They say the first storm broke over the world in silence.
No thunder. No rain. Just a breath held too long.
A hush, before something sacred forgot how to stay still.
That's how I remember him.
Not as the lord they avow now,
not as the immortal who walks between lightning bolts
and carries grief like a blade sheathed in light.
No.
I knew him before the Crown of Sky.
When he still wept into the sea.
When he still bled.
He was mortal once.
And beautiful in the way all mortals are—
because he could be broken.
His name: Velasyr.
He spoke gently to horses.
Listened to the trees.
Laughed too easily.
And loved even easier.
He was not born for ruin,
not shaped for war,
not made to swallow stars
and give them back as storms.
But fate does not care for softness.
Nor do gods.
He chose to be given to me.
Not in ceremony. Not in sacrifice.
In greed. And sorrow.
When the sky cracked open
and screamed for a name to crown—
I will tell you how he became mine.
How I devoured him.
How he devoured me in turn.
And how, together,
we learned that storms are not born.
They are made.
Cursed.