The rebels were relentless.
They weren’t just rebels—they were desperate. Clothed in stitched armor, wearing mismatched insignias, some limping or missing fingers.
And yet—fierce.
Too fierce for just a rogue group.
“This isn’t normal,” Alaric muttered, blocking a heavy strike, slamming his sword through a man’s chest.
“Someone’s funding them.”
“Good. I need a new face to electrocute.”
Lightning burst again from my palm, and this time the sky answered.
BOOM. Clouds churned above.
The storm came to life. Rain fell heavy and fast, soaking everything.
My robe clung to me like silk paint, but I didn’t care.
I was done playing weak.
“You’ve angered the wrong storm, rebels!”
One of them—wide-eyed—dropped his sword and ran.
Another shouted, “It’s the Thunder Queen! RUN!”
I blinked.
