Halemond's skies had wept all morning — not with storms, but with that grey, misting kind of rain that clung to the skin like memory. By midday, it had slowed to a light drizzle, and in the inner courtyard of Lord Velmorn's estate, the carriage stood ready, gleaming and solemn, drawn by four dark steeds clad in silken harnesses.
Inside the manor, Neriah stood still in her chamber, her fingers brushing across the last of her belongings. Her trunks had been sealed shut and strapped. Her travel cloak, the deep blue one with the velvet trim, had been fastened at her neck. The silver pin trembled as she adjusted it — or perhaps her fingers trembled.
Elira, her maid, was crying again.
"Stop it," Neriah said with a soft laugh, even though her own throat was thick. "You'll make me ruin my eyes before I even reach the court."
Elira shook her head, her hands balled at her apron. "I just wish it weren't you, my lady. You deserve laughter. And love. And gardens. Not an awful court with a cruel tyrant."
Neriah exhaled. She looked sad and tired.
She glanced at the door, as if half-expecting someone to stride in with a ridiculous excuse on her lips and mischief in her eyes.
"Kara?" Elira asked, as if reading her thoughts.
Neriah nodded. "She hasn't come to see me."
"I've checked the eastern wing. Twice. She's not there."
"She's probably galloped off again. One of her wild little escapades." Neriah tried to sound nonchalant. She failed. "She knew I was leaving today. She should have been here."
The silence stretched.
"She should have been here," Neriah said again, softer now. "She—" She stopped, swallowed. "Never mind."
Elira stepped forward and hugged her tightly, whispering something about strength and stars and prayers, and Neriah — normally so composed — let her hold on longer than she should have.
The procession was waiting.
When Neriah stepped out into the courtyard, the cold struck her first — Halemond's ever-present chill that kissed the stones and seeped into the bones. She inhaled deeply. It smelled like pine and memory.
And then she saw him — Lord Velmorn, standing tall and still beside her carriage, wrapped in a dark green cloak. His eyes, usually so commanding, were tender now.
He opened his arms, and she stepped into them.
"My little flame," he murmured, folding her in tightly. "You've always shone bright."
Tears gathered in Neriah's eyes as she embraced her father.
"There's strength in gentleness, Neriah. Don't forget that. And when you speak—speak your mind. That court... they will listen."
"I will, Father. I am going to miss you."
"Be strong, my little flame." He cupped her face for a moment, kissed her forehead, and helped her up into the carriage.
And then, as the wheels began to roll and the gates opened, Lord Velmorn stood alone, hands clasped behind his back, watching the procession disappear into the white drizzle beyond the pines.
He didn't wave. He didn't call out.
But deep in his chest, a quiet warmth stirred. The kind a man only felt when he knew — when he knew something the world didn't.
Let them whisper, he thought.
Let them say the Storm Lord was a monster, a tyrant, a beast with the hunger for blood.
He knew better.
He had known Damon Dragarth before he wore a crown. Before the throne, before the wars, before the scars. He had seen that boy become a man beneath battle cries and steel.
And now, that man — dashing, dangerous, sharp as a sword and twice as loyal — would be Neriah's husband. Not some wrinkled king from a dark legend. Not a villain spun from tavern songs.
No.
This was Damon — He was different.
And as Neriah's carriage faded into the fog, Lord Velmorn smiled to himself.
Oh, she would be surprised indeed.
And thank the gods it wasn't Kara.
He turned back toward the manor, tugging his cloak tighter around his shoulders.
Halemond would be quieter now.
But in his heart, Lord Velmorn knew:
The storm was coming. And for once, it came not to destroy — but to begin.
**********************
The carriage rocked gently beneath her, the soft clatter of wheels over stone and packed earth like a lullaby she refused to surrender to. Neriah sat rigid, wrapped in her velvet cloak, her hands clenched tightly in her lap. Her heart had not stopped its restless drum since they passed the first ridge out of Halemond.
She was not afraid of the cold.
She was afraid of the man who waited on the other side of it.
Arkenfall.
Land of the Storm Lord.
She had heard enough to write entire books about it — grim tales passed around flickering hearths and whispered behind closed doors. They said Arkenfall was a place of shadow, built from stone and iron. They said the sun forgot to shine there, that even the wind feared its battlements. And above it all, at the high seat, sat the blood-drinking king — the old tyrant who wore a crown of storms and murdered without blinking.
The man she was meant to marry.
Neriah exhaled sharply and pressed a hand to her chest. Her pulse hammered beneath her palm.
This wasn't how her story was supposed to go.
She had always imagined love — not a fairytale, no. She wasn't that naive. But a gentle man, perhaps, a garden to tend, letters exchanged beneath candlelight, the brush of fingertips, a shared smile across a ballroom.
Not chains. Not cold stone. Not this.
She closed her eyes as the carriage dipped into a valley. The air shifted. Warmer. Brighter. She didn't trust it.
When she opened her eyes again, she frowned.
Something was wrong.
There was light. Real light.
Outside her window, golden beams spilled through the trees, dappling the carriage walls in soft gold. The forest had given way to open meadows, the air crisp but not biting. Flowers— actual wildflowers — nodded on either side of the road, swaying like dancers in the wind.
"What in the name of the gods…" she murmured.
Elira wasn't with her. Her maid had remained behind, and she was alone now, except for the guards escorting her carriage. But even they seemed to have relaxed, sitting straighter, their shoulders looser.
And then — the towers came into view.
Arkenfall.
She had braced herself for dark spires and jagged stone, for a city cloaked in shadow and fear.
What she saw instead was… color.
Red banners fluttered proudly from high walls, trimmed with silver thread. The citadel itself was carved from a pale marble that glowed softly in the sunlight, not bleak grey as she'd been told. Ivy grew up the walls in places, and tall narrow windows gleamed with stained glass that caught the light like fire. Laughter echoed faintly from the lower courts. Horses neighed. There was music somewhere — a flute, maybe, or a lute being tuned.
It felt… alive.
Neriah leaned closer to the window.
"Why is it so beautiful?" she asked in whispered.
She blinked again, almost certain the vision would vanish. That it was a trick. A glamour spell, maybe. But it wasn't.
Arkenfall was beautiful!
Her thoughts tangled. Confusion warred with suspicion, awe tangled with dread.
Had the rumors lied?
Had everything she feared been nothing more than ghost stories told to keep little girls quiet?
No… no, that couldn't be. The Storm Lord was still real. Still cruel. Still…
Still what?
She didn't know.
And that terrified her more than anything.
As the gates opened and the carriage passed beneath the tall stone arches into the capital itself, Neriah clutched the edge of the window tighter, her breath catching in her throat.
A grand courtyard awaited.
Soldiers stood in polished black and silver armor, lined up in perfect formation. They didn't glare. They didn't leer. They simply stood — proud, disciplined, present.
Arkenfall's people were here too. Not grim-faced shadows, but women in elegant robes and men with bright sashes and laughter in their voices. They watched the carriage, curious. Kind.
Neriah drew back.
What is this place?
Her thoughts twisted, disoriented, as her heart beat louder. Not with fear now — but something sharper.
Hope?
No, impossible.
But as the carriage slowed to a halt, and a waiting handmaiden opened the door with a soft bow, Neriah gathered her skirts and stepped down into the sunlit courtyard.
The stone beneath her feet was warm.
The sky was blue.
Neriah hadn't yet decided whether to step fully into the courtyard or simply stand there, quietly absorbing the strange new world around her, when the swell of motion caught her eye — and then came the entourage.
Women and men, maybe a dozen in all, moved toward her like a rising tide. Their garments shimmered in silks and velvets, embroidered with crests Neriah didn't yet know the meaning of. Some of them looked older, wise-eyed and serious. Others were young, radiant, laughing in quiet tones. They parted respectfully around a woman at the center — and when Neriah's gaze landed on her, she almost forgot to breathe.
The woman approaching was nothing short of regal.
Tall and graceful, with golden-brown skin that glowed like burnished honey in the sun. Her dark curls were twisted into a high, elegant bun, pinned with a silver crescent comb. The fabric of her robe was deep violet, trimmed with bronze thread. She moved with poise — like the earth tilted beneath her steps and not the other way around.
"Lady Neriah of Halemond," the woman said, her voice warm and lilting, like silk catching the wind. "Welcome to Arkenfall."
Neriah blinked. She opened her mouth, but words tangled on her tongue.
The woman offered a gentle, practiced smile. "Forgive me. I am Lady Rhea of Braemorin. Mistress of Accord — a small title, really." Her tone was playful, her posture effortless. "The King has asked that I welcome you in his stead. He regrets not being here himself, but he is away on urgent matters of the realm."
"The King is… away?" Neriah asked before she could stop herself.
Lady Rhea's smile deepened — eyes twinkling, lips curling knowingly.
"Yes, my lady. The king has responsibilities, and not all of them are easily delayed."
Neriah swallowed. She had expected a steely proclamation, or maybe a grim excuse, but the way Lady Rhea said "the king" was so… casual. Relaxed. As if she were speaking of a cousin or a charming guest, not the infamous tyrant she had been raised to fear.
Neriah felt her thoughts stutter.
"Come," Lady Rhea said kindly, gesturing with a turn of her hand. "We'll get you acquainted with your new home."
Neriah followed, still a little breathless.
They moved slowly, Lady Rhea explaining the layout as they strolled through long corridors and sun-drenched halls. The citadel was not cold stone and shadows — it was bright, full of life. Tapestries hung in rich reds and silvers. Windows caught the light just right. Everything gleamed, not in opulence, but in care. It was lived in, warm — a palace that did not try to impress with intimidation, but with taste and thoughtfulness.
Servants bowed as they passed. Some smiled.
The Royal Circle — for Neriah realized quickly that many of the men and women flanking Lady Rhea must be part of the famed court — whispered to one another with curiosity, but not malice. If they had expected a terrified Halemond girl, they said nothing aloud.
At last, Lady Rhea stopped at a tall, arched door framed with delicate silver leafing.
"Your chamber," she said, turning the handle.
When the door opened, Neriah stepped in — and froze.
Her jaw nearly dropped.
It was breathtaking.
The room was massive. Soft cream walls laced with ivy carvings, thick drapes in wine-red and gold spilling from tall windows, and a bed large enough to swim in, draped in sheer silks. A fireplace was already lit, casting warmth across a sitting area where a small tray of fruits and spiced wine waited.
The bedchamber smelled like lilac and clove. A faint breeze stirred the air.
"This is for me?" Neriah asked, genuinely stunned.
Lady Rhea gave a light laugh. "Of course. You are the future Queen of Arkenfall."
That title hit Neriah like a stone dropped in a still lake.
Queen.
Of Arkenfall.
No. It didn't feel real. Not yet.
A knock came softly at the open door. A young woman stepped in — no more than a few years older than Neriah, with hazel eyes, dark lashes, and a round, rosy face framed by rich auburn curls. She wore a dark blue maid's dress and bowed with energetic grace.
"My lady," the girl said with a wide smile. "My name is Gwen. I've been assigned to serve you here in the capital. I hope to make you feel at home."
Neriah blinked again — but this time, she smiled.
There was something about Gwen. Her posture was formal, yes, but her eyes shone with sincerity. Neriah liked her instantly.
"Thank you, Gwen," she said, her voice softer now. "I'm glad to have you."
Lady Rhea's eyes twinkled again.
"I shall leave you to rest," she said, her voice smooth as ever. "You'll be summoned to dine with the court later this evening. I trust Gwen will see to your needs."
Neriah nodded. She wasn't sure what else to say — her thoughts were tumbling, unraveling.
The moment the doors shut behind Lady Rhea and her entourage, Neriah let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
It escaped her lips in a long, shaky sigh, and for a moment, she simply stood in the middle of her grand new chamber — still wrapped in disbelief.
It was Gwen who broke the silence, spinning from the wardrobe with a gasp of excitement.
"Saints above," she said, pressing both hands dramatically to her chest. "My lady, you are even prettier than the court whisperers said."
Neriah blinked. "The… court whisperers?"
Gwen clucked her tongue and moved to smooth the folds of the burgundy dress laid out on the bed. "Oh, don't mind them. The moment word got around that Halemond was sending their lady to marry the Storm Lord himself, there's been nothing but speculation." She looked up, her eyes twinkling. "But none of them imagined you'd be this breathtaking. Your hair — by the heavens, it's like fire caught in rosewater. I've never seen anything like it."
Neriah flushed, unused to such blatant praise. "Thank you… that's very kind."
"It's not kindness if it's the truth," Gwen replied brightly. "They'll all faint when they see you in the hall. The court ladies will be scandalized. You'll be a walking poem."
Neriah couldn't help but laugh, and something in her chest loosened.
"I like you already, Gwen."
"Well, thank the skies for that," the girl grinned. "Because I tend to talk a lot and you'll be hearing my voice a great deal."
"You don't say," Neriah said with a sly smile.
The two of them moved easily about the room — Gwen chattering as she folded Neriah's riding cloak and laid out a soft pair of slippers, while Neriah walked slowly to the vanity, fingers brushing the polished wood, still not quite believing it all belonged to her now.
After a pause, Neriah ventured carefully, "You've worked here long?"
"Three years, my lady," Gwen chirped. "Started as a page. Polished boots and ran parchment from hall to hall. Then I caught Lady Marissa's cloak before it hit the floor during a council meeting — she nearly strangled me, but the king laughed. A week later I was bumped to chamber duties."
Neriah turned to her, brows raised. "The king? He laughed?"
"Oh," Gwen said with a dramatic flutter of her hand, "His Majesty has a laugh that could charm the frost off a mountain. You wouldn't expect it from him — all the war stories and titles make him sound like a walking stormcloud. But he's funny. Sharp as a blade and twice as fast with words."
Neriah felt her stomach tighten — there it was again. That contradiction. The stories she had been told back in Halemond were of a beast in a crown. A tyrant who drank blood and crushed hearts beneath his boots.
But Gwen… Gwen spoke like she was describing a charismatic prince from a bard's tale.
"Is he… truly as terrifying as they say?" Neriah asked, her voice low.
Gwen burst out laughing.
"Heavens, no! I mean — well, he can be. If you cross him or speak out of turn in court? Then yes, he'll burn you to cinders with a stare alone. But he's not cruel. He's just… very aware he's the king."
Neriah turned that over in her mind.
"He's young, isn't he?"
"Mm," Gwen hummed. "Five and twenty, I think. Though half the court forgets his age because he carries himself like someone thrice that."
"Five and twenty?!" Neriah asked stunned.
She couldn't believe it. They had told her that The King was an old man!
"Yes, my lady."
"And is he…" Neriah hesitated, then looked pointedly at Gwen. "What about his appearance?"
Gwen dropped the dress she was folding and clutched her chest as if Neriah had stabbed her with the question.
She gasped. "Oh, my lady — the king is too fine for his own good. The first time I saw him, I nearly dropped a jug of wine on my foot. His hair is black as stormclouds, his jaw looks carved from stone, and his eyes — gods help me — they're the kind that see everything."
Neriah gaped. "You're joking."
"I would never," Gwen said solemnly. "Every lady in court has tried to charm him into their bed. I'm convinced half the council members have, too."
"What?!"
Gwen nodded gravely. "He's got this walk — you'll see it. Like he owns the very ground. And his voice — it's like thunder on silk. You'll understand when he returns. Everyone does. Even Lord Gareth, and that one rarely smiles at anything."
Neriah sat slowly onto the edge of the bed, mind spinning.
She had been bracing for an ogre. For a brute with scars and scowls and smoke in his teeth. Instead, her maid was painting a portrait of a dashing, dangerous monarch that made her pulse quicken.
Gwen stepped beside her and patted her arm gently. "You'll do fine, my lady. You've got fire in your hair and steadiness in your eyes. If anyone can stand beside a man like that, I'd wager it's you."
Neriah didn't answer. She just stared ahead, at the golden light spilling through the window.
And for the first time since leaving Halemond… she wondered what would happen when she finally stood face-to-face with the storm.