The Last Spark

The storm had arrived earlier than expected.

In the village of Darwaza, nestled between silent mountains and forgotten roads, the skies had always whispered before they wept. But this time, the clouds roared with fury, and the lightning wasn’t just a flash—it was a voice.

Faris, sixteen and restless, stood barefoot in the rain, defying his grandmother’s cries to come inside. He had always been drawn to storms—not out of foolish bravery, but because he heard something in them. A rhythm. A message. Ever since the night his parents vanished in a similar storm five years ago, he’d felt like the sky was speaking directly to him.

And tonight, it shouted.

A blinding bolt tore through the clouds, striking the ancient sycamore tree at the edge of the village. The ground shook, and a symbol burned into the earth—a spiral of lightning encased in a circle. Faris stumbled back, heart pounding.

No one else had seen it.

The next morning, the villagers murmured of bad omens, cursed trees, and angry spirits. But Faris returned to the sycamore. The symbol was still there, glowing faintly. When he touched it, the ground hummed.

And then, the voice came.

“You were born of storm. The silence ends tonight.”

Faris fell to his knees, his body tingling with electric heat. His eyes fluttered shut, and a vision surged into his mind—a tall mountain shrouded in clouds, a doorway carved into stone, and a shadow waiting beyond it.

That night, under the cloak of darkness, Faris left Darwaza. The wind seemed to guide him, the stars blinking like sentinels above. He journeyed north, past the river of bones, through the forest where no birds sang, and finally to the mountain in his vision.

There, the storm raged again—wilder, louder, alive.

The doorway stood just as he had seen it. Etched above it was the same lightning spiral.

As Faris stepped inside, the wind died.

The air was still, yet buzzing. At the center of the stone chamber stood a crystal pillar, sparking with contained lightning. And in front of it—an old man, cloaked in robes of thundercloud gray, his eyes glowing with electric blue.

“You heard it,” the man said without turning. “The Lightning’s Voice.”

Faris nodded, breathless. “What is it?”

“A warning. A calling. And a test.”

The man turned. His face was weathered, ageless. “The world forgets what came before. Long ago, the sky did not simply cry or roar—it spoke. Chose protectors. Listeners. You are one.”

Faris stepped forward, disbelief warring with awe. “Why me?”

“Because you listened when others ran. Because the storm took your past and left you with the gift to reclaim it.”

With a motion, the man summoned a spark from the pillar. It hovered before Faris, warm and alive.

“Touch it,” the man whispered.

When Faris reached out, the spark dove into his chest. His body arched. Visions flooded him: his parents standing in a storm, chanting ancient words. A betrayal. A seal broken. And then—his mother’s voice:

“Faris, if you hear the lightning, follow it. We’ll be waiting.”

He gasped. “They’re alive?”

The man nodded solemnly. “Trapped in the Sky Veil—the realm between thunder and silence. Only one who commands the storm may enter.”

Faris’s hands now crackled with raw energy. He felt it—not power, but connection. The clouds no longer rumbled at him. They called to him.

“What do I do?”

The man smiled. “Speak back.”

Faris stepped outside. The sky darkened once more. He raised his arms, and lightning coiled around his fingers like loyal serpents. He whispered into the wind—not words, but will.

And the lightning answered.

It split the sky—not to destroy, but to open. A rift formed above the mountain, glowing with a silvery-blue light. Through it, Faris glimpsed a swirling world of storms and echoes—and two figures reaching toward him.

His parents.

With a cry that shook the peaks, Faris soared upward, lightning carrying him into the sky.

The villagers say the storm that night never truly ended. Sometimes, when the clouds gather and thunder rolls without rain, they say it’s Faris—keeper of the storm—still listening.

And if you stand beneath the sycamore, and the lightning strikes just right, you might hear him speak.