I woke to the sound of wind chimes clattering frantically outside my window. The morning light had a strange quality—dim and purple-tinged, as if filtered through a bruise. I rubbed my eyes and peered outside.
The sky had transformed overnight. Where yesterday there had been clear blue, now churning violet clouds spiraled above our island. Occasional flashes illuminated the darkness—not the pure white lightning I remembered from my past life, but streaks of crimson and azure that spider-webbed across the heavens.
Mom burst into my room without knocking, her eyes bright with excitement.
"Up, up, tiny ember! Today's the day!"
I tumbled out of bed, still half-asleep. "What day?"
She scooped me up, spinning me around until I squealed. "The Storm Festival! The ancestors are coming to visit!"
A deep rumble of thunder shook the house, making the wooden beams creak. Mom grinned wider.
"Hear that? They're already knocking."
Mother appeared in the doorway, her usual serene expression tinged with reverence. "The storm approaches earlier than expected this year. We should prepare."
As we ate breakfast, another boom of thunder rattled our bowls. I jumped, but my parents remained calm, exchanging knowing looks.
"Is it... just a storm?" I asked, remembering the typhoons and hurricanes from my previous life.
"Not just weather," Mom said through a mouthful of rice. "It's spiritual. The veil thins, and the ancestral spirits ride the winds to check on us."
Mother nodded. "Once a year, the storm comes to remind us of our place in the cycle. It's both blessing and test."
"What if we fail the test?" I asked.
Mom laughed. "Then we get very wet!"
Mother shot her a look. "What your mom means is that the storm's intensity reflects the harmony of our village. If we honor our traditions properly, the storm passes gently."
"And if we don't?"
Mother's face grew serious. "The last truly angry storm was before you were born. Three houses were lost to the sea."
After breakfast, we headed into the village. The transformation was already underway—every oni was busy with preparations. Some hung paper charms from eaves and tree branches. Others swept the dirt roads with bristle brooms, clearing away anything the storm might turn into a projectile.
What struck me most were the faces. Each villager wore intricate patterns painted across their skin—swirls of white, red, or blue pigment that highlighted their natural features while adding something primal and wild.
An elderly blue oni woman stopped us, her wizened face breaking into a smile when she saw me. Without asking permission, she dipped her finger into a pot of white paste and drew a spiral pattern on my forehead.
"The little bridge," she murmured, nodding with satisfaction. "Mark her well for the ancestors to see."
At home, my mothers prepared me for the ceremony. They dressed me in robes unlike anything I'd worn before—split perfectly down the middle, crimson on the right side and azure on the left. The fabric was heavy with embroidery depicting storms, mountains, and fierce oni faces.
"These were made specially for you," Mother said, adjusting the collar. "No other child wears the colors of both clans."
Mom painted my face with careful strokes—red symbols on the blue side of my face, blue symbols on the red side.
"For balance," she explained, her usually boisterous voice uncommonly soft.
As she worked, distant drums began to beat—slow at first, then quickening like a massive heartbeat. The sound seemed to vibrate through the floorboards and up into my bones.
"It's time," Mother said.
The village center had transformed into a sacred space. Lanterns swung from poles, casting flickering light across the gathering. In the middle stood a stone altar piled with offerings—fruits in vivid colors, smoking bundles of incense, carved wooden totems depicting fearsome oni warriors and wise shamans.
Elders from both clans stood in a circle around the altar, their ceremonial robes billowing in the strengthening wind. The drums continued their insistent rhythm, now joined by the haunting sound of bone flutes.
We approached the altar, and Mother handed me a small bone pendant carved into the shape of a snarling oni face.
"For your great-grandmother," she whispered. "Kazumi the Untamed. She was a legendary berserker in the red oni clan."
"She once fought off three sea serpents with nothing but her bare hands and sheer stubbornness," Mom added proudly.
I placed the pendant carefully among the other offerings. As I stepped back, a powerful gust of wind swept through the clearing, making the lanterns swing wildly and the flames dance. Several oni nodded approvingly.
"She hears you," an elder said.
The ceremonial dance began as the storm intensified. Red oni formed one circle, blue oni another, moving in opposite directions around the altar. Their movements told ancient stories—red oni stomped and leaped, roaring with each thunderclap, while blue oni glided with fluid grace, their chants rising and falling like waves.
As the dance progressed, the dancers began to manifest their ki. Red oni left trails of sparks and embers with each powerful movement. Blue oni's hands traced patterns of frost in the air, crystalline structures that hung suspended for moments before dissolving.
I watched, transfixed, as the two circles began to weave between each other, red and blue intermingling yet never colliding. The display was beautiful—fire and ice, strength and subtlety, passion and precision.
"One day, you'll dance with them," Mother said softly.
"Which circle will I join?" I asked.
Mom squeezed my shoulder. "Maybe you'll make your own."
After the dance, the children were gathered by blue oni shamans and led to a quiet glade at the edge of the village. The storm raged overhead, but the ancient trees provided shelter from the rain that had begun to fall.
"Sit," instructed an elderly shaman, her indigo tattoos glowing faintly in the dim light. "Close your eyes. Feel the storm not as threat, but as presence."
I crossed my legs and tried to sit still, but my mind raced with everything I'd seen. The other children seemed to fall into meditation easily, their breathing slowing, their faces relaxed.
"Breathe like Mother taught you," I reminded myself.
Gradually, the sounds of the storm faded from my awareness. The drumming of rain on leaves, the crash of thunder—all receded until I heard only my own heartbeat. Then, something else—a subtle humming in my veins, as if my blood had begun to sing.
The sensation grew stronger, spreading from my core to my fingertips. Behind my closed eyelids, darkness gave way to swirling patterns of red and blue light.
Then I saw them.
Two enormous oni figures stood in a misty void—one wreathed in dancing flames that never seemed to consume her, the other surrounded by swirling snow and ice crystals. They towered like mountains, their features both terrifying and beautiful.
They looked down at me without speaking. No words passed between us, yet I felt their regard like a physical weight. My veins burned hot and cold simultaneously, power surging through me in alternating waves.
I gasped and my eyes flew open. The glade came rushing back—the storm, the other children, the shamans watching us carefully. My heart hammered against my ribs, but I felt strangely elated, as if I'd touched something profound.
The elderly shaman was staring at me, her milky eyes wide.
"What did you see, child?" she whispered.
Later, back home with my mothers, I described the vision. They exchanged that look again—the one that meant they knew something I didn't.
"The ancestors rarely show themselves so clearly," Mother said, her voice unusually hushed. "Especially to one so young."
Mom nodded, uncharacteristically serious. "Those with strong bloodlines sometimes receive visions, but this..."
"What does it mean?" I asked.
Mother stroked my hair. "It means the spirits are watching you closely. They expect something from you, Yuna."
"But what?"
"That," Mom said, "you'll have to discover for yourself."
As night fell, the storm reached its peak. The entire village gathered on the central hill where a massive structure stood—the sky torch, a beacon meant to signal our presence to the spiritual realm.
To my surprise, I was led to the front of the crowd. The village elder gestured for me to approach the unlit torch.
"The child of two clans will help light our way this year," he announced.
My hands trembled as I reached toward the torch alongside the elder. I thought of the vision, of the two mighty spirits watching me, and something stirred within.
My palm flared with energy—not just red, not just blue, but both, swirling together like the storm above us. When we touched the torch, it erupted with spectacular force—flames that danced with frost, heat and cold in perfect balance.
The crowd erupted in cheers and songs. The storm raged on, but there was no fear in the celebration—only reverence and joy.
As the night deepened, the storm began to calm. The violent winds gentled, the lightning flashes grew more distant. By morning, only scattered clouds remained, revealing a sky washed clean.
No trees had fallen. No floods had come. The ancestors, it seemed, were pleased.
I lay on the hill behind our house, watching the last storm clouds drift away to reveal stars twinkling in the pre-dawn light. The events of the day settled into my bones, connecting me to this place, these people, this magic in a way I hadn't felt before.
"I'll become someone worthy of your strength," I whispered to the fading storm. "I promise."