulled out a flask of oil and poured it on the last standing bookshelf. The wood drank it greedily, as if resigned to its fate.
A torch followed.
The flames came fast.
They always did.
Kael stood slowly. His hands shook.
"Please stop," he whispered.
It was the first thing he'd said all day.
It was also the last thing he needed to say.
Because the wind?
The wind heard him.
And it was done playing nice.
[Part 4: Windmageddon Begins]
It started as a breeze.
A flicker of air that danced through the ashes like it had somewhere to be and no manners whatsoever.
Then it built.
The pressure changed. The temperature dipped. Kael's hair stood on end. It felt like the world had just paused mid-breath.
And then—
WHOOM.
A sonic boom of air exploded from Kael's body like he'd just activated cheat codes for "Mother Nature's Wrath."
The flames didn't just go out—they reversed. Like a video played backward, fire curled back into embers, embers into smoke, smoke into nothing.
One of the Overseers screamed, which was fair.
He was lifted off the ground, legs kicking like a toddler denied cookies, and then flung into a broken column. His landing was… inelegant.
Another tried to run.
Bad idea.
The wind caught him like a bouncer at the world's sassiest nightclub and said, "You ain't on the list."
He tumbled head-over-heels through the air and landed face-first in what used to be the philosophy section.
The third Overseer, the one with the fingerless gloves, drew his blade. Or tried to.
The wind slapped it out of his hand and possibly out of the village. Honestly, it's probably still flying somewhere, slicing birds midflight.
Kael stood in the center of it all.
Unmoving.
Eyes wide.
Hair in full anime chaos mode.
He didn't understand what had happened.
But the wind did.
And it was done hiding.