Free Eye of the Storm by Emmie Mears

between them, adjusting stances and sword grips, are Mediators.  
    A couple of the Mediators look up at us when we get close, and one nods to Hardy.  
    "They don't want to feel helpless," Hardy says softly.  
    My eyes sting at the sight, and his words don't help.
    "Are there enough blades to give them?" I ask. "Real ones?"
    He nods. "If there's anything the Summit has, it's swords."
    I don't know what this feeling is, this rising tangle in my chest. In the group of norms, I can identify a few who have to be morphs by the fluidity of their movement. Most of them will have at least a chance, especially if their animal is a big predator. There also have to be some witches in there, and some of the average homo sapiens sapiens who make up the rest of the population.  
    My throat feels hollow and dry, and I can't make myself speak.  
    When we pass them, I feel their eyes on me. I know I'm a recognizable figure, and the shades are ass-nekkid, so they're hard to miss.  
    They watch us, points of their practice swords dipping. I see a few startled faces, a few flickers of fear, but I see something else, too.
    These people want to live. And they're willing to fight.

CHAPTER EIGHT

    We make the rest of the trek to the Summit in silence.  
    I knew the world was changing this week. But walking through my city today, seeing the people of Nashville wielding swords against the idea of horrors they always thought we'd face for them — well.  
    I don't have words for it.  
    I wish I knew if it'd be enough.
    "Hardy," I say as we cross the Summit parking lot.
    "Yep." He hangs back and looks at me sideways.  
    "What they're doing, training the norms?"  
    "Yep."
    "Is that happening all over? In other cities? Because it should be."
    He looks at me for a long moment, and so do Mira and Evis. Mason fidgets with a lock of hair in his face. Asher watches me, eyes considering and unreadable.  
    "I don't reckon it is, but you're probably right, Storme. I'll talk to some of the others, see if we can activate the Summit phone tree." He pauses, foot scuffing the concrete. "Even if it doesn't do much good, it at least gives their spirits a boost."
    "My thought exactly." We step up onto the curb and move to the doors of the Summit. Morale is powerful, and considering the shitstorm we're all facing, it's probably the most gods damned precious commodity on this planet.
    The cavernous antechamber is full of Mediators. No one is aimlessly wandering; for the first time in a long time, maybe ever, the entire Summit seems to be united with a purpose. We've always had one, but this is different. Immediate. Someone's stacking training swords against a far wall, and on the other side of them are heaps of standard sword belts and harnesses. Most Mediators get their own swords after they finish training, but the Summit always has a veritable arsenal of the things. A group of Mittens led by an older Mediator I remember from my training way back is hauling medical supplies from the direction of the infirmary. Enough Mediators are on the wide staircase that there are a steady stream of people, upstairs on the right side, downstairs folks on the left.  
    Beneath our feet, the enormous yin and yang is muddied with foot prints, but it still lends me a little hope to see it. I'm dangerously short on hope lately. I'll take what I can get. In an odd way, the sight of it covered in dirt and scuff marks in the midst of all the Mediators here makes it better, not worse. It looks suddenly like less of a symbol and more like a badge of war. The mud and bits of grass and marks from hundreds of feet says we're fighting.
    The Mitten at the front desk — one of the three, anyway — looks up when she sees us. "Alamea's in her office, Mediator Storme." She looks behind me, startled at the sight of the cage. "Aw! Bunny!"
    "That's Nana. I'm going to try and find a safe place for her." It's at once strange and an affirmation to hear the honorific in front of my name again. I