"A child born in silence will one day teach the wind how to speak."
— Old Shellmere Proverb
The Stormhall looks bigger now. Wider. More merciless. Eyes narrow at me from every angle—disapproving, dissecting. He walks behind me. I walk ahead. I want to run. But I don't. My posture remains tall, my chin lifted—but inside, a storm claws at its chains.
The veilglass gates slide open as I approach, as if afraid to touch me. Even the halls feel altered. Less like stone, more like something holding its breath. The air darkens, light bleeding from blue to pewter to ash as I pass. The architecture tenses. So do I.
I clench my fists. Then reach beneath my sleeve—to the ribbon. To home. To me.
But I don't know who this person is—this girl walking between lightning-veined walls. I don't recognize her. And the pulsing in my collarbone… it isn't mine. It beats with a rhythm I never chose. A rhythm that feels like someone—or something—else entirely.
"Amarin."
His voice cuts through the corridor. I don't stop.
"Amarin."
Still, I walk. The storm inside me crackles louder than his voice. The halls pulse with color—deepening into bruised violet, then steel. Stormveins tremble faintly in the walls. Even the shadows feel like they're watching us.
"Stop," he says softly, not like a command. Not like a plea.
I don't.
His steps quicken. And then—his hand grazes my arm. Just enough to make me turn.
I whip around. "What?"
Velasyr doesn't flinch. His silver gaze locks onto mine with something unreadable behind it. Regret? Restraint? Or worse—concern.
"You shouldn't have walked out like that," he says, voice low.
"Then what?" I snap. "Stay there as a puppet? Center of attention for something I'm not even aware of?"
He glances over his shoulder. Footsteps. Slow. Steady. Measured.
A man approaches from the shadows—storm-gray clothes, short blond curls catching hints of silver from the walllight, eyes sharp and cautious. He says nothing as he joins us, but his presence feels like a warning. Or a shield.
Velasyr's jaw tightens, but he doesn't argue.
"I'll walk her to her room," the man says, voice clipped.
Velasyr hesitates—but then nods once.
For a moment, he just watches me. That same unreadable expression.
"I'll come for you at dinner," he says.
Then turns away. His footsteps retreat into silence. And I breathe again.
We walk in silence.
The man says nothing at first—just stays half a step behind, like he's measuring how far I'll let him close. His boots make less noise than Velasyr's, but there's a certainty to his steps. Grounded. Watchful. Like someone who knows what storms can do if you turn your back on them.
I keep my gaze forward. My pulse still unsettled. I don't owe this stranger anything—not words, not trust. But when we reach the turn toward the east wing, he finally speaks.
"You move like someone who's been trained to hide fear," he says. Not an accusation. Just an observation.
I glance sideways. "And you talk like someone who likes to test people."
That earns a faint smile. "Not a test. Just a habit."
We stop at a branching corridor. The light here is dimmer, cast through stone-slashed glass. Shadows stretch longer, like they're listening.
"I'm Tristen," he says at last, inclining his head slightly. "Captain of the Skyguard. I answer to him… when he lets me."
I don't respond right away.
"Why follow orders you don't believe in?"
He doesn't blink. "Who says I don't believe in them?"
"You don't strike me as the kind of person who bonds easily to rules."
"You're observant, too, Stormbride."
"Amarin," I say. "Please."
He smirks. "I can't call you by name without his permission."
I exhale. "Then, 'my lady,' if you must."
A pause. Then, quieter: "Why do you believe in him?"
"Because storms don't wait for loyalty," he says. "They just break things."
A strange silence stretches between us. Not heavy. Not warm. Just... balanced. Like a scale waiting to tip.
We start walking again. And though we say nothing more, I file away his name. Tristen. Captain. Measured. And maybe not as loyal as he pretends.
The rest of the walk is quiet. The kind of quiet that has nothing to do with peace.
The Skycastle's halls seem narrower now, shadows clinging tighter to the seams of its architecture. Every step echoes like a warning, like the storm is whispering something I haven't yet earned the right to hear.
Tristen stops just before the arched door of my room. He doesn't bow. Doesn't smile. Just nods once and says, "You're safe here."
Safe.
I don't know what that means anymore.
He turns before I can ask. His footsteps vanish into the misting light of the corridor. I'm left alone with the hum of cloudstone and the quiet pulse of something that no longer feels like mine.
I step inside. The door closes behind me with a soft hiss. It's the same room I woke in—but it feels different now. The light, more diluted. The air, charged. The bed still made, the gown from earlier folded across a low bench. The chair where Velasyr once sat is empty, but I can almost feel the shape of him in the silence he left behind.
I move toward the mirror without meaning to. The reflection stares back—painted lips faded, braids unraveling, silver-threaded gown rumpled from a day I never agreed to live.
And beneath the fabric, the itch.
I reach for my collarbone. The mark pulses once—sharp and quick, like a heartbeat out of rhythm. My breath catches.
"What are you?" I whisper.
No answer. Just a breeze curling through the high windows, brushing the stormglass with a sound like wings dragging across stone.
I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, hands clenched together. I don't cry. I don't speak. I just sit there, trying to remember who I was before the storm took my name and made it mean something else. But all I can feel now is the rhythm of something ancient pulling taut inside me.
Not his. Not theirs. Mine?
Sleep finds me slowly. Like rain creeping in through cracks in a roof. Not all at once—but enough to pull me under. And when it does, it doesn't bring rest. It brings memory.
A kitchen half-lit by dusk. Wooden beams overhead. The smell of salt and herbs and something burning slightly on the stove. I know this room. The way the table wobbled when I pressed my elbows on it. The window over the sink where gulls used to shriek like they were mourning.
Mother stands near the hearth, sleeves rolled up, braid coiled tight at the nape of her neck. She isn't looking at me—but her silence cuts sharper than any word she might choose.
I'm younger here. Maybe fourteen. My hair's a mess, sea-wind tangled. My fists are clenched at my sides.
"You always say I need to accept my fate," I say, teeth clenched. "But you never tell me what it actually is."
Her jaw tightens. She stirs the pot harder than she needs to.
"And why is my last name different?" I press. "Stormborne. Why not Hearthlen—yours, Amery's?"
She doesn't answer.
"Father was Hearthlen," I go on. "Then why am I not? Why did you never tell him my name was different?"
She finally turns. Her eyes are tired. Not angry. Not sad. Just tired in that way that makes you feel like you'll never get an honest answer.
"Names don't always come from blood," she says. "Sometimes they come from what the gods leave behind."
I blink. "That doesn't mean anything."
"It does," she says quietly. "More than you know."
I take a step toward her. "You're hiding something from me."
"I'm protecting you."
"No," I snap. "You're protecting yourself from what I am."
Her lips press together. Her shoulders sag.
"You don't know what you're saying, Amarin."
"Yes, I do!" I shout. "You look at me like I'm already gone! Like you're waiting for something to take me!"
The stove hisses behind her. The wind outside starts to rise. She walks past me slowly and places one hand on my shoulder—but it doesn't feel like comfort. It feels like a goodbye.
"You were born in the middle of the worst storm in Shellmere's history," she murmurs. "And when I held you, you didn't cry. You just looked at me… like you already knew what you were meant to become."
"Knew what?"
But the dream fades before she answers. My collarbone burns. The name still echoes in my ears—Stormborne.
And then—a knock. Sharp. Urgent. It cuts through the dream like thunder through still air. I bolt upright. The room around me blurs, veilglass and stone reassembling into shape. My heart pounds—not from the knock, but from the name still echoing in my bones.
Another knock. Louder. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, the cold floor grounding me.
"Just a moment," I call out, my voice hoarse with sleep and something else—older.
The storm outside stirs like it heard me. And maybe it did.