"The sky loves no king but its own. He who dares take the storm's hand shall drown in its breath, and call it love."
— Fragment of the Storm Verses, Lost Tome of Velasyr
They say the storm was once a god.
Not a kind one. Not the sort that blesses harvests or whispers through wheat fields.
No—this god spoke in thunder and wore grief like a crown.
The sky trembled with him. The sea rose for him. The world below drowned in the ache of his mourning.
Until he came.
Velasyr.
The mortal who climbed the godspire barefoot, with nothing but sorrow in his chest and fury in his eyes.
When the storm demanded a price, he carved out his heart and laid it on the altar of thunder.
The sky took it. And crowned him.
He became the Stormlord—first of the skyborn kings. Wielder of wind. Prince of lightning. Master of cloud and ruin.
But the sky is not merciful. It is jealous.
And when the Stormlord gave his love to a mortal girl, the storm cursed him.
Not with death.
With memory.
Now, every generation, a bride is chosen. A girl marked by thunder. A girl who will not live to see the end of her first marriage year.
She is the Stormbride.
Her love tames him.
Her soul feeds the storm.
She keeps him from breaking the world with his grief. And she dies for it.
He remembers every one.
Every smile.
Every scream.
Every storm-torn goodbye.
And I—I was born beneath lightning that split the sea. The tide whispered my name before my mother ever could.
So now they say it's my turn.
I am to walk into the sky and give my soul to a man whose love kills like weather.
I will not survive him.
But gods help me—
I want him anyway.