The peace that followed Morana's dream-visitation was fragile, a beautiful piece of pottery that had been cracked and painstakingly glued back together. The image of her future, aged self was seared into Ina's mind, a ghost at the feast of their happiness. She saw it sometimes when she looked at Juraj—a fleeting superimposition of his youthful, powerful form over the vision of his kneeling beside her wrinkled, frail body. She would shiver, and he would feel it, pulling her closer, wordlessly reaffirming his vow with the solid warmth of his embrace.
He had become more attentive, more fiercely protective. His presence was a constant, low-grade hum of power around her cottage and fields, a subtle ward against further divine intrusions. The lavender, which had begun to wilt during his despair, now thrived with an almost aggressive vitality, the purple spikes larger and more fragrant than ever before, their scent a permanent, calming fog over the property. It was his answer to Morana's frost—a living, breathing bastion of life.
But on the slopes of Biokovo, patience had run out.
Perun watched the tiny island through the scrying winds, his expression thunderous. He saw the renewed vigor of the lavender field, the way Juraj's power now clung to the land and the mortal woman like a second skin. He saw them walking hand-in-hand, their heads close together, a picture of defiance.
"He fortifies his folly," Perun's voice was a low roll of thunder that shook the mountain's peak. "He draws a circle around her and dares us to cross. Morana's whispers were not enough. It is time for a shout."
Vida, who had been tracing the path of a trickling stream with her finger, looked up, her green eyes troubled. "Brother, a shout can deafen. It can destroy what you are trying to save. You risk forcing his hand, making him choose her over everything."
"He has already chosen!" Perun boomed, lightning flashing in his eyes. "He chooses her every moment he remains there, pouring his essence into her mortal world. He needs to remember the scope of his power, and the insignificance of hers. He needs to see how easily it can all be swept away."
Morana, a silent statue of ice and shadow, gave a slow, deliberate nod. "The Spring God needs a reminder that after every spring, comes a storm. Let him see what true power looks like when it is not used for planting flowers, but for pruning."
Svetovid's four faces were grim. "The path is set. A confrontation will clarify his vision."
Perun needed no further encouragement. He stood, and the sky above Biokovo, which had been a clear, piercing blue, began to boil with bruised purple and charcoal-grey clouds. He raised his hands, and in his grip formed not an axe, but the essence of a storm—a crackling, roaring vortex of wind, water, and raw, untamed electricity. This was not a natural weather pattern. This was the wrath of the sky given purpose.
On Korčula, the day had been perfect. A gentle maestral wind cooled the sun-warmed island, and Ina and Juraj were working in the field, the rhythm of their labor a quiet, shared joy. Ina was teaching him how to properly bundle the lavender for hanging, her fingers deftly tying the twine. He watched her, a small smile on his face, his own large, powerful hands surprisingly clumsy with the delicate task.
"Like this," she said softly, guiding his fingers. "You don't want to crush the buds."
He was concentrating, his brow furrowed, when he suddenly went rigid. His head snapped up, his gaze turning from the lavender in his hands to the western horizon. The smile vanished from his face, replaced by a look of sharp, predatory alertness.
"Juraj? What is it?" Ina asked, her own smile fading.
He didn't answer. He slowly straightened to his full height, his body thrumming with a tension she had never felt before. It was the same energy she'd felt when he'd parted the crowd, but magnified a hundredfold. The air around them grew heavy, thick with the scent of ozone.
"Go inside, Ina," he said, his voice low and devoid of its usual warmth. It was a command, the voice of a general. "Now."
Before she could protest, she saw it. On the horizon, a wall of black cloud was advancing with impossible speed, devouring the blue sky. It was not like any storm she had ever seen. It moved with a malevolent, conscious intent, a churning darkness shot through with frequent, silent flashes of greenish lightning. The gentle maestral died abruptly, replaced by an eerie, oppressive calm. The birds fell silent. The very light turned a sickly yellow.
Fear, cold and sharp, pierced her heart. This was no natural storm. This was Perun.
"Juraj…" she whispered, her hand going to his arm.
"INSIDE!" he roared, the sound not entirely human, a vibration that shook the ground beneath her feet.
She stumbled back, terrified by the fury in his voice and the advancing cataclysm. She ran for the cottage, her heart hammering against her ribs. She slammed the door just as the first gust of wind hit. It wasn't a gust; it was a hammer blow. The entire cottage shuddered on its stone foundations. The windows rattled violently. Outside, the world was being unmade.
The storm screamed over the island. Rain did not fall; it was hurled in solid, horizontal sheets that sounded like shrapnel against the stone walls. The tall cypress trees behind the cottage bent at impossible angles, their branches whipping like frantic arms. Hail the size of walnuts suddenly pelted down, battering the roof, shredding the leaves of the olive trees, smashing into her precious lavender field.
Ina watched from the window, her hands pressed to her mouth in horror. She saw her lavender, the work of her life, being systematically destroyed. The hail shredded the fragrant purple stalks. The ferocious wind tore plants from the earth, whipping them into the chaotic air. The field was being erased before her eyes. This was Perun's message: See how easily I can destroy what you love.
But Juraj was still out there.
He stood in the center of the maelstrom, his feet planted wide, his dark hair whipping around his face. He had thrown his head back, and his eyes were closed, his arms spread wide. He was not fighting the storm with lightning of his own. He was doing something else, something more fundamental.
As Ina watched, her fear for him eclipsing her fear for the field, she saw a change begin to emanate from him. A soft, greenish-gold light bloomed from his chest, spreading outwards in a slow, deliberate wave. Where the light touched, the violence lessened.
It was a battle of domains, a clash of primal forces.
Perun's power was the fury of the sky—destructive, untamed, magnificent in its wrath. It was the force that clears the old, dead wood with fire and wind.
Juraj's power was the stubborn resilience of the earth—patient, nurturing, and immovable. It was the force that holds fast, that protects the tender shoot, that waits for the storm to pass.
The wave of green-gold light spread from Juraj, creating a shimmering, transparent dome over the cottage and the heart of the lavender field. The hail shattered against this invisible shield, turning to harmless mist. The wind, which had been a screaming demon, met the dome and split, flowing around it like a river around a boulder. The rain softened, becoming a heavy but normal downpour within the protected area.
Outside the dome, the island was being ravaged. Ina could see trees uprooted, roof tiles flying through the air, the sea a churning, white-capped frenzy. But inside the dome, there was a pocket of surreal calm. The lavender directly around Juraj stood firm, their stalks dancing in the gentled wind but unbroken. The air within the dome was warm and humid, smelling of wet earth and life, a stark contrast to the metallic, electric stink of the storm.
Juraj held his ground, his body trembling with the strain. Tendons stood out on his neck. Sweat mixed with the rain on his face. He was not just deflecting the storm; he was absorbing its fury, transmuting its destructive energy into something that could be borne. He was the deep root system that holds the mountain steady during a hurricane.
Ina saw his knees buckle slightly, and a cry caught in her throat. He was struggling. The sheer, raw power of Perun's focused wrath was immense.
Then, a voice cut through the roar of the storm, a voice that was the sound of the sky itself tearing open.
"IS THIS WORTHY OF YOU, SPRING GOD?!" Perun's voice boomed from the heavens, each word a clap of thunder that vibrated in Ina's bones. "KNEELING IN THE MUD TO SHIELD A FEW SQUARE METERS OF WEEDS? YOU WERE MEANT TO FERTILIZE CONTINENTS, NOT A MORTAL'S GARDEN!"
Juraj opened his eyes. They were blazing with that same molten-gold light, but now it was mixed with a defiant, furious love. He lifted his head to the raging sky, and his voice, when he shouted back, was not a boom, but a deep, resonant wave that rolled out from the soil itself.
"THIS IS NOT WEEDS!" he roared, the sound shaking the very bedrock of the island. "THIS IS HER LIFE! THIS IS HER HEART! AND I WILL DEFEND IT WITH THE SAME FORCE I WOULD DEFEND THE FIRST FOREST! YOU SPEAK OF WORTH, PERUN? THERE IS MORE WORTH IN ONE OF HER KIND ACTS THAN IN A THOUSAND OF YOUR STORMS!"
The challenge hung in the air, a gauntlet thrown down between kin.
For a long, suspended moment, the storm seemed to intensify, the lightning strikes coming faster, closer, as if Perun was gathering his full strength for a final, annihilating blow. The protective dome around Juraj flickered, and Ina saw him grit his teeth, a trickle of blood seeping from his nose from the immense strain.
He was holding, but barely.
And then, as suddenly as it began, the storm ceased.
The rain stopped. The wind died. The black clouds unraveled, retreating with an unnerving speed, leaving behind a bruised, twilight sky. The silence that fell was deafening, broken only by the drip-drip-drip of water and the distant, frantic ringing of alarm bells from Korčula Town.
Juraj stood panting in the sudden quiet, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion. The green-gold light around him faded. The protective dome was gone.
Ina didn't hesitate. She threw open the cottage door and ran to him, her feet slipping on the hail-strewn, muddy ground. She crashed into him, her arms wrapping around his waist, holding him up as much as holding him close.
He enveloped her in his arms, his body trembling with fatigue and adrenaline. He buried his face in her hair, breathing her in as if she were the only solid thing left in the world.
"You're bleeding," she whispered, reaching up to wipe the blood from his lip with a trembling thumb.
"It is nothing," he murmured, his voice hoarse. He looked over her head at the devastation. The edges of her field were a ruin of mud and shredded plants. But the heart of it, the part he had shielded, stood proud and purple, a defiant oasis in a wasteland.
He had done it. He had stood against the Thunderer himself and protected what was hers.
Ina followed his gaze, her heart aching at the destruction, but swelling with a fierce, proud love for the god who had made his stand in the mud for her. He had not fought with destructive power, but with protective, nurturing strength. He had chosen her garden over continents.
She looked up at him, her sea-blue eyes full of tears, but also of a newfound, unshakable strength. "He was wrong," she said, her voice clear and steady. "This… this is the most worthy thing you have ever done."
Juraj looked down at her, the storm in his eyes replaced by a profound, weary love. The clash was over. For now. But they both knew the war was just beginning. And as they stood together in the wreckage, surrounded by the enduring scent of lavender, they knew they would face it together. The god of spring and the mortal woman were now an unbreakable front, a union that had just been tested by the sky itself and had not broken.