She knows a storm is coming. She always does, long before the others can smell it on the wind. It's an inexplicable yet intimate knowledge—like meeting a strange wolf and recognising a long-lost brother—that lives in the marrow of her bones and the follicles of each hair. When thunder roars and hail pelts the earth, others stick their tail between their legs, but she stands proud and meets it head-on until each and every member of her pack is safe. It's where Stoirm got her name, though most believe it came from her eyes. She doesn't bother to correct the ill-informed. The storm is both her mate and adversary, and so it shall be until both gather their last breath.