"A crown of flowers is still a noose if you never meant to bloom."
— The Last Stormbride's Journal
The path to the arboretum is narrower than I remember.
Vines hang heavily over the stone wall that guards the entrance, their green so deep it nearly glows. Years ago, we used to duck through the broken side gate, chasing each other barefoot, daring one another to step into the pond or steal a petal from the Spirit Tree. I haven't been back since I turned nineteen—since the dreams began two months later.
Liora walks ahead of me, her braid swinging between her shoulder blades, her fingers grazing the blossoms along the wall. Her usual grin has softened, but not disappeared.
"You know," she says, not looking back, "I always imagined we'd be old when we came here for the last time. Wrinkled. Bitter. Married to fishermen we didn't love."
I huff out a breath that might be a laugh. "At least that would've given us more time."
The arboretum opens like a secret held in stone—oval-shaped and quiet, overgrown with wild ivy and crooked walkways. The Spirit Tree stands at the center, still bent to the right side from the storm that broke its top branch when we were children. That was the first time we hid here together, soaked and terrified, holding hands and whispering legends back and forth until the wind passed.
We sit beneath it now, in the spot where the moss is softest. The air smells of old leaves, and something faintly sweet—nectar, maybe. Or goodbye.
"I used to think this place was magic," I whisper.
"It is," Liora says, plucking a petal and holding it between her fingers. "Just not the kind that stops bad things."
I nod, tracing a crack in the stone with my thumb. "Do you remember the story of the bride who ran?"
Liora leans back on her elbows. "The one who leapt from the cliff before the Stormlord could take her?"
"Yes. They say her bones turned to sea-glass, and her voice became wind."
"And they still bring her flowers," Liora finishes, eyes on the distant waves.
We sit in silence for a while. The kind that doesn't beg to be filled. Only shared.
"You're not thinking of doing the same, are you?" she asks at last—voice quieter now—worry softening her edges.
"I won't die today," I answer, and that's enough to ease her, at least for now.
"Do you think they are truly alive," she glances at me again, "the brides?" I ask.
"The elders say they became immortal when they married the Stormlord." She pauses. "That will be your fate, too."
"That's meant to sound like a reward."
"But you've never wanted immortality." It's not a question.
I shake my head.
Liora tilts her head slightly, eyes flicking toward the market square. "Your sister would trade places with you in a heartbeat. She resents that it is you and not her."
"I wouldn't wish this fate on anyone."
Then she shifts, rummages in the pouch at her side, and pulls out something small. A pale ribbon, embroidered with our initials in green thread. The stitches are uneven, frayed on one end.
"I never finished it," she mutters, handing it to me. "Started it last year, thought I'd give it to you for Wintertide. Guess I waited too long."
I take it gently. It's soft and worn and full of every moment we never said aloud.
"Thank you," I murmur.
She shrugs like it doesn't matter, but it does.
"I made the initials green," she adds, looking down. "Like your eyes." The corner of my mouth lifts. A smile—wild and unguarded.
When she stands, I think she's going to say something else. A joke. A warning. Maybe ask me to run away with her. But she just brushes the moss from her tunic and looks at the tree one last time.
"I hate that they think it's an honor," she says. "That they see you as a gift instead of a girl."
I don't trust my voice, so I say nothing.
"You know I would run with you, right?" She says, as I tuck the ribbon into my pocket.
"I know," I whisper. "But you also know that I won't."
She nods, and we leave the garden side by side, saying nothing more. Some goodbyes live best in silence.
We hug as Liora's cottage comes into sight. When we pull apart, she looks at me like she wants to hold on longer. Or maybe it's me, the one holding on.
"You are the bravest person I know, Amarin…"
"You don't know many people," I say, offering a crooked smile.
She narrows her eyes at me, half-teasing, half-scolding. "You are gorgeous. You could make any Stormlord bow to you. Don't let him intimidate you."
But the sorrow threads through every word.
She turns toward the gate that wraps around her cottage garden—wild with color, pulsing with life.
"You'll be the greatest Stormqueen the world has ever seen," she calls over her shoulder.
I walk on alone, past the village's watchful eyes, the weight of the dream pressing behind my ribs. No matter how tightly I try to fold it, it keeps slipping loose.
I should turn back. Head home. But I drift, step by step, away from the trail that leads to the cottage. I fear I'll beg Mother to hide me. That I'll tear the veil like shattered crystal, just to feel in control again. But I am more afraid of what I won't do. I'll follow the destiny Mother crowned me with at five years old.
"You'll be the Stormbride when you turn twenty-one," she said—like it was a birthday promise, not a sentence.
I tried to be the perfect daughter.
The one who follows her heart's content, holding onto the flickering hope that she'd rescue me from the village's eyes—from the curse altogether. No luck in either.
I've always been the eye of the storm—quiet, cursed, the thing people avoided like their lives depended on it.
I follow the cobbled road to the village's edge. Absent-minded, my soul drifting—tucked in that dream I wish I could forget. I veer left—past the edge of the narrow break in the pasture. My boots catch on twisted roots and damp stones. It doesn't matter. The path pulls me—like a memory trying to resurface.
The cliff walk isn't forbidden. Just forgotten. People in Shellmere don't like to look too far out at the sea. It reminds them of how small we are. Of how easily something can rise from the deep and take what it wants.
I climb until the path narrows to a windswept ledge where the grass grows sideways. Below, the waves crash in a rhythm I know too well—rough and patient, like someone knocking.
I sit at the edge, close enough to taste the sea on my lips. The horizon smears in gray, but the clouds haven't yet darkened to the violet that means he's near. I tell myself I still have time. My hands curl around the ribbon in my pocket. I don't pull it out. I just hold it, as if that softness could anchor me.
What would happen if I didn't show up tonight?
What if I took off now—cut through the forest, slipped through the merchant roads, crossed into the valleys beyond? Could I outrun a storm? Out-walk a curse?
Would they come after me?
Would he?
The idea is foolish, I know. No one runs. Not really. The brides who tried never made it far. Their stories end in wind, not freedom. It only means someone else would bear the fate instead. That so-called immortality—so wanted by others—that binds you to the skies. To him.
I hate him with every breath I take. A despicable man—so rotten inside that he can force his curse onto a new woman every year. He calms the storm, then. Not for long, just enough to repeat the cycle.
The sea moans far below, and I imagine myself stepping off the ledge—letting the wind take me, like the bride who became sea-glass and song. An ordinary woman from the nearby village with dreams and a future—cornered by fate, forced to face what she couldn't dare to name.
I wonder if it would hurt. She was braver than I am.
I wonder if he'd stop me. He won't.
I wonder if he'd care. Probably not. He'll move on—to the next so-called bride, wrapped in a fate she didn't ask for.
A thought flashes through, sharp and steady—Amery. A string pulling tight at my heart.
"It's better if it's me," I say to the wind.
Mother will still have her favorite. They'll live their happy, ordinary life—untouched. It's better that the Cracking Field—where the land splits in a lightning circle around the cottage of a newborn—chose me a year before my sister was born. The first in our village in over a century. And the last seen in any of the surrounding villages.
A gull shrieks overhead, snapping the thought in two. I press my palm to my chest, where the ache lives now. Not just fear. Not just dread.
Longing.
For what, I can't name. For whom—I already know.
I rise slowly. The wind fights me as I stand. It always does when I think about running. Like, even the wind whispers his name when I think of leaving.
The cliffs give no answers. They only listen.
So I walk back the way I came.
✦ ✦ ✦
I swing the door open. Decisive. Intentional. I won't let her feel my pain. I'll bury it deep—at least until I'm far from here. From the village that watched me be born… and chose to forget me.
I already know what awaits me, even before I reach the door to my shabby little chamber. Even that was a distinction. A message. She left me in the smaller room, as if I'd never meant to stay. As if I never belonged long enough to stay.
She's laid everything out. The attire—the veil.
It lies at the edge of the bed like it knows what's coming. White. Simple. Beside it, a creamy dress, tightly folded, like a sentence waiting to be read.
Amery pushes open the door like it's her room. "Do you want help dressing?" she asks.
"No, I can do it myself."
My voice leaves no room. And I see in her eyes—she gets it.
"I'll be outside waiting. Mother will be here soon," she says, hovering.
Then softer. "She went to get your flower crown."
"I don't need a flower crown to step into a storm." The words come out like breath.
"It's tradition, Amarin."
"Right," I murmur, breaking eye contact as I reach for the dress.
"I am excited to see him," she blurts. "I'm dying to know what he looks like!"
I freeze. "I'll be surprised if he actually shows himself this time," I mutter.
Either she doesn't hear me… or she pretends not to.
"Anyway, hurry up. Do you want something to eat? Mother brought rice cakes from Katrin's stall," she adds, already halfway out the door.
"I don't think I can eat."
"You're right, I wouldn't be able to eat either."
She grins, something like awe in her voice. "Even his name is nerve-rocking," her eyes lighting up. "You do know his name, right?" Actual curiosity now.
"Amery, I need to change. Please." I don't mean to sound so tired. But I do.
"Okay," she says, finally stepping out.
She closes the door behind her—leaving only silence and me. I wait a few heartbeats. Just in case she comes back.
Then I breathe.
Fear creeps in. The room feels smaller than a moment ago. The veil brightens the room. It stares at me—pale, patient. I hate that it's white—like surrendering to something I never had the chance to refuse. A peace offering. Even now, wrapped in cloth.
I change my blue tunic for the cream dress—tight at the waist, delicate at the hem. My movements are fluid—mechanic. Unwilling. It wraps me like a gift no one truly wants to open. My fingers—hesitant—reach for the veil. It's softer than I expected. Cold. Not like wind, but silence. Waiting. I press it to my chest, desperate to feel something. Anything.
I think of the girls before me. Did they cry? Did they ever think—not just for a moment—but truly believe… that they could say no? I didn't. I've known, since the sky cracked and named me, that I was never going to live a life that was mine.
Some might have been like Amery—ready to leap, eager to be chosen.
I run my fingers along the embroidered edge of the veil. Someone stitched it with care—probably Mother, or one of the elders. The stitches are too perfect. I want to tear them. But I don't. I stay there. Grieving. Quietly. Deeply.
I stand to feel the breeze from the window, veil in my hand. Not moving. Not crying. Just listening to the hum in my bones that says: He's already on his way.
A knock interrupts the silence.
"Are you ready?" Mother's voice—cool and composed.
"Come in," I say, already resigned to finishing this.
If she disposed of me this coldly, she doesn't deserve my pain.
"You look stunning," she says—the only compliment she's ever given me, as far as I can remember.
I glare at her, raw and silent.
"I know, you always felt out of place…"
"You made me feel like I didn't belong."
She sits beside me. "You'll understand one day."
"What am I supposed to understand?" My voice cracks—thin with anger.
She doesn't answer. Instead, she takes my hands, placing the flower crown in them. She unties my braid. My hair spills down my back, a dark cascade brushing my waist.
Still, I sit here.
She places the veil. The crown. Even powders my cheeks, dabs a red tint on my lips. Paints me like a sacrifice.
"You're ready." She says with a nod.
I glance at the mirrored door of the armoire. The girl looking back is only a shadow of me. A speckle. A trace.
Dusk creeps into the sky. The sea mist rises over the horizon beyond my window. I feel the air shift—he's closer. And I promise myself, today is the last day. The last day I am a shell for anyone.
I may not have chosen this fate. But I will choose what I become inside it.