The sea appeared first.
After days of winding roads through mountain passes and mist-choked valleys, the horizon broke wide.
The ocean stretched endless and blue, its waves striking the cliffs like drums of war. Spray leapt into the air and glittered in the hard light of afternoon.
And there, rising from those cliffs like a crown forged by storms, was Valkoron.
Aurelia leaned forward, her breath fogging the small window of the carriage. The stronghold was no mere city.
Its towers did not look built but torn upward by lightning, pale spires twisting as if clawing at the sky.
Stormglass tipped their peaks, shards of crystal that flared white whenever the sun struck them, so that the whole citadel shimmered as though alive.
Great stone bridges yawned between towers, massive and terrifying, as if daring the winds to tear them down. Above all flew the thunderbird of House Stormborne, its wings spread wide, glaring down on all who approached.
Her pulse stumbled. This will be my home. This fortress of storms.
Outside the carriage, Valerian rode ahead astride his black warhorse, mantle snapping like a banner behind him.
Soldiers followed in perfect order, steel bright, banners high. The wind itself seemed to hush in his wake. To the people of Valkoron, this was no mere procession .... it was the return of their lord with a bride claimed from fire.
Within the carriage, the air was thick with silence. Gwen sat opposite, hands folded tightly in her lap. Though her features were schooled to calm, her knuckles told another story, white as frost from strain.
Beside Aurelia, Vaelric leaned forward on the window ledge, eager gray eyes drinking in the sight of home.
As they drew nearer, the road bent and widened. People were already gathered there .... farmers with mud still on their boots, fishermen smelling of salt and net-rope, women clutching baskets, children scrambling to rooftops.
Then more and more, a swelling tide of faces, spilling into the avenues as word spread like wildfire: the Storm Lord's bride had come.
The sound of them carried into the carriage ... first a hum, then a wave, then a storm. Aurelia's fingers curled on her skirt as words broke through the din.
"She comes from the Flameborne ruins, I heard. Her own people cast her out."
"They say her beauty was burned away by her enemies."
"No ... by her own fire. The gods marked her for pride."
"She is the flame-born, cursed and broken," one man's voice rang, clear and hard.
Another, sharp with disbelief: "Flame-born? More like flame-damned. They say her beauty was stripped for pride, her fire turned inward to rot her flesh."
"No, no," a woman countered, clutching her child close. "I heard she carries the last spark of Emberhold's heart. Perhaps the Moon willed her scars, so we might see the cost of wielding fire."
"Cost or punishment, it matters little," an older voice muttered.
"The Storm Lord should not chain himself to ruin. Storms cleanse; they do not embrace ashes."
Their words pressed against the glass of the carriage. Aurelia kept her eyes lowered, though each sentence lodged in her chest like a stone.
"Then why would the Storm Lord bring her here? He could have had a dozen women from Valkoron, pure of blood and untainted."
"Ashmere's fire in Valkoron's court… storms and flames under one roof. That cannot end in peace."
The voices tangled, some sharp, some hushed, all cutting. Aurelia pressed her hand to her veil. Her throat was dry.
Gwen shifted forward, eyes flicking to her. "Don't listen, my lady. They know nothing of you. It seems Valkoron thrives on rumor the way Emberhold thrived on warmth. But words are not truth."
Her tone was steady, but there was a tightness to it .... Gwen, too, was rattled. Emberhold had been home: familiar voices, faces that, even when cruel, were known. But here… every whisper was a blade wielded by strangers.
Aurelia's stomach twisted. "If words are not truth, why do they cut so deep?"
Before Gwen could answer, Vaelric's voice broke through, quiet but sure. "Because in Valkoron, words can become storms."
Both women turned to him. The boy had not shifted his gaze from the window. His gray eyes reflected the sight of the crowd, vast and swelling, like a tide of judgment.
He spoke softly, but each word seemed carved of iron. "They don't look at you to know you. They look to measure you. Every glance, every whisper .... it's how Valkoron decides whether to kneel or to tear you down. My father rules with thunder because nothing else will silence them."
Gwen frowned faintly. "You speak as though they are wolves waiting for blood."
Vaelric's small hands tightened on the window frame. "Wolves would be kinder. These people smile at lightning, but they tear apart the weak."
The carriage slowed. The crowd thickened, pressing close. Soldiers on horseback kept them back, but not far enough to stop the tide of voices from crashing in clearer, sharper now, crueler for being bold.
"I heard she carries fire still in her veins. One day she'll burn Valkoron itself."
"Look at that carriage. A queen's seat, and yet she hides. Ashmere always was proud."
"Would you dare show your face if you were marked by gods? No wonder she clings to her veil."
"Storm Lord or not, what man brings home a woman already ruined?"
"Ruined? Hah. He brings her here for power. What better way to bind fire to storm than through marriage?"
"Or perhaps it is weakness. Perhaps even thunder needs pity."
The words swelled until Aurelia's skin prickled. Her heart hammered against her ribs, desperate to flee, to vanish into the dark folds of her veil.
Gwen's hand slid across the seat, steadying Aurelia's trembling fingers. Her voice was low, firm.
"They will not see your kindness here. They will not see the girl I know. But you must remember, my lady...storms only break if you let them. If you bend, they will break you."
Aurelia swallowed hard. She thought of Emberhold, of the fire that had once crowned her hair in light, of the warmth of her mother's embrace.
That world felt so far away now, as though it had belonged to another life. Here, in this place of storms, the only warmth was the boy's hand that brushed hers briefly, fleeting as lightning.
Vaelric glanced at her, voice scarcely more than a whisper. "They don't need to see your face. They only need to believe you will not bow. If you walk into Valkoron trembling, you will never rise from its shadows."
The carriage jolted forward, pushing deeper into the throng. The voices chased them like waves breaking against the cliffside.
"She is cursed, they say ... cursed to live, cursed to burn."
"Cursed or chosen? Would the Storm Lord bind himself to ash without reason?"
"Perhaps she will bear him a child of both storm and fire. Imagine such a heir… the gods themselves would tremble."
"Or the gods would smite Valkoron before that day comes."
Aurelia closed her eyes. Their words battered her like rain on stone .... endless, merciless.
Yet somewhere within the storm of sound, something shifted. She could no longer tell which voices spat venom and which trembled with awe. Suspicion and fear twined so tightly they were one.
When she opened her eyes again, Valkoron's gates loomed before them ... vast, ironbound, carved with the thunderbird crest.
The sound of the sea roared beneath, the cry of gulls slicing the air. The banners of Stormborne snapped high overhead, silver wings cutting across the sky.
The carriage passed beneath the shadow of the gates. Aurelia's hands still shook in her lap, but she forced her back straight, her gaze steady. Let them whisper. Let them watch.
Whatever awaited her beyond these walls, she would meet it not as a cowering flame, but as fire waiting to rise.