"The storm doesn't always shout. Sometimes, it waits in silence. And everyone around you pretends not to hear it."
— Field Notes from a Stormbride Survivor
By the time the sun breaks through the clouds, I've tucked the dream into the back of my mind like a letter I'm not ready to open.
The sky is soft, for now—washed in pale light that filters through the salt-frosted windows. Outside, gulls scream over the tide. The world spins on as if nothing is coming.
As if he wasn't here. As if I didn't feel his breath on my neck.
I wrap myself in my usual tunic, faded blue with stitching at the cuffs my sister embroidered last spring. Pull on my boots. Braid my hair tighter than I like, just to stop my hands from shaking.
Then I open the door.
The breeze smells of salt and seaweed. The village is already alive with the rhythms of another ordinary day—mothers hauling nets, children chasing each other past the well, the forge coughing smoke into the sky like always.
And for a moment, I believe it. I believe in the quiet. I believe in the lie.
"You're late," a voice calls out, and I turn just in time to catch my sister's apple before it hits my face.
She stands barefoot on the low garden wall, arms crossed, dark curls frizzing in the morning wind. Her grin is wicked. It always is.
"You dream again?" she asks, jumping down beside me. "You always look storm-touched after your dreams."
I force a laugh and bite into the apple. It's sour. Grounding.
"I dream every night," I say. "Doesn't mean the sky's coming for me."
She shrugs, walking beside me as we head toward the market square.
"No, but it'd be nice. Better than this dung-heap of a village. If a skyking came for me, I'd pack before breakfast."
I say nothing.
Because the truth is—I'm already packed. Not in bags. Not in things.
But in the way, I haven't really felt here for weeks. Not since the dreams changed. Not since he started whispering you're mine like a storm wrapped in silk.
The market smells like sun-warmed seaweed, fish guts, and something frying in oil that probably shouldn't be.
My sister chats with the spice merchant like she doesn't notice the way people glance at me now—just a flick of the eyes, a half-second too long.
They've felt it, too. They always do before it happens.
"Do you smell that?" I murmur.
She snorts. "If it's Old Lera's smoked eels, don't bother. They're cursed."
But it's not fish I'm smelling.
It's rain. Sharp, clean, sky-born rain—Only the sky is clear. The clouds are scattered like ash across blue.
It doesn't make sense. But the storm never has.
We spend the rest of the day gathering what we need: sea salt, flour, thread.
My sister teases the baker's son into giving us extra bread, and for a little while, I almost forget. Almost.
Until the wind changes.
It happens just as the sun begins to fall, staining the rooftops gold and amber.
The breeze sharpens—metallic, charged—and the hairs on my arms lift like they're listening to something I can't yet hear.
My sister says something. I don't catch it. My ears are ringing like they've been pressed too close to thunder.
"Go home," I whisper. "Tell Mama I'll be right behind you."
She blinks. "Why?"
I don't answer. I can't.
Because the tide has gone still. Because the gulls have gone silent. Because the sky, all at once, feels like it's holding its breath.
I wait in the square until the last stall is packed, the last cart pulled away.
Only then do I walk home.
And I know before I reach the doorway—She's laid it out.
The veil.
White. Simple. Waiting for me on the end of my bed like it already knows.
The storm hasn't arrived. Not yet.
But it will. And when it does—
I'll have to wear it.