The Guardian by Diana Knightley

Forty-seven - Magnus

Quentin and I both turned tae look up on the mountain — above it a shelf of clouds, reachin’ tae the heavens, gale force winds gyrating above the peak, wide and full and brutal. The storms spread in every direction, seeming tae cover the miles between the cave where the vessels were stored, and this castle where I stood powerless tae fight it.

I felt the blood rush from my head, m’vision disappeared tae pinpoints, a sharp pain as my knee hit the stone, and I collapsed forward tae the ground. I struggled tae right m’self — the kids were nae safe, I had tae protect them — Kaitlyn was nae here, where was she?

I looked up at the sky as the storm clouds suddenly rolled back upon themselves, and then 3,2,1... they were gone. Nae more wind, nae thunder or lightning, just the smell of fire and a black cloud of smoke replacin’ the storm clouds as they retreated.

I grabbed m’chest and lost consciousness.