"The sky does not tremble for the strong. It trembles for the ones it cannot command."
— Stormkeeper's Lament, Verse IX
The wind doesn't howl the way I thought it would. It sings. Low and endless, curling around me like a thousand voices too old to name.
The ground is gone. The sea is gone. Only clouds stretch out beneath us—vast, endless, glowing with the faint blue of distant lightning.
I grip the edge of the storm-carriage tighter, though there's no reins to hold, no wheels to steer.
The Skylord—he—stands at the prow, cloaked in dark, silent stillness.
He hasn't looked back once.
The sky bends to him. I can see it—currents of wind shifting where we pass, clouds parting without a sound.
And still, he says nothing to me. Not a word since the stormbinding ceremony. Not a word since he placed the veil over my shoulders, sealing my fate with a single touch.
I should hate him. I tell myself I do.
But hate is a poor shield when your body betrays you—when the storm pulls at the very marrow of your bones and drags your heart toward a man you never asked for, never chose.
I hate the way I feel his pull without permission. Hate the way my breath catches when he turns, when the stormlight brushes across his face.
I never wanted this. Never wanted to be a prize for a god's curse, chosen before I could even walk, before I could even speak my own name.
Why me? The thought rises sharp and bitter. Why my life? Why my blood? Why my name written in the storm before I even knew who I was?
But when he glances back over his shoulder—eyes like the heart of a storm, too bright, too merciless—my heart forgets its rhythm.
The storm bears us upward, higher than I ever thought a mortal could survive.
And there, through the parting mist, I see it:
The Skycastle.
Sprawled across the highest spires of cloud and rock, its towers pierce the heavens like jagged spears. Lightning coils around its battlements.
The walls aren't made of stone, not entirely—they shimmer, half-solid, half-storm, as if the castle itself was never meant to belong to the world below.
A place for kings who never die. A place for brides who never return.
My hands shake against my will. I clench them into fists.
I will not cower. Not even now.
The storm-carriage lands without a sound. A hundred steps stretch up toward the main gate, wide enough for armies.
And waiting at the top—figures.
Men and women cloaked in silver and black, faces hidden, watching me with the stillness of statues.
No one moves. No one speaks.
Except him.
The Stormlord descends first, his boots striking the cloud-stone with a sound like thunder muted by distance.
Then he turns to me—and finally, finally, he offers his hand.
"Come," he says, voice low, steady.
I stare at it. His hand. Strong. Waiting. Dangerous.
Part of me wants to slap it away. Part of me wants to run into it like a drowning thing clinging to the only solid thing left.
But the storm chose me. The village offered me. And the sky, even now, hums my name like a dirge.
So I step forward. I place my hand in his.
For a heartbeat, nothing happens. No thunder. No lightning. Just the unbearable heat of his skin against mine—a warmth that sinks deep, deeper than flesh, threading into bone and blood and breath.
And then—
The clouds above us split open with a sound like a world ending. A crack of light slices across the sky, so bright I flinch.
The storm roars to life around us—not wild, but rejoicing, as if the sky itself has been waiting for this moment longer than I have been alive.
His fingers tighten around mine—not hard, but firm, anchoring me to the crumbling world beneath our feet.
I meet his eyes.
And for the first time, I see something there beyond power. Something raw. Something aching.
The bond between us isn't just a chain. It's a living thing. Breathing. Twisting. Wanting.
I try to pull away. His hand doesn't move.
But he doesn't drag me closer, either. He just holds me there, as if giving me a choice neither of us really believes exists.
The air between us hums, thick and heavy, sweet with the scent of ozone and rain. The kind of air you breathe right before the sky tears open.
I hate him. I want him. I want to scream at the gods who thought this was love.
Instead, I lift my chin. I let him keep my hand.
And together, without a word, we ascend the long stairs into the heart of the Skycastle.
The first step into the Skycastle steals my breath.
The floor beneath my boots isn't stone, not truly—it shimmers like frozen mist, like cloud spun into crystal.
Lightning veins the high vaulted ceilings, humming through the arches like a living heartbeat.
Columns rise around me, not carved but grown––twisted into spirals by the hand of the storm itself, gleaming wet with captured rain.
The air hums with magic so old it feels like a language I was never meant to understand.
And the court is waiting.
They stand in lines flanking the hall—figures cloaked in silver, gray, black, deep blue. Faces pale and sharp beneath heavy crowns and braided gold. Eyes like polished stones, reflecting everything and revealing nothing.
They watch me with a hunger I don't understand. With a judgment I do.
I tighten my grip on the Stormlord's hand without meaning to.
He feels it—of course he does.
He leans in, just enough for only me to hear:
"Do not pay them any mind," he says, voice low, steady, and utterly final. "Pay attention only to me."
The words slip into my skin like the brush of a knife—gentle, but sharp enough to bleed.
There's no cruelty in his tone. No arrogance. Only certainty.
Like the world had already been boiled down to just two people—him, and me—and everything else was a storm at the edges.
He lets go of my hand after that, but the warmth lingers like a brand.
I can still feel the shape of his fingers wrapped around mine, even as he leads me deeper into the castle.
The court parts for us without a word.
Some bow. Some merely watch, lips tight with emotions I cannot name.
Above us, the storm throbs against the high windows—an endless ocean of dark sky and trembling light.
And somewhere deep inside, something answers it.
Something inside me that has been sleeping for a very, very long time.
We walk deeper into the great hall, and for a moment, I forget about the court, the sky, the weight of a thousand unseen eyes.
I only feel him.
The Stormlord walks half a step ahead—shoulders rigid beneath the black stormcloak, hands loose but ready at his sides.
A king born of thunder and silence.
And yet—he glances back.
Not casually. Not coldly.
His gaze lingers on me like a touch, slow and searching, as if he's seeing something he didn't expect.
Not just a girl offered to the storm. Not just another name to be swallowed by the sky.
Something else. Something dangerous.
My breath catches.
I should look away. I should pretend I don't feel the way the air between us thickens—sharper, heavier—as if even the storm itself is holding its breath.
But I can't.
His eyes are the color of lightning just before it strikes—brilliant, wild, full of a hunger he does not voice.
And I feel it then. The surge.
It rises in me like a second heart, fierce and bright and angry—not at him, but at everything that led me here.
At the chains wrapped around my fate. At the pull I cannot fight.
The storm inside me stirs, reaching for something—someone—outside myself.
And the moment his gaze drops to my mouth—the moment he breathes in like he feels it to—the sky shatters.
A deafening crack splits the air. The castle lurches. The storm pours into the hall like a living thing, flooding the arches with wild light.
The courtiers cry out, stumbling back.
The walls themselves seem to groan under the weight of something ancient waking.
I stagger, my hands trembling, my pulse roaring louder than the thunder.
He moves toward me instinctively—but before he can reach me—
the Skycastle trembles again, and the world tilts sideways into chaos.