The first thing Aurelia noticed when she stepped into her new chambers was the light. It was radiant, warm, and alive with light.
It poured through the arched windows like molten gold, spilling across the floor and caressing every surface ... the silken drapes of soft peach and ivory, the carved marble columns shaped like vines, the canopy bed dressed in silver-threaded sheets, and the faint shimmer of enchanted glass that caught every hue of sunset.
The air smelled of lavender and rain, fresh and clean .... not the stale, bitter chill she'd grown used to in Emberhold's tower.
Gwendolyn followed behind her, wide-eyed, her small hands clutching her skirts. "By the stars, my lady," she breathed, her voice trembling with awe. "It's like something out of a dream."
Aurelia managed a small smile. "A dream," she echoed softly. "Or a cruel jest of the gods."
Gwendolyn, turned slowly in awe. "By the gods," she whispered. "It's like a painting, my lady. Vireon himself must've blessed this place."
Aurelia smiled faintly. "Vireon," she murmured, her tone distant. "The god of storms and freedom. He would not bless me, Gwen. I belong to another."
Her eyes lingered on the ceiling...where the sigil of the Storm God had been carved in silver and white marble.
"This is his realm. Not mine. The flame has no place beneath thunder."
Gwendolyn frowned softly. "But Ashmere's god, Ignarion, still watches you. You were his chosen flame once, were you not?"
Aurelia said nothing for a long moment. The way her eyes dimmed told Gwen the answer.
She moved deeper into the room, her steps slow and uncertain. The floor was warm beneath her bare feet ... enchanted marble that pulsed faintly with the castle's living energy. Sunlight painted her shadow long and strange on the wall.
Everywhere she looked, beauty greeted her. A grand mirror framed in silverwood stood beside the balcony.
A vase of freshly cut roses sat atop a polished dresser. The curtains swayed gently, breathing in rhythm with the wind.
Yet as her reflection caught the edge of the glass, Aurelia's smile faded.
She turned away before she could see too much. Ignarion's fire had abandoned her the day Ishara's curse fell ... leaving behind something cold and twisted.
The fire-born beauty of Ashmere, once called the Flame of the South, now stood a shadow of herself.
Her skin, once radiant as molten gold, bore a dull, gray pallor ..... like the ash left after a dying flame. Her hair hung in lifeless strands, colorless and coarse.
Her lips had lost their rose hue; her eyes, once amber and bright, now held the faint trace of embers struggling to stay lit.
She was not just marred. She was unrecognizable.
Gwendolyn, quick to notice, bit her lip and hurried to her side. "My lady… it's all right."
Aurelia laughed faintly ....a brittle sound. "All right?" She moved toward the bed, tracing the delicate embroidery with her fingers. "Tell me, Gwen, what could ever be all right about this?"
The maid hesitated, unsure how to answer. "At least you're safe here, my lady. Lord Valerian… he wouldn't have brought you if...."
"If what?" Aurelia turned to her, her ruined face catching the light.
"If he didn't pity me?" she finished quietly.
Gwendolyn looked down. "If he didn't care," she whispered. "Even pity is care, my lady.
Aurelia turned from the window, her voice soft but bitter. "I can see it in his eyes, Gwen. The pity. The restraint. He hides it well, but I know it. The Storm Lord married a monster, not a bride."
"That's not true," Gwendolyn said quickly, stepping closer. "Lord Valerian....he chose to take you in when no one else would. And the prince...."
"....is a child," Aurelia cut in gently. "Too pure to see what I've become."
"No my lady," Gwen continued. "The prince ... the little one ... he seems to care truly. He smiles when he looks at you."
At that, Aurelia's expression softened. "Vaelric," she murmured. "Yes. He reminds me of… something I once was."
Her gaze drifted to the balcony. Beyond the windows, Valkoron stretched in all its glory ... the white spires, the storm clouds circling the high peaks, the wind whispering through banners of silver and blue.
It was nothing like Emberhold, where smoke had always blackened the skies and ash clung to every breath.
Here, the world seemed alive .... bright and merciless in its beauty.
And she, cursed and hidden beneath veils, was its mockery.
Gwendolyn moved toward the dressing table and began unpacking Aurelia's few belongings: a comb of carved amber, a silk shawl, a small worn book of hymns from her mother, and a cracked mirror she'd brought despite herself.
"My lady," Gwendolyn said softly, "you should rest. The journey was long. I'll fetch some warm water."
But Aurelia didn't answer. She was standing before the tall mirror now, staring at her reflection in the glass.
For a long while, she said nothing. The woman staring back at her might as well have been a stranger ... the curve of her neck once graceful, now twisted slightly; the skin once radiant, now dulled and broken.
She reached up and touched her cheek where the curse had taken root. Her fingers trembled. "Once," she said, almost to herself, "the bards called me the Flame of Ashmere. They said no light could outshine mine. That I was born of fire and grace."
Her lips quivered. "And now look at me. She moved toward the mirror that stood by the balcony, framed in stormwood and silver.
For a long while, she simply stared. Her breath trembled. The woman looking back was not her ... not the Aurelia Flameborne who had once been called the most beautiful in all five realms.
No trace of that girl remained.
"Ignarion's fire was once mine," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "And now even he cannot bear to look upon me."
Gwendolyn's eyes filled with tears, but she said nothing.
Aurelia turned away from the mirror and walked to the balcony, pushing the doors open. The wind swept in .... cool, wild, smelling of rain and lightning. Her hair, dull now but once as radiant as gold, fluttered in the breeze.
"Perhaps this is fitting," she murmured. "A flame doused by storm. A queen of ashes in the court of thunder."
Behind her, Gwendolyn spoke timidly. "You're still beautiful, my lady. You may not see it, but others will."
Aurelia gave her a sad smile. "Beauty fades, Gwendolyn. Curses linger."
"But curses can be broken."
Aurelia turned, surprised by the firmness in the girl's tone.
The maid blushed but pressed on. "You have the Storm Lord now. And the prince believes in you .... I saw it in his eyes. Maybe… maybe they'll find a way to lift it.
Perhaps the Storm Lord and Prince Vaelric will find a way. Valkoron has powerful mages ... they say some can even call upon the voice of Vireon himself. Maybe...."
Aurelia shook her head. "No, Gwen." Her tone carried the weariness of years. "My father tried. He summoned seers, scholars, priests from every corner of Ashmere.
None could lift it. Some tried to bargain with Ignarion himself. And when all that failed, he locked me away in the highest tower of Emberhold."
Her fingers brushed the pendant at her throat .... a small flame-shaped crystal, now dull and lifeless.
"My father searched half his kingdom searching for a cure," she whispered, eyes glistening. "If he could not undo Ishara's wrath, then no one can."
Silence fell. The only sound was the rain.
Gwendolyn's eyes shone with tears, but Aurelia did not cry. She had none left to give.
After a moment, Aurelia turned toward the balcony. The doors opened with a sigh, letting in a rush of cold air. Storm clouds rolled across the horizon, violet and gold, their edges alive with lightning.
From here, Valkoron looked like a city carved from thunder ... proud towers crowned with silver, rivers glinting like veins of light.
"It's beautiful," she murmured. "Almost cruelly so. The gods of this realm built beauty to remind mortals of their smallness."
"Maybe," Gwendolyn said softly, stepping beside her, "or maybe they built it to remind us that even storms can be gentle."
Aurelia gave her a sad smile. "Gentle storms don't last, Gwen."
They stood in silence for a time. The storm outside had begun to rise ... thunder rolling softly in the distance, lightning painting the horizon.
Aurelia wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders. "The air smells of rain," she said quietly. "Do you think it ever stops here?"
Gwendolyn smiled faintly. "I don't think so, my lady. Valkoron was born from storms. The people here say the thunder is their lullaby."
Aurelia looked out at the darkening sky. "Then perhaps I must learn to sleep to its song."
Her gaze drifted to the distant mountains. "Do you know what I fear most?" she said after a moment. "That Valkoron's light will make me forget what darkness feels like. And when I remember, it will hurt all over again."
Gwendolyn hesitated, then gently took her hand. "You're not alone anymore, my lady."
Aurelia's lips trembled but she said nothing.
Gwendolyn moved to light the candles by her bedside. The soft glow filled the room ... golden against peach walls, shimmering across Aurelia's pale skin.
The queen ... or the woman who would soon be crowned one .... stood by the window long after the maid had left to fetch her supper.
She touched the locket at her throat .... the only piece she had left from her mother.
Thunder rumbled softly over the peaks, and lightning bathed her face in pale silver light. For the briefest instant, she looked otherworldly .... not cursed, not broken, but something else entirely. Something defiant.
"Ishara took my fire," she whispered, her voice carried away by the wind, "but she will not take what remains of me."
Gwendolyn bowed her head slightly, whispering a quiet prayer .... not to Ignarion, but to Vireon, god of the storm, hoping perhaps he would hear.
As the first drops of rain began to fall, Aurelia turned from the window.
And though her reflection was still broken, for the briefest heartbeat, Aurelia thought she saw her old self .... radiant, fierce, unbroken .... staring back at her from the glass.