"The storm does not love gently. It tests what you cling to—and takes the rest."
— Whispers of the Fourth Bride, sealed scrolls beneath the Tempestrium
When I wake, the world is quieter. No flower crowns. No storm carriage. No watchful court.
Only storm-lit shadows curl along the walls of a vast chamber carved from mist and stone. The storm outside holds its breath, and the wind flickers the candle by the bed.
The bed beneath me is too wide. The sheets, too soft. The air, too thick—laced with the taste of lightning.
I sit up slowly—my heart pounds in my ears. My throat is dry.
Moonlight spills through a crystal-paneled wall on my left, catching on white fabric folded neatly at the foot of the bed—my veil and dress. The same ones I wore when I arrived. I glance down—different fabric clings to my skin. A white cotton tunic, laced at the collarbone and cuffs.
Who changed me? It couldn't have been him. Could it?
My fingers trail over the mark beneath the fabric. It doesn't burn anymore. I exhale—a small, quiet relief. My hand moves slowly, instinctively, to my wrist. The ribbon is still there—Liora's ribbon. Pale green, frayed at the edge, tied in a crooked knot. My anchor. Proof I am not fully his. Not yet.
Memories crash over me in fragments. The village. Their eyes—on me, then on him. Storm. Lightning. Wind. Mother. Amery. Liora.
Are they worried? Or, have they already moved on, as if I were never there?
Those black-robed figures—silver-trimmed—watching, judging. The sky splitting open. And him. His touch—real. Too real. I can't think about him.
I won't.
I hate him; I chant silently. I hate him, I hate him.
But the warmth still lingers.
"It's just the bond," I whisper. "It's not real. None of it is." But my hands tremble.
What happened back there? What was that surge?
"As if I were the one provoking it," I mutter—to no one
A voice stirs from the corner. Low. Cool.
"You seem to like talking to yourself."
I freeze.
"Who's there?"
But I already know.
That voice—like a blade kissed by snow. Detached. Unmoved. Him.
From the shadows, a shape rises—sharpening into form as it steps into the moonlight. Hair tousled but deliberately brushing his shoulders. Silver eyes gleaming. A cream shirt hangs open at the collar, laces untied. Dark pants. Bare feet.
The Stormlord—and I hate that I'm memorizing the map of him—unbothered and effortless.
He's been here. All along. Watching me. Waiting.
His eyes—unapologetically silver—glint as they scan me, not hurriedly, but like a man reading the weather before it breaks.
"You're awake," he says, low and certain. As if he knew the moment I stirred.
I don't answer. My throat is too dry. My thoughts, too loud. My nerves, already stirring. It's always the same when he's close.
Something flickers near the window—barely visible. A sliver of shadow shivers, then retreats. The air around the room tightens. The candle flickers. My mind spirals—like mist caught in the wind.
He notices it. His gaze shifts toward it, then back to me. One brow lifts. "Still storm-touched, I see."
I grip the edge of the sheet. "I didn't ask to be."
"No," he says, stepping closer, bare feet silent on the cloudstone floor. "But the storm doesn't ask for permission. It takes."
"You would know," I spit.
That gets a reaction—barely. A faint tightening of the jaw. His hands stay at his sides, but I sense the tension in his shoulders, coiled like wind about to turn violent.
He walks toward me.
"Did you change my clothes?" I ask abruptly.
He stops close. Not even a breath away now. His voice is careful.
"No."
"Then who did?"
"A maid."
I nod slowly. "It's still night. How close are we to dawn?" I ask, glancing toward the glass wall.
"You've been sleeping for two days, Amarin." He pauses. "It's almost midnight."
"Two nights?" My voice spikes—sharp, disbelieving.
"A healer came from the lower part of the city. Discreet."
"A healer?" I echo, eyes narrowing.
He arches a brow. "Are you going to keep echoing everything I say?"
I tilt my head. "Why a healer? Am I not immortal? Is this not… normal?"
His eyes flash—not with anger, but something else. Pain, maybe. Regret. Or something colder, carved deeper.
"I told you," he says, voice low now. "You'll be granted immortality if you can take me for a year."
I snap. "And what if I can't?" I swallow hard. "Can I go back to my life? To my village?"
Hope sparks—wild, reckless, and foolish—in my chest.
He moves closer. The air shifts. Not wind. Pressure.
"That is no longer possible," he says. "You can only be mine… or the storm's."
"What if I choose the storm?"
"You'll die at its hands," he answers—too quickly. Too defensively.
"Did all the others choose you?" I ask, quieter now.
"Yes."
"I think you want someone to suffer with you."
He stares for a long moment. The storm moves in his eyes—silver, restless, endless. Then, barely a breath, "That was never my intention."
The words tighten something in my chest. I hate that they do.
I turn away, pulling the sheets up to my waist like they might shield me from him, or the storm gathering between us.
"What did the healer say? Why did I sleep so long?" My voice comes out like a question meant only for the dark.
He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he moves toward the bed and lowers himself onto the edge—close, but not quite touching.
"He said you were exhausted." A pause. "And resisting the bond."
"What do you mean?"
"You haven't been sleeping. You kept me out—for four nights—even in dreams." His eyes darken. "You'd rather stare into the sky than dream of me."
He leans in closer—too close. A breath away.
"Do I scare you, Amarin Stormborne?"
After a long silence, I pull back slightly.
"Where would I go after the year?" My voice is steadier than I expected.
He exhales softly, as if the question wears on him.
"Why do you keep thinking a year ahead," he murmurs, "instead of here… now?"
"Because I'd rather know where I'll be spending an unwanted eternity." I need to know which cage I'm being asked to love.
His jaw tenses.
"You could stay here," he says at last.
"Didn't you say you don't have a harem?"
"I don't. I didn't mean it like that."
"Then how?"
He hesitates—then, quieter than before: "As my queen."
A laugh breaks from my chest before I can stop it. Bitter and sharp.
He narrows his eyes at me, the almost-smile faltering.
"Velasyr." His name tastes like lightning on my tongue—burnt sugar and ash.
The corner of his mouth curves—just slightly. Not quite a smile. Not quite a warning.
"I like my name on your lips."
That makes me flinch. I don't want to know what it does to me. I shake it off before it sinks. Before he can keep deflecting my questions.
"I want to meet the others—the ones who came before me." I glance outside.
"That's not possible." No space for questioning in his tone.
"Why not?" I press.
"You can meet them in a year if you don't want to stay." He commands.
Anger fills me. Hums low, like thunder beneath my skin. The candle on the bedside table shuts off. He notices my emotions rising. I see his expression soften. Not much, but enough for me to notice.
His hand rises, tracing the edge of my cheek like he's trying to memorize it. The warmth of his skin sinks beneath mine, electric. I want to retreat. I don't want to crave a man who gives half-answers, half-love—all curse.
He leans in, forehead brushing mine. Lingers there. My breath catches.
"You don't know how much I want you, do you?" he murmurs.
He doesn't blink. Doesn't smile. His voice is windless. Real. The words thread through me—low, fragile, dangerous. I freeze. I can't move. What kind of spell can make me this soft? He only wants a prisoner—I remind myself.
Then he leans in—closer.
I pull away. Swift.
My heart pounds like a broken drum.
He stills, his hand still hovering. His forehead pressed lightly to my hairline. An exhale. Disappointment. And then—distance.
He pulls back. Stands.
"I'll let you rest," he says, voice rough now, and walks away.
His footsteps stretch—long, quiet… gone. Only then do I breathe again. I hadn't even realized I was holding my breath. I sink back into the pillows, breathing hard. Wind rustles the curtains—and something in me, too. And I stay there, drawing in a sea of wonder.