"Some scars are hidden. Others are carved in light so no one forgets."
— The Stormwrought Archives
The water surges around us. Mist coils higher, swallowing the walls, the light, the world. All I can feel is the burn where the mark throbs against my side—and his hands, strong and steady, anchoring me in a sea of fire.
"Breathe," he says, low and fierce, almost a growl. "Breathe, little storm."
I try. The air tastes of lightning, too sharp, too thick.
The mark pulses—a blinding flash just under my skin. I gasp, the pain stealing my breath.
For a heartbeat, the water between us glows—silver and gold swirling like a second storm trying to be born.
He sees it. I see him see it.
A flicker crosses his face—sharp, stunned, almost frightened. Not of me. Of something deeper. Older.
His hands tighten slightly—not to hurt, but to hold. To keep me tethered.
"Look at me," he demands, rougher now, almost hoarse.
I do. And the world steadies—not much, but enough.
His hair clings to his forehead, dripping stormwater down the sharp lines of his jaw. The loose collar of his shirt hangs heavy against his chest, soaked and forgotten.
He should look furious. He should look cold.
Instead, he looks... afraid.
He shifts forward, the water swirling around his waist, mist clinging to his skin.
"I need to see it," he says, voice rough, reverent.
His gaze drops to the mark beneath the water.
I twist against him, panic spiking.
"Stop looking at me," I snap, trying to wrench free.
His grip doesn't tighten. It just holds.
"I wasn't asking for permission," he says, calm as a gathering storm.
Before I can fight again, he moves—a fluid motion, lifting me out of the water and setting me atop the smooth stone rim of the tub.
The steam clings to my skin, petals beading along my thighs, my ribs, my collarbone.
I gasp—half from the cold, half from the way his eyes trace over me.
Not hungrily. Not cruelly. But like a man trying to memorize something he wasn't meant to see. Not yet.
His gaze darkens. The storm inside me answers—wild, furious, afraid.
He tears his eyes away from me, locking onto the mark. The silver spiral flares again, pulsing with an urgent light.
For a moment, he just stares—as if he's seen something he cannot explain.
Mist coils around him. The water hums against my calves.
He shifts forward in the pool, moving closer. And then—he bends.
Not hurried. Not hesitant. A deliberate, reverent motion, bringing his mouth a breath from my skin.
I freeze. I can't move. Can't breathe.
He exhales—a single cool breath across the burning spiral.
The effect is immediate.
The fire dims, coiling into a low thrum. The water around us stills. The storm recedes into mist.
I sag forward, gasping at the sudden absence of pain.
His hands stay at my hips, steady, unyielding. Not pulling. Not forcing. Just... holding.
I look down at him—the Stormlord, standing in the water before me, breathing away the fire that should have devoured me—and realize:
Whatever storm lives inside me now, he knows it. He fears it. And somehow, he is already bound to it too.
His hands stay at my hips a heartbeat too long. The water laps softly against my calves, the mist thick between us, thick with everything neither of us says.
"You can let go now," I say, voice raw from screaming.
He hesitates—a fraction—then lets go.
The absence of his touch is sharper than the heat he left behind.
I slide off the tub, moving before my legs can betray me. The stone is cold underfoot, the robe heavy in my hands.
I wrap it tightly around myself without looking back.
When I turn, he's still standing in the water. Soaked. Silent. Watching.
The stormlight fractures across him—gold, silver, shadow—a creature made of sky and ruin.
I clutch the robe tighter.
"How did you know?" I ask, voice steadier than I feel. "That blowing on it would calm me?"
He doesn't answer right away. His gaze drops—to the mark, hidden beneath the folds of cloth.
A muscle ticks in his jaw.
I step closer.
"Does every stormbride have it? The mark?"
The words barely leave me before I see it—the fracture. Not anger. Not cruelty. Regret.
"And how did you hear me?" I press. "How did you know I needed you?"
The questions crackle between us, heavy as thunderclouds.
He lifts his head—and for the first time, something breaks in his eyes.
Not control. Not command. Fear.
He says nothing at first. The mist tightens, swirling, suffocating.
When he finally speaks, his voice is rougher, lower.
"I was waiting for you," he says. "Outside the chambers. To take you to supper."
He drags a hand through his soaked hair, the muscles in his forearm taut.
"You haven't eaten since the stormbound," he mutters, gaze dropping to the stone, the water, anywhere but me. "A full day. Maybe more."
His jaw clenches.
"You're too thin."
The words are quiet. Angry. Not at me. At the world. At himself. Maybe even at the storm.
For a moment, neither of us moves. The air between us pulses—alive, restless, waiting.
I tighten my grip on the robe like armor.
"What about my other questions?" I ask, voice cutting sharper now. "Is this mark... something all stormbrides have?"
He stiffens. Barely. But I see it.
His defenses crack. He lifts his head—and for the first time, truly sees me.
Not as a bride. Not as a prize. As something else. Something worse.Something infinitely more dangerous.
His voice, when it comes, is low and tight.
"No," he says.
One word. Cracked like thunder.
"No stormbride alive should carry that mark."
The mist curls tighter around my ankles. Inside me, the storm stirs again—not violent, not panicked. Awake.
The words hang between us. Heavy. Final. Irrevocable.
He steps back from the water.
Without a word, he climbs from the pool—soaked through, stormlight glinting across the sharp lines of his body.
Mist drips from him in rivulets as he faces me across the stone.
"Since when?" he asks, rough, broken. "Since when have you had it?"
I blink, confused. The mark throbs under the robe.
"I've always had it," I say simply. "Since I can remember."
The moment I speak, I see something inside him break.
Not loudly. Not violently. But in the quiet way a storm unravels after fighting itself too long.
He looks—shattered.
Whatever hope he had clung to—torn away.
He drags a hand through his hair again, staring at me like he's seeing a ghost where a girl used to stand.
"This shouldn't be possible," he says, voice barely more than a breath."It should have disappeared with..."
He cuts himself off.
I don't understand. Not yet.
But the fear in his eyes tells me:
Whatever lives inside me now, it's not just rare. It's forbidden. And it's waking.
He tears his gaze away first. Not because he wants to. Because he has to.
I can see it in the tight line of his jaw, the way his hands clench at his sides.
"Someone will bring your supper," he says, voice rough, a little too fast. "Eat it."
I open my mouth—to demand, to plead, to scream if I have to—
"What did you mean by that?" I say, stepping forward, heart hammering against my ribs.
But he's already turning. Already pulling the storm back around himself like a cloak.
"What disappeared with what?" I call after him, voice breaking.
He doesn't answer.
The heavy door swings shut behind him with a hollow thud, leaving me alone with the mist, the silence, and a mark that pulses under my skin like a second heartbeat.
⚡ Teaser Line:
Some truths are buried for a reason. And some storms exist to dig them up.