illphated
**The Quills of the Storm**
The wind howled through the forest, bending the trees like frail reeds, sending leaves spiraling in frenzied circles. Rain lashed the earth, turning the ground into a churning sea of mud. The world trembled beneath the storm’s fury. And yet, in the heart of it all, the porcupine stood still.
His name was Thorn, and he had seen many tempests in his time. The other creatures had fled, burrowing into their dens, hiding beneath roots, seeking shelter in the hollows of fallen trees. But Thorn remained where he was, perched upon a gnarled stump at the edge of the clearing, his quills gleaming like streaks of gold and blue under the crackling flashes of lightning.
He had learned long ago that running was useless. The storm would always find you. Better to stand firm, to let the wind rage and the rain batter, knowing that it would pass as all things do.
A fox darted past, its fur slick with rain, eyes wide with panic. “Thorn, are you mad?” it called out. “The sky is falling apart! You must hide!”
Thorn simply blinked. “I will not break,” he said.
And he didn’t.
The wind roared louder, but Thorn remained steady. The rain pounded harder, but he did not falter. His quills, sharp and defiant, caught the light of the storm, shimmering like the last embers of a dying fire.
By dawn, the storm had spent itself, leaving the world washed clean, fresh with the scent of earth and renewal. Slowly, the creatures emerged from their hiding places, blinking at the quiet morning. They found Thorn still standing upon his stump, unshaken, unbroken.
The fox approached, staring at him with something like awe. “How did you do it?”
Thorn’s eyes gleamed. “Because I was made for the storm.”
And with that, he turned and walked into the misty forest, leaving behind only the whisper of rustling leaves and the quiet strength of a soul that could not be moved.