"Some dreams are born of sleep. Others, of storms yet to come."
— Before the Veil, Skydrowned Archives
⚠️ Content Warning: Disclaimer AlertThis chapter contains scenes of sexual intimacy intended for mature audiences. Reader discretion is advised. If you prefer to skip this content, you may choose to move to the next page breaker, just further below in the chapter, without losing the core plot.
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I fear sleep.
Because when it comes, so does he.
Every night, the same dream haunts me, like a wolf stalking the weakest of the pack. He comes like the wind through the violet field of the village, stirring petals and breath alike. He wraps around my mind, my body, like the veil they cast every year on the chosen bride.
Soon, it will be me.
He comes and goes as he pleases, needing no invitation. No one has ever turned him away. No bride has ever rejected the cursed prince—or stopped him from coming, night after night, since the day they turned twenty.
The dreams began almost two years ago—far too early. I've never told a soul. Not my sister. Not my mother. Not Liora.
They came slowly at first, unraveling my sleep like threads pulled loose in the dark. A whisper of heat, curling through desire and redemption. A hunger I didn't understand. No chance to say no. No chance to talk back or talk at all.
Now, with the Veilbind Rite—a sacred offering, a bind to the storm, my twenty-first year—only a night away, the dream is unstoppable. The pull is sharper. The swirl inside me, frantic.
For four days, I haven't slept. I battle sleep as if my life were on the line. The mist slips under my door, and I fight it as it wraps around the room. I resist the warmth that gathers at the base of my spine, wrapping around me like a second skin. But I am drained.
And sleep comes, clouding my mind, draining my clothes.
Tonight, it feels different.
Urgent.
A shadow steps from the storm as if it follows a command. Lightning cracks behind the man's silhouette. Silver eyes flash. In a gasp, his outline sharpens in front of me, breath ghosting over my skin like it has been starving for too long. It feels like he already has me. And he does. I fight the urge. I try waking up—pinching my sides—when he murmurs.
"You have kept me waiting," breath brushing my ear—familiar, "for four nights."
He draws back, enough for me to see the only trait he ever shows—those silver eyes, bright as blade-light. The only proof that the Stormlord—the curse made flesh—is real and coming.
"No one makes me wait, Amarin."
I tremble in his arms. My mouth opens, but no sound comes. I hate the hopelessness I feel when he's near.
"Tomorrow, you'll be in my hands. And you won't be able to hold back."
I try to break away, but his breath finds my lips. Then his mouth. My breath catches upon impact, lips parting before I realize they have. They've forgotten how to belong to me.
He claims me in a kiss; I claim him back.
The room dissolves into a shadowy mist. Our bodies wrap in wind and warmth. No stars above, no ground beneath. Only heat, storms, and him.
His hands find the small of my back. For the first time, it's not just presence. It's contact. His mouth drifts down the curve of my neck—soft and ruinous. I should resist. I don't.
His fingers—strong, calloused, reverent—summon my body to arch toward him. Permit him to own me. I should shake him off any moment now, but my heart has a rhythm of its own.
I bite back a gasp when he finds the place beneath my ear—soft, deliberate—and I forget what fear feels like. He bites the lobe of my ear, sending shivers along my spine.
His right hand rises to the base of my throat. His fingers rest above my pulse, untamed. And I almost say please when his lips hover over mine again. He closes the space in an almost gasp, diving deeper this time—rougher. My neck tilts back, helpless to stop him. His tongue finds mine—hungry, desperate. His teeth graze my bottom lip, applying gentle pressure. A name trembles on my lips—the one I shouldn't crave.
We break apart, air catching between us, but he finds me again before I can.
My fingers curl into nothing when we part. The storm roars around us, lightning everywhere and nowhere. He finally breaks the silence.
"You are addictive," he says against my lips, his voice like thunder. "Amarin Stormborne."
I tried to talk back, to demand that he show himself. But he's already dissolving into shadows of storm.
"Tomorrow," he says. "You won't stop it."
I wake with a jolt, lungs dragging for breath.
Hands pressed against the mattress. The memory of him still scorches my skin. My heart hammers against my ribs. My sheets tangle, damp with sweat. Or wanting something I shouldn't. For a moment, I lie there, breathing hard, realizing that my room is mine again.
I glance through the window. The sky is storm-touched—swollen with pressure, thick with promise. His ghost still clings to it, like every night he visits. The air hums, and I know tomorrow will be another gray day.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to will the dream away. It calms me that he won't be back tonight, at least.
"I don't want him back," I whisper into the dark.
A lie.
Because something in me already aches for him, and I hate that it does.
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By the time the sun tries to break through the thick clouds, I've tucked the dream into the back of my mind. A letter sealed in wax, I keep the dream folded deep—unread, unwanted. The sky is a soft gray, washed in a pale light that filters through the salt-frosted windows. Outside, gulls scream over the tide. The world turns as if the storm isn't fated to return.
I wrap myself in my usual tunic, faded blue with stitching at the cuffs, my sister embroidered last spring. Pull on my black leather boots. Braid my hair tighter than usual to stop my hands from shaking.
As I open the door, the breeze smells of salt and seaweed. The village is already alive with the rhythm of another ordinary day. Except it is not ordinary. I find traces of today's ceremony in every corner. The firewood pile rises higher than yesterday's. Village seniors adorn crowns with flowers. I try to deny it.
My attention follows the children chasing each other past the well, and the forge coughing smoke into the sky, as always. I believe in the quiet. I believe in the lie.
I walk past the garden hall, where wild blossoms cling to trellised stone and spill their fragrance into the salt-tinged breeze. The scent of jasmine and crushed mint follows me as I step onto the rocky path leading down toward the shore.
The ocean mist hangs low, silvering the morning. Wooden boats bob gently against mooring posts, their sails furled like sleeping wings. Mothers haul dripping nets onto the sand, their skirts damp and faces flushed. Fathers lift baskets of glimmering fish, scales catching the light like scattered coins.
"You are late," a voice calls through the haze.
I barely turn in time to catch the apple flying toward my face.
My sister stands barefoot at the sandy edge of the path, arms crossed, dark curls frizzing in the morning wind. Her grin is wicked. It always is.
"You dreamt of him again, didn't you?" she asks, jumping down beside me.
"How did you know?" I fake a smile and bite into the apple—sour, grounding.
"You always look storm-touched after your dreams," she responds.
I nod.
"Is there too much to do today?" I ask in an attempt to change the subject.
She shrugs, walking beside me as we head to the market square.
"Why do you never want to talk about him?" Amery asks.
I say nothing.
"You know that not talking about it doesn't mean it won't happen," she presses further.
"I wish it weren't me," I respond, breaking the silence.
"Why not? It'd be nice. Better than this muck pit of a village. If a SkyKing came for me, I'd pack before breakfast." She exclaims in a tone that makes me think she wishes my fate.
"We'll never see it the same, Amery," I say, the words catching on something raw.
She doesn't understand me. None of them do. To her, it's a chance—a fairy tale with a crown at the end. But this isn't a story. It's an offering. One year longer of clear skies in exchange for a girl they never truly saw. I've always hated it. I hate it more now that it's my turn.
We walk to the market square in absolute silence. My thoughts scream—you should run away, don't be what they want you to be. I, too, deserve to be myself. The clouds churn above us—fast, electric, listening. It feels like he already knows I am thinking of running. The storm would find me before I even get the chance.
Mother's kiosk comes into view, a crooked stall beneath an awning of wood and sun-bleached cloth. She arranges her wares—herbs, dried sea-grain, bottles of liquid medicine—like it's any other day. As if the world isn't ending for one of us.
She looks unfazed. Composed, even. Her hands move with their usual grace, folding ribbons and counting coins, as though losing a daughter is no more troubling than misplacing a spool of thread.
For a moment, I wonder if she's already mourned me. Or, if I am truly her daughter.
My sister chats with the spice merchant like she doesn't notice the way people glance at me—some with a flick of the eyes, a half-second too long, some with a bolder stare.
"Do you smell that?" I murmur.
She snorts. "If it's Old Lera's smoked eels, don't bother. They're cursed."
It's not fish I am smelling. It's rain—sharp, clean. But no drop falls. The sky holds its breath, as so do I for the rest of the day.
The rest of the morning drifts by like sea mist—here, then gone. Amery and I linger at the stall while Mother slips through the crowd, gathering what we are missing at home: sea salt, flour, thread. My sister charms the baker's son into slipping us extra bread, and for a little while, I almost forget.
Almost.
Liora arrives by midday, bright as dawn itself.
"Ready to say goodbye to Shellmere and your tragic past?" She says with a wicked grin.
"Even for you, that's cruel."
She loops her arm around my neck and pulls me along, steering us toward the arboretum where we first met. We promised ourselves we'd visit one last time—before the storm takes me.
"Don't pout—I'm only saying what everyone else is thinking," she teases. "There's no use denying it anymore. Even the ones who never dared look at you before can't stop staring now."
She's not wrong.
I scan the crowd, searching for Mother. She's at Katrin's stall, picking out rice cakes—my favorite. A peace offering, maybe. Or a farewell gift. I can't be sure. Tears rise, uninvited. I choke them back. We lock eyes for a mere moment. She nods—permission.
"Come on," Liora says, tugging me forward.
I follow her, but the storm follows me faster. Even here—in the arboretum where I once felt safe—it waits to swallow me whole.