"Power does not awaken gently. It breaks first."
— Archivist's Notes, Book of Unraveling Storms
The world tilts, and the Skycastle groans beneath my feet. The storm howls—violent, alive—rattling the crystal walls and screaming through the stonecloud arches. Courtiers stumble, silver-cloaked and shaken. Whispers splinter into gasps, panic rippling beneath the silence they've mastered for centuries. Their gazes twist, sharpen—turning on me.
The mark on my collarbone pulses—hot, unbearable. It burns like lightning caught beneath my skin. I gasp. My knees fold. His arms catch me before the floor can.
"Easy," he murmurs, voice low and rough. "I've got you."
I'm too dizzy to pull away. Too dizzy to want to.
"What is happening, Stormlord?" a cloaked figure demands, stepping forward.
"Calm the storm, please!" cries another voice, panicked and close.
"Why is it so uncontrollable?"
"Please. Make it stop!"
"The kingdom will suffer consequences!"
"This is unacceptable!"
For one long heartbeat, all I hear are their voices. For another, he's the only thing holding me together. Anchoring me.
"Stop!" he commands—loud, sharp. Authority woven into one syllable.
Silence slams down.
"Amarin… Amarin," he calls to me—softer now.
And then, darkness.
Velasyr watches her fall. And realizes, too late, that the storm no longer belongs to him.
✦ ✦ ✦
Velasyr's POV: The Tempestrium
Amarin—what's wrong with you? Why is she so different from the others?
I can't stop replaying what happened when she entered the castle. The storm stopped being mine to control. It became hers. She was the one stirring it.
It's too early. Could it be true?
Even alone, I can't find a moment of peace. I close my eyes, just for a breath. Amarin hasn't woken. The court is restless. The storm—now half mine, half hers. My head throbs.
"Velasyr, what is going on? Why isn't she awake yet?"
Tristen bursts into the Tempestrium like it's his own chamber. I exhale through my nose, pinching the bridge of it. I may need to remind him to whom he's speaking. He doesn't wait for an answer. He paces, boots scuffing across the storm-etched floor.
"The court's panicking. Half the kingdom felt that surge. They think she caused it. They think she's dangerous."
"Keep your voice down," I say flatly. "My head is pounding."
He turns, brows drawn. "Did you stay there, watching her sleep the whole time?"
"Mmm." I lift my gaze to meet his.
Tristen scoffs, hands on hips. "So?"
"I didn't want her to wake up alone," I say, rising. My voice isn't loud. But it carries enough weight to silence the wind clawing at the walls.
A beat of silence.
Tristen shakes his head slowly. "That's new for you."
I cross the chamber to the arched cloudstone window, where lightning dances faintly in the distance.
"I need to calm the court," I say. "They can't know she's awaking already."
His voice softens—just slightly. "Do you think she could break it?"
My hand curls on the windowsill.
"She might."
A long stretch of quiet.
"She doesn't know," I say finally.
"What do you mean?"
"She thought I had a harem—thousands of brides."
A laugh escapes him. I turn and walk back toward him, my eyes narrowing.
Tristen straightens under my gaze. "Sorry," he blurts. "It's just—been centuries since someone has come without knowing what happens after the ceremony."
"It surprised me, too," I admit. "I suspect the elders kept it from her. Maybe from everyone."
"But why?"
"She's… furious. If she had known, she might have rebelled."
"You think?" Tristen frowns. "Most come willingly. And the rest fall for you in days—willing to do anything to break the curse."
"She's not like them."
I pause. The words weigh heavier than I expected. "Our dreams started the moment the last queen…" I glance away. "You know."
Tristen stiffens. "That's strange. It's never happened before."
"And now," I say slowly, "she's awakening—without even being bound to me."
His eyes narrow. "That shouldn't be possible."
"I know." My voice is low, but sharp. "The storm listens to her. And whatever happened back there… it wasn't just emotion. It was power. And it wasn't mine."
"You think she's really… the one?"
"I don't know what I think," I admit, jaw clenched. "But if she is—if she really is—then… I'm going to have to keep lying to her."
Tristen doesn't speak for a moment. Just stares, the stormlight catching the edge of his expression. Not surprised. But not at ease, either.
"She won't take it well," Tristen says finally. "When she finds out."
"She might kill us in her storm if we do," I reply, more bitterly than I intended. "I still have a headache from trying to control it."
"I think that's more from watching her sleep," he mutters, smirking.
I don't answer. Because maybe he's not wrong. Maybe the ache is less from the storm and more from something I don't have a name for.
We spend the afternoon adjusting the budget to repair Amarin's damage in the town. Windows shattered. Stormveins cracked. A wind tower nearly split in half. All from a girl who hasn't even been bound to me yet.
My head still pulses. The pressure behind my eyes hasn't eased since the moment she stepped into the Skycastle.
Tristen mutters something about rerouting stormflow to the lower terraces, but I barely register it. The moment I close my eyes, I see her—veiled in lightning, stumbling in my arms, the storm answering her instead of me. That should terrify me.
It doesn't.
It fascinates me. Anchors me in a way nothing has for centuries. Not even when the curse first began. Not even when the first brides walked willingly into the storm.
A knock interrupts the quiet.
One of the outer servants—face lowered, voice composed—clears their throat. "My lord. The court is waiting for you."
Of course they are.
I press two fingers to my temple, drawing in a sharp breath. "Let them wait another minute."
We head toward the Stormhall, crossing the narrow bridge that links the Tempest Wing—my refuge, and now Amarin's—to the formal heart of the castle. My steps are slow. Heavy. The storm can feel my depletion. I'm barely keeping it at bay.
At the gates, I stop. One breath. Then two.
"She should've woken by now," I murmur.
Tristen leans beside me, arms crossed. "Almost a full day."
"She's not immortal," I say, eyes fixed on the doors—robust, storm-carved. "Not yet. None of them ever made it that far."
"Who knows if she ever will," he mumbles.
I nod once, then straighten. "Go to the lower town. Find a healer—one who won't ask questions, who doesn't know her name, or expect a royal summons. Tell them a noble guest is unwell and needs discretion. Nothing more."
Tristen arches a brow. "You're bringing in someone from outside?"
"I'm not letting her die in this castle before we even know what she's capable of."
"She'd like that," he mutters, a faint grin forming. "Being the first to make you break the rules."
I don't answer. I look at him.
"Alright, alright. I'm going," he says, sighing. "Are you sure you don't want backup in there? They won't take your word at face value."
"Oh, they will." I step toward the court doors. "Just don't let anyone see you."
He nods once, then disappears down the corridor.
I enter without glancing around. I pause for no one. My footsteps strike louder than their whispers. They quiet the moment I reach the end of the hall. My reflection flickers in the stormglass behind my throne—distorted by arcs of pale lightning trapped in the glass. The air hums with expectation. Centuries of it.
They'll ask about the storm. They'll question her. They'll doubt me.
And I will lie.
Because it's the only way to shield her long enough to find out if she can break the curse.
I lower myself into the throne. Chin lifted. Their eyes pierce into me—measuring not truth, but convenience.
A cough breaks the silence.
Then—Lord Thalren speaks. Always first. Always sharp.
"We felt the surge from the Hollow Ridges to the Drift Isles. Is your control slipping through, my Lord?"
"I can assure you it is not, Lord Thalren." My voice cuts cleanly through the Stormhall. Then I add, with deliberate resonance: "And it is Stormlord for this court."
The shift is immediate. Stances straighten. Eyes lower—just slightly. Enough.
"She collapsed upon entering," Lady Rhenel says next, her voice as chill as the sconces glinting behind her. "And we all saw how the storm reacted to her presence. It was… unexpected."
A wave of murmurs follows—courtiers shifting like windblown leaves, whispering behind silver-draped sleeves and storm-gilded collars. The air thickens. So does my temper. The stir in the air mirrors the one in me. A warning pulse beneath my skin. I clench my jaw.
The storm will help me remind them of their place. I only pray I have enough strength to wield it back down. So, I let go.
Not all of it. Just enough.
The walls tremble. Wind howls through the arches above, rattling glass sconces and sweeping down in a spiral that ripples cloaks and extinguishes flame. Thunder snarls—not distant, not delayed—but immediate. Present.
A low, rising roar—the storm's true voice, unshackled—fills the Stormhall.
Voices stop. Feet step back. Eyes widen. Fear settles in the room like mist. Only then do I speak, each word like thunder cracked into syllables.
"She wasn't the one stirring the storm." Final. Unflinching.
I rise from my throne, gaze steady and cold.
"As you all know, the last queen was here for only two months." I let the pause hang just long enough—then cut it short before the questions begin. "It has been a long time since I stood in the presence of a bride. Longer than ever. My instincts… may have reacted wildly. I'm sure you understand."
The storm obeys that lie. Slowly. The wind stills. The glass stops shivering. But not before sweat curls down my spine. It's costing me. More than I expected. I can't show it. So, I straighten further.
Silence thickens. Folds in on itself. I let it settle like a final warning.
"She will be your queen in a moon's cycle. You will speak of her with respect—or not at all."
No one dares to reply. I let them feel the weight of it. Then—"Now, if this was all you summoned me for..."
A cough. Then Lord Thalren again, his tone careful now. Measured.
"Stormlord… the town needs funds for repairs due to…" He falters.
"And it will receive them," I interrupt. "But those funds will go through the town council. Not through this court. I'm sure you understand."
A beat.
"Of course, Stormlord." He bows.
Another voice rises from the circle—this one softer, but pointed.
"Stormlord... has she awakened?"
It's a simple question. But it lands like a blade drawn too close to the heart of truth. I pause. Let the silence stretch just enough to make them wonder.
"She has indeed," I say, voice level. "And I will join her now."
A faint stir in the wind. The storm is listening.
"My queen-to-be has waited long enough."
I step down from the dais. One foot, then the other. Controlled. But I feel it—the strain beneath my ribs. The storm hasn't calmed, not really. Not fully. It only bowed for a moment. And even now, it coils along the arches, alive and growing restless again. I can't hold it much longer. Not without her.
The doors open before I reach them. I don't look back. Let them wonder. Let them fear. The only thing that matters now is her.
I leave the Stormhall without another word. The doors close behind me like the sealing of judgment. The air outside is colder—hungrier. Wind brushes along the crystal walls, whispering her name beneath its breath.
Amarin.
I cross the bridge back to the Tempest Wing. My steps quicken. Every second I've spent away from her has tightened the storm's grip on this place. It's no longer just mine. It's hers too. And it knows I left her behind.
By the time I reach her chambers, the sconces along the walls flicker wildly. The shadows are restless, dancing in rhythms even I don't command. I place a hand against the door. Not to open it. To steady myself. The bond is pulling tighter. Stronger. Too soon. Too fast.
I push the door open.
She's still in the bed, unmoving, but power hums near her skin—unseen, unspent. The air around her crackles faintly. Her hair spills over the pillow like ink across snow. I step closer. The storm hums in greeting. And something within her responds.
"Amarin," I whisper. Not a command. Not a title. Just her name.
Her fingers twitch. A breath catches in my throat. She doesn't wake. Neither with my voice nor with the crackle of the storm whispering her name. Not even as the skies churn, half her heartbeat now.
I exhale quietly and move closer. The chamber darkens, the sconces dimming to a softer blue, as if even the walls know she needs quiet now.
I sit at the edge of the bed. Then lie beside her—carefully. Not touching. Not yet. Just close enough to feel the heat pulsing from her skin. The storm calms around us. But not within me.
I watch her face, carved in moonlight and shadow. She's softer like this. Unarmored. But not weak. Never that. Her lips part slightly with sleep. Her brows still furrowed. Even in unconsciousness, she's fighting something. Maybe me. Maybe herself. Maybe everything.
I close my eyes for a moment, trying to slow the ache inside my chest. But it doesn't work. I open them again, and she's still there. Still not mine.
And gods help me—I want her.
Not like before. Not like the others. This want is sharp. Whole. It sinks its teeth into the parts of me that have been dead for centuries.
I want her fire. Her fury. Her voice when she's spitting venom in my direction. I want the way she flinches when she lies, and how her fingers tremble when she's afraid, but won't let it show.
She's chaos. And I have only ever worshiped order. Until now.
My fingers twitch. I don't let them reach for her. Not yet. She hasn't chosen this. Not fully. Not truly. And if she ever does… it must be hers.
But still, I stay beside her. Listening to her breath. To the storm that breathes with her. And I let myself wish—for just a moment—that she'll stay.
Even if it ruins me.