Storm Sovereign

The Sovereign has a name, but weather this old tends to outlive its names. The storms that move across the inland sea in late autumn call in a direction that suggests coordination. Sailors have noted this. Scientists from other worlds have noted this. The Sovereign has declined to be interviewed.

What it does is attend. It arrives where the corruption has reached the upper atmosphere — where the weather itself begins to mis-time, to arrive in the wrong seasons, to carry the wrong temperatures. And then it rains. Not metaphorically. It rains on everything within sight, with a specificity that suggests targets. The lightning follows.

In the accounts of those who have watched it fight, the dominant impression is sound. Thunder that does not dissipate but builds. Rain that does not fall randomly but finds what it needs to find. The Sovereign itself, at the centre of this, quiet in the way that eyes of storms are quiet.

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