"Obedience calms the wind. Defiance teaches it to sing."
— Lines scratched into a cell wall below the eastern tower
The morning light radiates through the paneled glass wall. My reflection in the crystal whispers the abyss of his words back into my mind: "You don't know how much I want you, do you?"
They echo—low and incisive—cutting deeper now than they did when he said them.
I haven't slept. After a quiet supper delivered by a maid who never spoke, I only lay tangled in sheets that weren't mine. Walked the length of the room. Counted the lightning veining the veilglass ceiling. Now I stand here—barefoot on cool stone, hands braced against the window, trying to center myself. Trying to make sense of his words.
Or worse—my feelings.
The storm outside shifts like breath held too long. It whispers in time with my confusion—winds circling the spires, brushing cloud against crystal like fingertips against skin. It doesn't rage. Doesn't roar. Just waits like he did. Like something in me still is.
I trace a fingertip across the window. My mark doesn't burn, but it itches—like something just beneath the skin has begun to stir. A warning. A promise. I don't know.
He wants me. But why does that feel like a threat?
I glance at my reflection again. Pale. Bare. The tunic he left me in falls off one shoulder. Eyes rimmed with a storm I can't name. I look like a ghost that hasn't decided who it's haunting.
I whisper into the glass, as if the storm might carry it back to him: "I don't want to be wanted like that."
But part of me wonders if that's true. And that part terrifies me most of all.
A soft knock startles me. I turn—my hand still pressed against the glass. The door opens—just enough for a figure to slip through.
It's her again. The maid from last night. No older than I am. She wears a storm-gray gown that falls straight to her ankles—simple, unadorned. Her hair is braided tightly against her scalp, practical and perfect, like it's never allowed to loosen.
She moves like wind in corridors—quiet, unobtrusive. Like someone who's practiced not being seen. And I wonder—what did she trade to live here? What would make a girl like her give up the warmth of Earth for this sky-forged silence? For these cold, humming walls?
She lowers her gaze the moment she steps into the room.
"Forgive me, Stormbride," she says, voice barely above a whisper.
"Stormbride?" I echo, the word curling oddly on my tongue.
She doesn't flinch. "Would you like to be called something else, Stormbride?"
Her calm unsettles me more than if she'd looked ashamed.
"Is that what all the brides are called?" I ask—then regret it. I don't want to know. Not really.
"Yes." A simple answer. Too simple.
"Call me Amarin," I say, trying to hold to something of myself. Anything.
She hesitates. Then dips her head lower. "I'm afraid I can't, my lady."
"Why not?"
Her answer is soft, but it slices. "It's not a costume."
The words catch me off guard. It must be hard, I realize, to serve women who never stay. To remember names for those the storm forgets.
"Then… my lady is fine," I murmur.
She nods once.
I watch her for a moment longer.
"What's your name?" I ask, quietly.
She stills, just slightly. Then lifts her chin a fraction.
"Rowen," she says. The word feels like a secret. Like something no one's asked in a long time.
"Thank you, Rowen," I murmur. "For last night's supper."
She blinks at that—just once—but it's the closest thing to surprise I've seen on her face.
Then, she steps toward the armoire, placed by the chair where he sat hours ago. She takes a fabric out and carries it folded in her arms.
A gown—storm-silken and pale as lightning caught in water. It shimmers in the soft light as if it isn't made of fabric at all, but of mist pressed into shape. The sleeves are long, the bodice tight-laced, and a translucent shawl hangs beside it—threaded with faint veins of silver.
Rowen lays it gently across the foot of the bed.
"The court will expect you in this," she says. "They've gathered in the Stormhall chamber."
I don't move to touch it.
"Do they expect me to look like this every day?" I ask, glancing at the ridiculous cascade of light and threading. It looks like something a storm would wear to seduce the moon.
"They expect you to look like someone chosen to be the next queen," she replies, voice careful. No judgment in it. Just a fact.
I let out a breath. My body still aches from yesterday's unraveling.
"Before I'm dressed like a trophy," I say, stepping back toward the glass, "where can I eat?"
Rowen bows her head slightly. "Would you like breakfast brought here? Or, would you prefer the terrace below the sky-arc? It overlooks the eastern currents."
There's something in her tone—barely perceptible—but there. A flicker of something real beneath the ritual.
"The terrace," I say. "I'd like to see what I'm trapped above."
Her expression doesn't change. But I think—just maybe—I see the corner of her mouth twitch.
"I'll prepare it," she says, and turns to go.
"Rowen."
She pauses by the door and turns back.
"Yes, my lady?"
"Were you the one who changed me the night I arrived?"
A pause. Then, "Yes, my lady."
I nod, then say nothing more.
I watch her go. Head down. Steps light as a featherfall.
The silence thickens after she leaves. I turn back to the gown. It waits on the bed like a promise I never agreed to. I don't reach for it immediately. I let the silence stretch a little longer. The storm outside is quieter now—curious, not calm. Listening.
Eventually, I lift the dress. It weighs less than I thought it would. But when I slip it on, it feels heavier than armor. The fabric settles against my skin like mist woven with intent. It hides everything but the shape of me. Most tellingly, it covers my mark. I run a hand over the fabric that lies just above my collarbone. The itch beneath still lingers. Faint. Restless. Like something waiting to wake again.
A knock. Then Rowen enters without a word.
She approaches with quiet efficiency, gently tugging the laces along the bodice until it molds to my ribs. I flinch slightly when the corset draws tight, but she says nothing. Just keeps working, hands deft and practiced. As if she's done this a hundred times. Maybe she has.
When she finishes the last tie, she steps behind me. Lifts a brush from a small silver table near the corner. Begins to comb through my hair with long, steady strokes. The silence between us isn't empty—it hums with unsaid things.
"Your hair up is customary for brides in their first week," Rowen says softly, fingers stilling. "The court prefers to see you."
I meet her gaze in the mirror. "Then let's do half-up, half-down."
She pauses—just a flicker—and I catch it. That quiet flick of disapproval. Not loud. Not cruel. But present.
For a moment, I falter. Am I doing too much? Too bold? Too visible? It hits me then—Elder Marin's voice, echoing through my past. Always instructing. Correcting. Preparing me for the role I never wanted to play.
He used to say, "A bride must be seen before she is heard. But only just enough to remember her place."
I hated him for that. I spent so long trying to unlearn the rules… I didn't think I'd have to wear them.
I look at my reflection—storm-brushed, not quite regal. Not quite defiant. A girl stitched between prophecy and protest.
"Half," I repeat, quieter. "Please."
Rowen nods and resumes her work. But the silence that settles between us says everything.
She braids a few strands, looping them back and pinning them with a pale comb shaped like a crescent cloud.
Then she steps around, dabs something faintly cool across my cheeks, then a whisper of tint on my lips—stormrose—I fight the surge to wipe it off. It smells like violet and ozone.
She steps back and surveys her work. I feel like a painting. Framed. Hung. Studied.
"They'll be…" Rowen hesitates, smoothing the last pin into place. "Pleased," she finishes, like the word tastes strange on her tongue.
"I'm not here to please them," I murmur.
Her eyes lift—just for a heartbeat. A flick of storm-gray meeting mine in the mirror.
"No," she says quietly. "You're here to please him."
The words settle like cold iron.
She lowers her gaze again, steps back, and bows slightly.
"Shall I escort you to the terrace, my lady?"
I nod, not trusting my voice. The storm within me has not quieted. Only shifted its weight.
The halls of the Skycastle shift as we move. Not literally—but light flickers strangely on the walls, and the architecture never quite settles. Cloudstone veils the corridors in a sheen like frozen breath. Rowen walks a step ahead, silent as always, but her presence steadies me.
She leads me through an arched corridor draped in silk that smells faintly of stormbark and old wind. Then, a wide doorway opens into a terrace that steals my breath.
The Sky-Arc.
I'd heard whispers about it—scrawled in old journals, mentioned in fading verses. But nothing prepared me for this. The terrace curves like a crescent moon, open to the wind on three sides, its railings carved from braided cloud-crystal. Below, an ocean of clouds churns slowly—silver, lavender, and ink. The sun hasn't fully risen yet. Its light grazes the horizon in strands of molten gold, brushing against the highest towers and rippling across the cloudscape like a tide.
And I'm standing above it. Trapped above it.
A table sits at the center—round, carved of skywood, glistening faintly. A single place setting. A carafe of cloudfruit nectar. Fresh bread. Something warm and spiced.
"Will Velasyr be joining me?" I dare to ask—knowing he won't—my eyes still fixed on the sea of clouds.
Rowen doesn't pause. "No, my lady."
My throat tightens before I can help it.
"He prefers to dine with the court?"
She folds her hands. "He hasn't gone to court yet this morning."
I glance over my shoulder. "Then where is he?"
A beat of silence. Rowen answers carefully. "In the Tempestrium. Alone."
So he's hiding, too. I like the space without him—I bite the taste of that thought before it finishes forming.
I exhale slowly and cross the terrace to sit. The chair is too elegant. The food, too perfect. I don't touch it yet. The wind brushes my cheek, cool and cautious. Rowen lingers at a polite distance, waiting.
I reach for the goblet and take a sip of the nectar. It tastes like honeyed air and something bitter beneath. Like memory. Or regret.
The wind shifts along the terrace rail, soft at first, then curls around my shoulders like it wants to know what I'm thinking. But it already knows.
I set the goblet down and press my fingers beneath the loose edge of my sleeve—just enough to find it. The ribbon. Still there. Still knotted. Still mine. Pale green. Frayed. Crooked.
Liora's hands had trembled when she gave it to me. She'd tried to hide it—her fear, her grief—but I felt it in the way she wrapped the fabric too tightly. Like it might hold me together once I was gone. And maybe it has.
Maybe this tiny, imperfect thread is the only part of me the storm hasn't touched. I close my fingers around it and breathe. I think of home. Of Shellmere. Of the cliffs and the garden wall. Of Amery's wild laughter and the scent of Mother's dried herbs in the morning light. I remember the sound of gulls, the way the tide used to breathe under my window, the soft crush of footsteps in familiar sand.
It's already fading. Even in my mind, the color bleeds from the edges. And I hate it.
I press the ribbon tighter in my hand, like I can drag Shellmere back into my blood. I don't want to forget. Not for a crown. Not for a storm. Not even for him.
I loosen my grip on the ribbon, but I don't let it go. I tuck it back beneath the sleeve, hidden—close to skin. Let them dress me in silver and silk. I'll carry home in thread.
A quiet step behind me breaks the stillness. Rowen.
Her posture is formal again, hands clasped in front of her storm-gray gown.
"The court is ready to receive you, my lady."
I don't rise right away. I watch the horizon for one last breath—the sun breaking through thick cloud layers like it's trying to remember how to shine.
"Ready," I say. It tastes like a lie.
Rowen nods and leads me back through the corridor of veiled light, her pace careful, silent. The castle watches us as we pass—its walls murmuring, its archways dripping with the weight of too many names spoken in reverence, and too many more buried without ceremony.
We stop before a set of tall double doors, carved in wind-robust crystal and inlaid with veins of gold.
The Stormhall.
I've never seen it before, but I know this is the place. The air here feels heavier—charged, expectant. Like walking into thunder.
Rowen lifts a hand, signaling to step closer. The doors glow faintly, then swing open as if recognizing me.
"Enter when ready," she says.
And with that, she slips away—gone like mist before sunrise.
I take one step in.
The doors shut behind me with a sound like distant thunder.
✦ ✦ ✦
The Stormhall is vast—wider than any throne room I've seen in drawings or imagined in stories. Its ceiling is so high it disappears into mist, threaded with veins of lightning that pulse silently through cloudglass arches. Wind moves across the space—not wild, not loud—just steady, like the breathing of something ancient and alive.
And they are already there. Lining the walls and the four balconies that protrude from the room. Cloaked in storm-gray and silver, their faces half-shadowed beneath their hoods, their voices hushed but heavy.
I feel their eyes on me—measuring, dissecting, cataloging. Every detail from the storm-draped gown to the tint on my lips to the way I place my feet as I cross the threshold. They were raised to study queens—to dismantle them.
I walk anyway. Not quickly. Not slowly. Not bowed. Every step a defiance I'm too tired to name.
They whisper.
"She's smaller than I expected—"
"Pretty, but thin. A fragile one, perhaps—"
"How long will this one last?—"
"At least this one is fully covered—"
"She is wearing her hair down—"
Their voices are like stormdrizzle—soft but piercing. Not a scream, but a corrosion. Designed to wear down stone.
I do not stop walking.
A dais rises ahead—bare. No throne occupied, no Stormlord waiting to shield me with his presence. A gift, maybe. Or a trap. Maybe, he, too, is testing me.
I reach the center of the hall and turn slowly, meeting no one's gaze but letting them all know I see them. Their curiosity thickens. But none speak aloud. Not yet.
The tension coils tighter. A hall of breath held still. Even the storm outside has grown too quiet, as if the sky itself is watching to see if I will break.
I don't.
I square my shoulders, lift my chin, and stand still in the center of it all—dressed like a queen I haven't agreed to be.
The silence doesn't hold forever. A rustle of fabric. A footstep echoing too loudly. Then a voice—clear, clipped, and cold: "She doesn't kneel."
Another, softer, feigning politeness: "Stormbride… are you aware of what you've done?"
I blink, uncertain. "What I've done?"
A different voice this time—older, disapproving: "We felt the pulse two nights ago. The storm flared… and obeyed. That's not meant to happen. Not yet."
The memory comes with burning dizziness. Murmurs ripple through the shadows lining the balconies.
"She's not bonded."
"No ceremony performed—"
"Nothing was sealed—"
"And yet, it answered her—"
"She's doing something unnatural—"
"Is she even aware of it?"
I step back, just slightly. Not meaning to. My mouth is dry again. My hands cold.
"What are you talking about?" I ask, quieter now.
"The storm shouldn't respond to you until you are bonded to the Stormlord," says a woman near the center of the closer balcony. Her voice like frost. "This early storm response has never happened before."
Something in my spine coils.
"I haven't done anything."
"The Stormlord said it was his doing, though—" A voice snaps.
"And you believed him?"
"He has never lost control over the storm—"
Someone else spits from the back of the room.
My mind curls with every comment. The mark itches to the point of breaking. My hands tremble without permission. And the storm outside darkens—narrowing its shade on me.
"She doesn't even know how the curse works," another voice snaps.
Their voices close in like circling wings. Accusation. Suspicion. Fear. All barely veiled.
I take a breath that doesn't feel like mine.
"I didn't ask for this," I say, my voice fraying. "I've only been here two days."
"Two days is long enough to unbalance a kingdom?" someone mutters.
The wind shudders against the Stormhall windows. The air grows thinner. My mark itches harder. I don't know what's happening. I thought this was normal. I thought I was just another girl cursed with longing and thunder and a year of pretending.
But the way they're looking at me…
Like I'm the storm. Not its bride.
The next voice doesn't come from the court. It comes from the storm itself.
Thunder cracks—not above, but within—as the Stormhall doors swing open with a sound of splitting sky. Wind rushes through the chamber in a sudden spiral, scattering cloaks and extinguishing lanterns as it coils toward the dais like a summoned beast.
And then, he is there.
Velasyr.
Cloaked in black stormweave, the hems of his coat laced with gold thread like jagged lightning. His white hair trails over his shoulders like moonlit clouds. His steps ripple like thunder down marble. The storm quiets as he enters—only slightly, but enough to know who it listens to.
Every head turns. Every whisper cuts.
He says nothing until he reaches the center line between the court and me. Then—his voice, low and absolute: "Silence."
It lands like thunder—one word, and the Stormhall obeys.
The wind stills. The robed figures go still. Even the storm seems to hold its breath.
He turns, slowly, facing the court with a gaze like polished silver and wrath barely leashed.
"I thought I'd been cleared enough," he says, each word measured like a blade unsheathed.
"I was the one commanding the storm then," he turns his head sharply. "And now."
He pauses shortly, but long enough to make me shiver at his silver blade of a stare. Then: "There are flames the storm cannot quench. She is one of them."
His words strike something raw. Not possession. Not praise. Something older—recognition, maybe. Or prophecy. I don't know which is worse.
The silence sharpens. And I can't tell if he's shielding me… or staking a claim.
"She has done nothing," he continues, eyes sweeping the crescent balconies lining now. "And yet you speak as if you fear her already."
No one dares respond.
He lifts his chin slightly, gaze unblinking.
"Perhaps you should."
That lands heavier than anything before. The silence that follows is complete. He turns to me—expression unreadable. Not warm. Not cold. Just watchful.
"Come," he says quietly, signaling his lifted hand.
Not a command. Not a plea. Just a choice.
The court watches. The storm watches. And I walk—not toward him, but away. My steps echo across the chamber, into a storm that no longer feels like his alone.