"The veil is not a vow. It is a warning."
— Storm Verses, Broken Entry, Line 13
They're all at the beach.
Gathered around the rising pile of wood as if to summon the storm god himself. More of them than I've ever seen—not even when the village chief's daughter married that Crucien warrior. A sea of faces, lit by lanterns and held lightning. Expectant. Thrilled, even. As if this were a celebration, not a sentencing.
Small flower crowns—meant to honor the new queen-to-be—adorn every doorway in the village. Lanterns of all sizes line the pavement, lighting what the sun has quietly left untouched.
With every step I take toward the fire, another piece of me breaks.
I've never walked this path before. Not like this. My stride is precise—mechanical—but careful. As if I'm afraid to disturb even the sand beneath my boots. As if weakness might leak through the soles.
I don't want to look like a sacrifice. But it's hard to be anything else when that's all you are.
Now I understand why she ran. Why she leapt into the ocean as if it could save her.
My steps make no sound. Even the creaking boardwalk—the narrow trail leading to the fire pit—stays quiet beneath me. The sky hums above, tense and breathless. No one speaks. Not my mother, walking several paces ahead. Not Amery, practically skipping beside me.
I curl my hands into the creamy folds of my dress. Gripping the fabric, grounding myself. Holding on to something, anything, that might keep me from fleeing into the waves.
We're closer now. Too close. Terrifyingly close.
Symbols—carved into the sand—form runes at my feet. Shapes I don't understand. I'm certain only the elders know its meaning. Maybe the next in line to be chief. Two massive crowns lay in the sand. One drapes across the rocks near the woodpile. The other connects to it in a beautiful altar—worthy of a Stormbride. Or an offering.
Smaller crowns circle the elders like halos. Even strangers from the neighboring village came to watch. All wait for the show. For the storm. For my downfall.
Then I see her.
Liora.
Standing just beyond the shrine. Her eyes meet mine, heavy with sorrow. And in them, I see everything I fear about my future.
I step forward—into the altar's center. A ring crown of the largest flowers, lying on the sand. My boots touch its edge, and the clouds stir.
He knows I'm ready.
The Veilbind Rite has begun.
The last beam of sunlight—clinging to the horizon—triggers the elders' chant. No words. Just tones. Ancient and mournful. My heart knocks against my ribs, louder than the hum. Every eye is on me. Every breath held. The veil stirs around my shoulders as if caught in a current I cannot see. The sound rises with the vanishing light.
Mother stands beyond the circle, unmoving.
Amery clasps her hands beneath her chin, wide-eyed and thrilled in the way only the unchosen can be.
I want to disappear.
Darkness consumes the ground. Rain falls—light at first, then heavy, as if the sky has been holding its cry for too long. Lightning flashes. The tide—rising fast—nearly touches the bound crowns.
Thunder.
Louder this time.
Gasps echo.
Then the thickest bolt I've ever seen cleaves the sky and strikes the crown altar. A direct hit. Fire erupts from the twin crowns, the scent of ozone and smoke clashing in the air. The chant rises again, woven with the smoke, curling upward like a summons to something greater.
Elder Marin steps forward, robes dragging through the sand. His voice cuts through the flame.
"The sea does not weep for the chosen," he intones. "The sky does not wait. It takes what it is owed."
He pauses.
"She is not ours to keep," he says. "The storm has spoken."
The fire cracks again—a sharp pop, like the tremble in my chest. A sound that echoes what I cannot say. Flame stretches toward the crown circling me. Wind coils around my ankles—light as ribbon—then climbs my spine as if it knows me. My hair lifts. The veil flutters.
The fire keeps burning—even in the rain.
The scent is metal and memory. It burns my lungs, then vanishes, leaving a familiar heat pulsing on my skin. For a moment, I can't breathe.
My skin prickles.
The mark on my collarbone beneath the cloth fabric ignites—stinging, alive.
I feel a rebellion awakening inside me. Quiet, but violent. Like it's been waiting twenty-one years to be heard.
The wind shifts.
The chant stops.
He's coming.
Black curls and veil whipping.
Air scenting with burned salt.
Thunder splits the air—so loud, I flinch. A flash of lightning strikes the sea, illuminating the coastline in ghost light. Villagers gasp—some falling to their knees. The tide pulls back like a breath drawn deep.
Then, he steps from the mist.
At first, he's only a shadow. Then, a shape.
And then—him.
The Stormlord.
He walks across the water like it's stone. His cloak billows like smoke—ink-black, rimmed with silver flame. His hair is white as winter, falling just past his shoulders like it, too, obeys no law but his. But it's his eyes that stop time—silver, burning with memory.
For the first time since the dreams began, he is real.
The crowd parts. The storm parts. He doesn't look at the elders. Or the fire. Or even the sky, he commands. He looks at me.
My breath falters. My knees threaten to buckle. But I stand.
He stops at the edge of the flower ring. A heartbeat. Another.
"Amarin," he says.
Just that. But the way he says it—like a promise. A prayer. A possession. The sea sighs behind him.
"I told you, you'd be in my hands," he murmurs, voice like thunder, soft and final. "And here you are."
I lift my chin.
"And you dare to actually show yourself," I say.
His lips curve—just a little. A stormborn smirk. He reaches forward. Not rushed. Not demanding. Just a hand, palm up. An invitation cloaked as a command.
"Come."
Everything in me screams not to.
And everything in me steps forward.
As I do, the altar's fire extinguishes—snuffed out in a single breath of wind, as if the storm itself approves. My hand meets his, and the sky erupts. Thunder answers like a drumbeat. Lightning spills across the clouds in jagged celebration.
Shivers race down my spine. His touch is real. Too real. Stronger than in dreams. Immersive, searing. Fingers wrap around mine like the storm wrapped in lace. Steady. Inevitable.
He's tall—taller than any mortal man should be. My head tilts back just to meet his eyes. His silver eyes locked on me—searching, knowing, as if they could see not just who I am, but everything I've ever hidden. His breath brushing my cheek—closer than air has any right to be.
I want to run.
My heart slams against my ribs. My body aches for something it doesn't understand. I wait—for Mother's rescue, for the villagers' protection. But no one dares to move, to do anything but stare. Not one soul interferes with a god's chosen moment.
"Are you ready to leave?" he asks—his voice low, quiet, urgent.
I turn.
The crowd glows in the after-light, watching him, not me. As if I'm already gone. Amery stands frozen, eyes wide with awe, like she's looking at the moon in human form. Mother stares ahead, unreadable—her gaze holding no softness, only distance. Acceptance. Liora's cheeks are wet with something more than rain. She smiles—small, trembling—as if that might calm the storm in me.
It doesn't. It breaks me further.
"Give me a moment," I say—my voice softer than I want it to be.
He frowns—subtle, but clear. Disapproval etched into the curve of his mouth, as if I were a gift just unwrapped, only to be snatched away.
"Please," I add, breath catching. "This is the last time I'll see them."
A pause. Then, he nods—slowly. Reluctantly. His fingers release mine. And my body protests the loss. Like something sacred has been torn away too soon. The place where his hand touched mine still burns—bright and hollow all at once.
I step forward.
The storm doesn't vanish, but it pulls ever so slightly away—as if giving me space. As if it, too, were waiting.
I turn to the faces I know better than my own. To Amery, still breathless with wonder. To Mother, who looks at me not like a daughter, but like a completed ritual. And to Liora, who sees through all of it—and sees me.
I want to tell her everything. That I'm terrified—angry. That I'll hate to love someone who doesn't know how to love me back. That I'll fight love like it's fatal. Because, for me, maybe it is.
But I don't speak. She already knows.
Amery grabs me in a jolt—arms thrown around my waist before I can brace for it. I feel the sudden tremble beneath her skin, the shiver in her breath. I know silver eyes are piercing her—just as they pierced me. And a moment later, it's gone—buried beneath her grin.
"You're so lucky," she says, smile bright, eyes full of stars. "He's the most handsome man this village has ever seen."
And I hate that she's not wrong.
Before I can answer, Mother steps forward—calm, composed—placing a hand on Amery's shoulder and sliding her aside.
"She has to go," she says. Final. Unyielding.
Then, she taps my shoulder. A sigh. And I see it—relief. Not sorrow. Not pride. Just the weight leaving her body, as if she's already closed the chapter of me.
My heart shatters into powder. Too fine to ever piece back together.
I step away—one breath, then another.
But Liora is there. She moves between me and Mother, shielding me like she always has. Her hands trace up my arms to my shoulders—slow, grounding, real.
"I wish I could go in your place," she whispers.
And I know she means it.
I nod, then fold myself into her. Our embrace is fierce—tight enough to hold me here if only time would pause. But it doesn't. The scent of the storm returns, wrapping around us. Charged. Electric. Waiting.
"Help me look after them," I whisper, voice unsteady.
"You don't have to say it," she says through a swallowed sob. "I promise."
Behind me, I hear him shift—boots brushing sand, cloak rustling like thunder about to unfurl. I pull back, just slightly, and press my forehead to hers.
"I'll be back," I whisper, a lie—a hope, a prayer.
She nods and lets me go.
And just like that, I step into the storm.