Read Part I
That afternoon, the storm had descended like a beast unchained—snarling with wind, howling with rain, and lashing Sparkbog with claws of lightning. But Grindle’s lightning rods had worked, and for the first time, the pumps had surged to life. Now, in the calm after the chaos, Grindle headed down to the square. She had to see it for herself.
When she turned the final bend in the serpentine path, her breath caught in awe. Townspeople had gathered in the square, which was mostly dry—the water seeping into the long-forgotten drainage system and pumped uphill—except for one old pipe that had burst, sending up a geyser.
Some folks clapped when they saw Grindle, and a few thanked her. Then the mayor stepped forward.
“This was unauthorized,” he snapped, his jabbing finger flicking between the geyser and the lightning rods. “Dangerous. Historically damaging.”
A few townsfolk murmured in confusion.
Hestaphine stepped beside Grindle, crossing her arms. “And yet Sparkbog is safe—for once.”
The mayor rounded on Hestaphine. “Safe? That’s it—I’m calling in safety inspectors. If the tower is indeed found safe, Grindle may stay. If not, she’ll be evicted. And you’ll both face legal charges.”
Grindle’s joy curdled into fear. Of course he wouldn’t give up his inexplicable vendetta against her. But he’d given her a chance.
That night, she cleared off her worktable. No more napkin sketches or tea-stained notes. She drew up diagrams, labeled conduit pathways, documented every rune. When the inspectors came, she’d be prepared.
The next day, the completed field manual lay open on her workbench. Sunlight filtered through the windows, casting the warm glow of sunset, and for a moment, everything felt possible. Grindle wiped the weariness from her eyes. Earlier that morning, she’d coaxed a letter away from the mudgullet on her letterbox informing her that the inspectors would come in three days.
Just three more days to prove the Weather Tower’s modifications were safe. Below, Hestaphine worked on the conduit system. Discharge gutters gleamed under the late-day light, and runes shimmered faintly.
Then the chimes began. Grindle froze. The weather sensors vibrated with a low, eerie hum. The scrying globes lit up a lurid storm-purple.
She ran to the observation deck. A massive storm had formed on the horizon. It was moving.
And it was coming straight for Sparkbog—as if drawn to the Weather Tower.
Before long, there was pounding on the Weather Tower’s door. The mayor’s voice echoed up the stairwell. “Shut it down! You’ve provoked the gods and nature. Now look at what you’ve brought to Sparkbog!”
Grindle’s eyes were locked on the swirling violet mass creeping closer. She had thought they’d saved Sparkbog, but what if she’d made things worse?
Hestaphine crossed the room and clasped Grindle’s hand in her firm, steady grip.
“You didn’t summon the storm,” she said. “But we built what we needed to face it.”
Grindle blinked, throat tightening. Before she could reply, a loud scrabble of talons interrupted them. The mudgullet flapped in through the open window and dropped a crumpled envelope at her feet.
Grindle knelt, frowning, and opened it. It was a child’s drawing: a bright blue sky that didn’t reach the ground, a stick-figure wizard in a tower. Shaky purple letters spelled: Thank you for making the water go away.
She smiled. She didn’t feel like a hero, but someone thought she was. She folded the letter gently and, with a nod to Hestaphine, headed down the stairs.
“I’m not shutting down the Stormfire system,” she told the mayor. She let him rage ineffectually until he turned away, sputtering, and left.
Three days later, rain slicked the winding path as two strangers climbed the hill to the Weather Tower. One was a centaur, his hooves clopping steadily on the wet stone. The other, a woman, shielded her eyes with one hand as she studied the tower’s spindly height, taking in the lightning rods.
Grindle watched them approach and met them at the door, her heart pounding. Thunder rumbled.
“Wiz. Rue Grindle,” Administrator Mina Hereswith addressed her with a disapproving frown. “Before we heard from your mayor, Kami-Nihkia and Tavlyn were both concerned that you may be disrupting weather systems across Mirtoklas.”
Grindle bristled. “They’ve been meddling with the weather patterns for decades. That’s why we get all the storms. Sparkbog didn’t start this.”
Safety Inspector Simarron hovered behind Mina, clipboard clutched in his hands. Grindle handed over the field manual and Mina flipped through the pages with a critical eye.
“This is very clear, for a wizard,” she murmured.
Simarron nodded. “Better than the Weather Tower schematics in Kami-Nihkia. But you really should add a fire escape plan.”
Grindle blinked. “Noted.”
Then the storm hit. Lightning flared and thunder cracked like splitting stone. Simarron jumped as the tower shuddered. Mina lowered the manual, her brow furrowing.
Followed by the safety inspectors, Grindle went to the observation deck and saw townsfolk hauling sandbags through the square, forming barriers along low points. Children with buckets ran water out of cellars. Farmers and ferrymen cleared drainage grates, shoving debris aside with shovels and poles.
Then she spotted someone climbing the roof. A young man was reaching for a lightning rod—a large branch had tangled around it.
“Get down!” Simarron called out as he wheeled out of the tower. “That rod is live!”
Grindle raised her hands. “Dancing One,” she whispered. She calmly reached out with her magic, tugging at the wind like the reins of a runaway horse. The air seemed to respond, shifting into balance. The branch slipped free and tumbled away.
The man scrambled down. Simarron, wearing a strange pointed helmet, helped him to safety.
Grindle turned to Hestaphine.
“This is the final test,” said Hestaphine, squeezing her hand.
The storm roared and raged all night, leaving behind torn clouds and rain-slicked streets. The conduits hummed and crackled as they carried power to the pumps, which strained against the deluge, and the old pipes groaned and bucked. But the Stormfire system held, and by dawn the sky was clear.
Grindle raced down to the town square from the Weather Tower, where the townsfolk were gathering, sodden and tired. Mina stood near the edge of the crowd, arms folded. Someone shouted: “Hurrah for our weather wizard!” and a cheer began to build. Simarron clapped and stomped a hoof in approval.
The mayor approached, looking sheepish. “I misjudged you,” he said. “You’ve more than passed the safety inspection. You’ve changed the fate of this town.”
Grindle nodded. She wasn’t Sparkbog’s last resort anymore. She was its choice, and it was hers.
“I didn’t do it alone,” she said, as Hestaphine sidled up beside her, grease on her sleeves, rain in her hair.
Above the square, sparks danced on the windmill blades on the Weather Tower—no longer a a sinking monument to a plan that had never quite worked, but a beacon of hope for a storm-powered future.
The mudgullet sat atop the letterbox, feathers puffed. It closed one eye, then the other, as if to say, “That will do. For now.”
The end.