"Touch is the oldest magic. Even storms remember it."
— Fragment of Bride-Tongue, unspoken rites
⚠️ Content Warning: Disclaimer Alert
This chapter contains scenes of sexual intimacy intended for mature audiences. Reader discretion is advised. If you prefer to skip this content, you may choose to move to the next chapter upon encountering the next page breaker, without losing the core plot.
✦ ✦ ✦
A third knock—softer this time. Almost hesitant. I pull open the door. Rowen stands on the threshold, storm-gray dress pressed crisp, her stare dropping to the floor.
"I've come to prepare your bath, my lady," she says quietly. "The Stormlord will require your presence for dinner."
That makes me turn toward the window. The sky outside, storm-touched, is already fading—dusk coiling like smoke against the clouds. I must have slept longer than I meant to. My stomach protests, sharp and low, reminding me how little I've given it since breakfast. And beneath it all, the mark hums with a faint, persistent pulse.
I step aside without a word. She glides past—no hesitation, no apology. She never asks permission, but it never feels like an intrusion. Only a ritual. Routine.
She leads me past the curtains behind the chair he once occupied. I hadn't realized there was another room back there.
It's a cavern—stone, mist, and water. A chamber larger than I expected. A wide pool shimmers at the center, fed by slender waterfalls tumbling from carved mouths in the cloudstone walls. The crystal panel from my room curves into this space as well, offering a view of the sky, now awash in burnished light. It would feel like heaven—if only the wind hadn't chosen me like a prize.
Steam coils from the surface, catching in the glow of crystals hidden high in the ceiling—stars caged in stone. The air is warm, lush with the scent of crushed petals and oil. A sweetness that feels borrowed from another world.
Rowen moves quickly, but reverently. She sprinkles rose-gold blossoms across the water, then tips glass vials of clear oil until the surface gleams like liquid light. She never speaks. Silence guides her hands. It's as though the walls are listening, as though even a breath would be audible.
When she's finished, she steps back, folding her hands neatly at her waist. Then, she moves to the corner of the room, to a low cabinet carved from cloudstone. From within, she retrieves a piece of black fabric—thick, heavy.
Without a word, she carries it to a hook by the far wall and hangs it with care. A robe. Plain, but elegant. The kind meant for warmth. For dignity.
"Your bath is ready, my lady," she murmurs, her voice barely rising above the hush of falling water.
"Thank you, Rowen."
She hesitates, just slightly. "Would you like me to help you, my lady?" she asks, tone neutral, as if already expecting a positive answer.
"No, thank you. I can do it myself." The words come faster than I mean to. A rush. A defense.
She bows once, then leaves without another sound. No footsteps. No rustle of skirts. Only the whisper of mist closing behind her.
Silence settles. But it's not empty.
I approach the edge of the pool slowly, as if the water might pull some truth from me before I'm ready to give it. Steam curls around my ankles, kisses my skin. The surface gleams like a mirror—but one that reflects more than just what the eye can see.
I let the gown fall. Step in.
The warmth takes me in stages—first the feet, then the legs, then the ache buried in my spine and shoulders. The heat coils around me like a memory. Like breath. I sink deeper until the water touches the base of my neck. Only my face remains above, my hair fanning in ripples behind me.
For a moment, I just float there. Not thinking. Not speaking. Not Amarin or Stormbride or whatever name they want carved into stone next.
Just a body in a bath. A heartbeat under the skin.
But the tiny storm mark—a strange, perfect spiral—doesn't let me forget. It hums beneath the surface, a low pulse threading through bone and blood like it's remembering something I don't. I raise my hand and press my fingers to the place just above my collarbone. It hurts. But it doesn't feel like mine, either.
And for the thousandth time, I wonder—what, exactly, did the storm choose?
I sink into the tub completely. The water folds over me like silk. It swallows the ache in my bones, the dust of court stares, the weight of unspoken truths. For a moment, I am weightless. Untethered.
The water feels holy itself. My eyes shut. My breath slows. But my mind doesn't still. It circles him. That dream kiss. The almost. His hand curled around my wrist. His breath brushing my cheek, low and wind-warmed. The space between us, thinner than air.
My skin burns. I tell myself it's the heat of the bath. But it's not. It's the storm tethered beneath my skin—him. And it says more than I dare to admit. More than I could ever let myself feel.
Then, light.
My eyes flash open. The water around me glows—faint at first, then brighter, silver flickering into indigo. My chest tightens. I break the surface with a gasp. Steam curls around me, the sound of falling water sharper now, fractured. I glance down, and the mark is burning.
Lit from within like wildfire, trapped under skin. Not gold this time. Not silver. Indigo—like thunder bruised into color.
A searing pulse shoots from the base of my throat through my ribs, and I cry out—loud, raw. My hand flies to the mark, fingers grazing it as if I could calm it. But it hurts. It blazes hotter at my touch, and the pain tears a scream from my throat.
The pool responds. Water trembles around me, not from movement—but intention. It rises against gravity. Spirals. Breathes. Like it recognizes me. Like it's afraid. The storm hears outside.
And it answers.
The ache deepens—sharp as lightning driven into bone. I jerk my hand away, scowling, breath ragged. The water stirs further. No—rises. Coiling at the edges, like something alive. The steam thickens. The crystals above flicker. And beyond the veilglass wall, the sky fractures.
The storm beats against the Skycastle. A hollow boom shakes the stones—wind clawing at the crystal like it's trying to break in. Dark. Dangerous. The world outside is unraveling. But inside—inside me—is worse.
The mark sears again, and another scream escapes me—torn from a place too deep to reach. It shatters the stillness. My body curls, arms trembling as I clutch the edge of the pool. The water sloshes, then pulls away from my skin entirely—as if repelled by the fire beneath it.
And then—a rush of wind. A door slamming open behind me. Boots striking stone.
"Amarin!"
His voice cuts like thunder.
Velasyr.
I can't look at him. I don't want to see what's in his eyes. Pity. Fear. Knowing. Whatever it is, I don't want to see it. But I feel him. The storm stills—waits. The water settles slightly, but the mark still burns. My skin glows faintly violet beneath the surface, veins like threads of lightning.
"Don't touch me," I whisper—hoarse, brittle.
But he's already crossing to the pool. Already getting in the pool, boots and all. Kneeling. Eyes at my level. Scanning me.
"What happened?" he demands, his voice sharp and low, laced with something that sounds too much like fear.
I can't answer. I can only clutch the sides of the pool, the mark burning like fire under my skin, the water trembling around me as if it, too, can feel the storm breaking free. His hands close around my shoulders, steadying me against the trembling pool—I don't pull away.
Because, for the first time, I am not afraid of him. I am afraid of myself.
✦ ✦ ✦
"Breathe," he says, low and fierce. "Breathe, little-storm."
I try. The air tastes of lightning, too sharp, too thick. The mark flashes under my skin, stealing a gasp from me. He stares at it.
A flicker crosses his face—sharp, stunned, almost frightened. Not of me. Of something deeper. His hands tighten slightly—not to hurt, but to hold. To keep me tethered.
"Look at me," he demands, rougher now, almost hoarse.
I do. And the world steadies—not much, but enough.
His hair clings to his forehead, dripping stormwater down the sharp lines of his jaw. The loose collar of his shirt hangs heavily against his chest, soaked and forgotten. He should look furious. Should look cold. Instead, he looks... afraid.
He shifts forward; the water swirling around his waist, mist clinging to his skin.
"I need to touch you," he says, voice rough, reverent.
His gaze drops to the mark. I twist against him, panic spiking.
"Stop looking at me," I snap, trying to wrench free.
His grip doesn't tighten. It just holds.
"I wasn't asking for permission," he says—calm, steady, like thunder waiting its turn.
Before I can fight again, he moves—a fluid motion, lifting me out of the water and setting me atop the smooth stone rim of the tub. The steam clings to my skin, petals beading along my thighs, my ribs, my collarbone.
I gasp—half from the cold, half from the way his eyes trace over me. Not hungrily. Not cruelly. But like a man trying to memorize something he wasn't meant to see. Not yet.
His gaze darkens. The storm inside me answers—wild, furious, afraid. He tears his eyes away from me, locking onto the mark. The indigo spiral flares again, pulsing with urgent light.
For a moment, he just stares—as if he's seen something he cannot explain. Mist coils around him. The water hums against my calves. He shifts forward in the pool. Closer. And the storm in me rises to meet him.
His hand lifts—slow, deliberate—and I flinch, expecting heat, pain, another surge of lightning beneath my skin. But when his fingers brush the curve of my neck, they're cool. Reverent. He traces a line from beneath my jaw to the base of my throat, pausing just above the collarbone—where the mark blazes like a brand. His touch doesn't burn. It soothes. Not fully—but enough to breathe through.
"I need you to be here," he murmurs. "With me."
My chest tightens.
"I can't calm the storm by myself," he continues, voice low, almost broken. "Not anymore."
Something in me recoils at his need. Something else aches to answer it. I swallow hard, but the lump in my throat doesn't move. My eyes meet his—silver, shadowed, and burning with something too fierce to name.
Then, he leans in. His lips brush the mark. Not a kiss. A vow. A spark struck from ice and fire—the kind that melts you before it devours. His mouth lingers. Warmer now. His breath moves with purpose, his tongue tracing the spiral like he's memorizing it. Like he's trying to learn the shape of my storm by feel alone.
My breath leaves me in a rush.
The mark pulses once—twice—and then quiets. A hum beneath my skin. No longer a scream, just a warning. A promise. Mine.
Then he presses his mouth again—deeper this time. A soft pull. Not demanding. Just enough to draw the ache out like venom. To make the fire manageable. Barely.
But I'm not.
Not with his lips on my skin. Not with his hands steady at my sides—grounding, anchoring. Holding me like I'm both the storm and the shelter. And God help me… I don't want him to let go.