Sylas laughed low in his throat, the sound more breeze than thunder.
"Then I'll pay in coin you value....plain words dressed only in courtesy. Congratulations, Stormborne.
Your marriage has given the court a better tale worth more chatter than any treaty we've ever signed."
"Treaties keep men fed," Valerian replied without turning. "Stories only keep them talking."
"Ah, but talking men are easier to read than hungry ones." Sylas angled his head, his platinum hair catching the morning light like spun silver.
"Still.....I applaud your courage. Even I, who court gusts and tempers for sport, never thought to wed a woman the gods let others call 'cursed.'"
A murmur rippled through the riders behind, though each pretended deafness. Valerian's eyes never left the road.
"The gods allowed a warning," he said.
"They did not forbid her. There is a gulf wide enough between the two to march a kingdom through."
He let the reins slacken a fraction. "Men choose how to interpret the wind, Sylas. Some hear fear. I hear challenge."
Sylas's smile sharpened. "Challenge indeed. Spoken like a man who prefers doors to walls."
He studied his companion with foxlike interest.
"Tell me, do you see Aurelia as prize… or burden? We all know Azarion's habits. He kept her hidden, then cast her aside.
Yet before half the realm you claimed her. Tell me, Was it love, defiance, or strategy?"
At last Valerian turned, one brow a dark line against his storm-cut face. "Since when does the wind demand only one flag on a mast?"
"Since the wind enjoys watching which way a ship lists." Sylas's tone was amiable, but his eyes gleamed.
"If it's love, I'll drink to it. If it's defiance, I'll wager on it. If it's strategy, I'll learn from it."
"Learn what you like. I did not wed to instruct you."
"No," Sylas allowed, lips curving, "but you wed to instruct someone."
Valerian exhaled, a sound more like tempered steel than weariness.
"Aurelia is no shadow, no pawn to discard. She is my wife now....my queen. With her I claim not weakness, but defiance.
I will not let her be measured by her father's scorn, nor by cowards who whisper 'curse' when they mean 'fear.'"
The Wind Lord's smile widened, though it softened not a whit.
"Defiance, then. A word that suits you. But tell me....when the storm breaks hardest, when your council hisses doubt into your ears, when the people look upon her and call her omen instead of queen....will you still speak so boldly?"
Valerian met his gaze squarely. His eyes were cold lightning, his voice honed like unsheathed steel.
"I will not speak boldly, Sylas. I will rule boldly. And when the storm breaks, it will not break me. It will break upon me."
For a moment Sylas regarded him in silence. Then he gave a laugh, low and knowing.
" Hah, You are every inch the storm you claim, Valerian. And storms, as we both know, are feared as much as they are revered. Time will tell whether yours leaves ruin… or renewal."
"Let time judge, then," Valerian said flatly. "I have no need of your approval."
"Nor do I offer it," Sylas countered lightly. "Only my curiosity. I find myself… eager to watch what comes of this union.
Perhaps the gods themselves will lean close to see whether you defy them or fulfill them without meaning to."
Valerian gave no answer. Sylas filled the silence with another sidelong remark.
"Your son's boldness today taught half the square a lesson I suspect you approved of."
Valerian's mouth thinned, but his tone carried no irritation. "He defended his mother."
"And did it beautifully," Sylas said, almost admiring. "The cub roared, and the hunters pretended not to hear."
"Let them pretend. Pretending costs less than admitting they are afraid."
Sylas's eyes narrowed with glinting amusement. "Afraid of what? Her scars? Or the man who stands beside them without flinching?"
"The latter," Valerian said. "Scars unsettle cowards. Loyalty terrifies them."
Sylas gave a thoughtful hum. "You speak with a certainty that would sound like vanity from another mouth. From yours, it merely sounds like weather."
Valerian's gaze slid back to the horizon. "Say your piece, Sylas....the friendly part and the sly part. You've rehearsed both."
"Very well." Sylas leaned forward on his saddle horn, confiding to the morning air.
"The friendly: you will need allies who don't flinch when the first petitions arrive...petitions swearing that fields failed because your queen darkened the harvest.
I am such an ally, provided you don't try to bottle the wind."
"And the sly?"
"The sly is this: when a people stare too long at a veil, they begin to imagine what they cannot see.
You must give them something else to look at. A triumph. A deed only a queen of Virelia could claim."
Valerian's jaw tightened, though his eyes narrowed in thought. "You counsel a test."
"I counsel pageantry braided with proof," Sylas said.
"Unveil a mercy. A power. A law that makes the markets sing. It matters less what it is, so long as she is the hand upon it.
Own their gaze before their gossip owns you."
Five hoofbeats rang on the stone before Valerian answered. "You once told me the wind tires of its own voice."
"It does," Sylas admitted with a sly grin. "That is when it listens. Give it the right tune."
"And you would have me parade my wife?"
"Not parade." For once Sylas's voice lost its mocking edge.
"Invite.... Invite them to see what her enemies refuse to.
Invite them to owe her something they cannot repay with spit and rumor.
A law signed that spares a village. A judgment that frees a ship. A decree that saves a village by taking the fear out of a winter.
A mercy stamped with her seal. That is no parade. That is a crown."
Valerian studied him a moment longer, then looked away. "You dress your curiosity well."
"Better than most dress their compassion," Sylas replied with a smile.
"But don't mistake me Lord stormborne. I am no priest saving souls. I am a lord measuring weather. And I like the look of this front you're driving."
"In Galesreach," Valerian asked, "do you applaud the storm from your windows, or go out to meet it?"
"In Galesreach," Sylas returned smoothly, "we build our windows to open."
That won the barest curve of amusement from Valerian. It vanished quickly, but Sylas saw it and was satisfied.
"Another friendly word," the Wind Lord added, softer now. "The boy. Keep him close. Whatever net you're casting, he is one of the weights upon it."
Valerian's reply was plain, unguarded. "I know."
"Good." Sylas eased his stallion back half a pace, giving space without surrendering kinship.
"Then take my blessing where you will not take my counsel: fair winds to Valkoron, Stormborne. May your queen find doors that open before she knocks."
A curl of wind lifted Valerian's cloak, teasing at the manes of both horses.
"And to Galesreach," Valerian said, "may your windows hold when my weather comes looking for you."
Sylas grinned. "If it's yours, I'll pour wine and call it a guest."
They rode in companionable silence for several strides. Behind them, the Stormborne carriage wheels creaked in rhythm; inside, Vaelric craned for one more glimpse of the two lords riding side by side.
"Tell your queen," Sylas said at last, almost offhand, "that not every eye upon her wishes her ill."
"I'll tell her what she needs," Valerian answered. "The rest she'll learn."
"As will we all." Sylas touched two fingers to his brow in a salute so careless it seemed the wind itself had bowed.
"Farewell, old friend. May your storms carry you home safely. And may your bride prove worth the lightning you've chained yourself to." Sylas said to valerian.
Valerian's cloak snapped once more in the wind as he rode forward, unshaken.
"Chain? he muttered under his breath, echoing Sylas's last barb. His mouth curved into a grim line. No, Sylas. Not a chain. A crown."
The words lingered in the air like thunder waiting to roll, and Sylas's sly smile curved as he allowed the storm lord to ride ahead.
Then he drew his silver-grey stallion back, folding back into his own column until pale cloaks were only moving weather at the edge of sight.
Valerian pressed forward, unbent, his cloak snapping in the crosswind.
The words hung in the air like thunder waiting to break. The road unfurled. Caelmont's towers dwindled.
Somewhere Ahead, Valkoron loomed in memory and promise, it waited with its iron skies, storm-washed walls.
And between the blessing left in the air and the crosswind of a friendly rival's counsel, Valerian rode on...unbent, unhurried...while the carriage followed, carrying a queen who had already outlived the worst of other people's stories.