Morning broke with a pale-gold sky, the air carrying the faint sweetness of dew and the bite of a day that promised to be long.
Camp stirred at first light....soldiers moving with quiet discipline as they struck tents and doused fire pits, the clang of steel ringing as armor was fastened and swords belted.
The Stormborne banner was hoisted high above the column, snapping against the breeze: a silver thunderbolt cleaving through a black storm cloud, framed on a navy field streaked with jagged lightning. It caught the rising sun, gleaming like a herald of power.
Valerian mounted his black warhorse, armor glinting, and took his place at the head of the column.
Kaelen and Therion rode at his flanks, Rael slightly behind, ever watchful. Behind them, the carriage rumbled into line, its polished wood stark against the dust of the road.
Within sat Aurelia, veiled, with Gwen by her side and young Vaelric perched with a small wooden carving in his hands.
By midmorning, the company left the quiet stretches of road and pressed through the fringes of a market village.
Word of their approach had arrived before them, carried on rumor's swift wings.
Fields and workshops emptied, villagers gathering along the roadside, faces straining for a glimpse of the man they revered....and of the woman who had become the subject of every tale.
The whispers began before the first soldier passed.
"I heard he wed a cursed bride," a man muttered, hand shading his eyes as the banners came into view.
"Aye," his neighbor hissed back. "Deformed, they say. Scarred beyond beauty."
Another voice cut in, rough with disbelief. "Why would the Storm Lord stoop so low? He could have had any queen in the realm."
"Perhaps he is bewitched," an older woman said, clutching her shawl.
A youth scoffed. "The Storm Lord, bewitched? None would dare lay such spells on him."
"But it's true," said a stooped farmer. "I heard from a peddler.....Lord Neris himself refused her hand, for her ugliness shamed even Winterbourne. And yet Valerian Stormborne made her his wife."
Heads shook, tongues clicked.
"He's too fine a man for such a fate."
"Or too proud," someone else murmured. "Perhaps he means to make a mockery of them all."
The villagers' chatter rose as the procession drew nearer. Soldiers kept their eyes forward, trained not to flinch beneath such scrutiny, but the weight of a hundred stares pressed thickly on the air.
Inside the carriage, Aurelia sat stiffly by the window. Though her veil covered most of her face, it did little to disguise the jagged scar that traced her cheek.
She could feel their eyes through the glass, the judgment pressing like stones against her chest. Her hands twisted together in her lap until her knuckles whitened.
"They're staring," she whispered, voice tight with shame.
Gwen, who was stitching a hem with slow, deliberate movements, looked up. Her calm gray eyes flicked toward the crowd.
"Of course they are. Rumors make monsters of people. And when folk hear of monsters, they crane their necks to see if the story is uglier than the truth."
Aurelia turned from the window, lowering the veil further as though its thin fabric might make her invisible.
"I should have stayed hidden. I am only a spectacle for them… a curse tied to his name."
Before she could say more, a small, clear voice broke in.
"No."
Aurelia's gaze snapped to Vaelric. The boy sat cross-legged, his wooden carving held in both hands, his sharp Stormborne eyes lifting to meet hers. They were his father's eyes, storm-gray and steady.
"Don't hide, mother," he said firmly. "That's what they want. They want you to look afraid, so they can call you weak.
But in Valkoron…" He paused, his lip tightening as if choosing his words with care.
"In Valkoron, they respect the strong and trample the weak. Father says so. And I've seen it."
Aurelia blinked, startled. "Vaelric…"
The boy shrugged, fiddling with the small carving....a wolf, half-shaped but fierce.
"You're my mother now, and you're queen. Queens don't cower. If they call you cursed, you stare back.
If they whisper, you lift your head higher. They can't touch you unless you bow to them."
Gwen gave a soft chuckle, her needle paused mid-stitch. "Wise words from one so young. Seems the boy's growing into his father's shadow sooner than expected."
Aurelia's throat tightened. She reached to smooth Vaelric's hair, her hand trembling. For a moment she could not speak. At last she whispered, "You think I can be strong enough?"
Vaelric nodded without hesitation. "You have to be. For Father. For me. For everyone. A Stormborne doesn't flinch, and neither should you."
His small voice carried such certainty that it left Aurelia shaken. She managed a faint smile, though her eyes stung. "You speak as though you are already a man."
The boy grinned, shyly proud. "Besides… I've heard the stories. Your stories."
Her brow furrowed. "My stories?"
"Yes. The legends." He straightened, his voice full of awe.
"The red-haired fire goddess who could outmatch men in the training yard. The warrior-maid who was feared and adored, whose beauty was sung in halls, whose bravery made lords falter.
That was you, before…" He stopped himself, glancing at the veil, then continued with quiet conviction.
"The curse doesn't erase who you are. You let it cage you. But you can change that. Find her again....the Aurelia who was fearless. Who none dared provoke."
Aurelia stared at him, words lodged in her throat. She had heard many cruel things spoken about her, but never this....never faith so fierce it seemed to burn brighter than doubt.
Her voice, when it came, was a whisper trembling with both fear and resolve. "I will try, Vaelric. I will be strong."
"Not try," the boy said with solemn stubbornness. "Be."
And with that, he returned to carving, as if he had simply stated a fact of the world.
Aurelia turned back to the window. The villagers' eyes were still upon her, their whispers following the carriage like a shadow.
Her pulse raced, but this time, instead of shrinking, she lifted her chin. Her gaze swept calmly over the crowd. Some gasped when her scar caught the light, others whispered behind their hands....but she did not turn away.
"I will be strong," she repeated softly, more to herself than anyone else. And for the first time in years, the words did not feel like a lie.
Outside, Valerian rode at the column's head, his eyes always scanning the road. But when the carriage curtain shifted and Aurelia's face appeared...her shoulders taut, her chin lifted....he saw the difference. She did not cower, though her hands trembled.
His lips curved ever so slightly, not in mockery but in approval. The faintest crack in his storm-hardened mask.
Perhaps she was learning already what Valkoron demanded of its queen.
The road ahead stretched unrelenting, dust rising beneath hooves and wheels, the whispers of villages clinging to their wake. But Aurelia's heart beat steadier now.
The storm had only just begun, but she no longer felt like a woman walking to her doom.
The whispers would not cease. Yet perhaps Vaelric was right: no storm was weathered by bowing to it. One survived by standing tall, even when the wind threatened to break you.