The bells of Valkoron tolled before dawn ... slow, resonant, unyielding.
From the highest towers to the lowest alleys, their echo rippled through the kingdom like a living thing.
The sound carried over stone courtyards and sea cliffs, through market stalls and prayer shrines, summoning all who could hear to the heart of the city.
By the time the heralds stepped onto the steps of the Cathedral of Vireon, a restless crowd had already gathered.
"By royal decree," one of them called, his voice amplified by the wind,
"His Majesty Valerian Stormborne, King of Valkoron and Lord of the Tempest, announces the coronation of Her Grace, Lady Aurelia of Ashmere, to be held in two days' time. Henceforth she shall be known as the Queen of the Stormlands."
For a moment, silence.
Then the murmurs began .... soft, uncertain, and spreading fast.
"Did he say Aurelia of Ashmere?"
"The cursed one?"
"By the gods, he's mad."
"Quiet, fool, the guards are listening...."
The heralds kept reading, their voices steady despite the rising wave of whispers.
At the back of the square, a group of merchants leaned in close.
"I heard her face was eaten by the curse," said one.
"Nonsense," another hissed. "She just bears the mark. The curse sleeps, they say."
"Curse or no curse," the third spat, "Valkoron's crown shouldn't rest on her head."
A stonecutter spat on the ground. "A cursed queen? We'll have plague next, mark my words."
A washerwoman beside him crossed herself, whispering, "Or perhaps a blessing disguised as punishment. The gods move strangely."
But most only stared toward the castle, where the storm banners fluttered, uneasy and cold.
****
Inside the palace's upper corridors, servants hurried like windblown leaves. Everywhere, the news spread faster than wildfire.
"Did you hear?"
"The King's truly crowning her?"
"In two days, they say."
"Then may the storm god watch over us all."
Maids gathered near the washing basins, their whispers a flutter of breath.
"She's said to wear a veil always."
"A veil? Then the rumors are true!"
"Hush. I heard her maid say she's kind ... gentle even."
"Kind or cursed, it doesn't matter. The court will eat her alive."
Across the city, in the Council Wing of the Citadel, Lord Tiberin Dorrick slammed a scroll onto the table.
"I told you all this is the King's final word," he said, his patience snapping.
The gathered ministers exchanged uneasy glances.
Across from him sat Lord Varnel, the Minister of Law, red-faced with outrage. "This is an abomination! The priests of Vireon themselves refuse to bless such a union!"
"Then they can pray from afar," Tiberin replied dryly. "The King's word is law."
Lady Marentha, the Mistress of Coin, tapped her jeweled fingers against the table. "The nobles are uneasy. You can't expect them to bend knee to a woman born under a curse."
"I expect them," Tiberin said evenly, "to remember who holds the crown over their heads."
"And when the people lose faith?" Lord Varnel pressed. "When the throne becomes a mockery? What then?"
Tiberin's voice was calm, but his gaze was iron. "Then we remind them that the King has kept Valkoron safe for twenty years. That his storms have driven off every invader, every rebellion.
And if they still wish to test him...." he leaned forward, his tone darkening, "....then they can face his wrath themselves."
Silence followed.
Lady Marentha looked away first, muttering, "You defend him like a priest, Lord Hand."
"No," Tiberin said. "Like a man who's seen what happens when he's angered."
Lord Varnel of Law leaned forward, his heavy rings clinking on the table. "It's still unnatural. The people will revolt."
Tiberin's jaw tightened. "The people will do as they're told. The last time they questioned the crown, the skies themselves punished them. Or have you forgotten the Flooding of Blackharbor?"
That silenced them.
Everyone remembered the Flood.
Everyone remembered the lightning that fell for three nights straight.
"I've heard enough," Tiberin said, gathering his documents. "The coronation proceeds as planned. If any of you have doubts, take them to the King. And pray he's in a forgiving mood."
He rolled up the scroll and left before anyone could answer.
*****
But far from the echoing halls of power, in the shadowed quarter of the city known as Old Veyra, another kind of meeting stirred.
When the herald's words reached the market square, a woman in a dark shawl froze mid-step. Her basket tumbled, apples rolling across the cobblestones.
"Did you hear that?" a merchant called, laughing. "A cursed queen! Valkoron's doomed."
But the woman didn't answer. She turned sharply into an alley, her pace quickening until she disappeared into the mist.
She reached a weathered wooden door carved with symbols faint enough that most eyes would overlook them. She knocked three times .... once soft, twice sharp.
The door creaked open, and a voice from within whispered,
"You're late, Miren."
"I had to be sure," she panted, pulling down her hood. Her eyes, sharp and gray, gleamed with unease. "It's true. The King's marrying her .... the cursed one. And in two days, she'll be crowned."
The woman who greeted her stepped forward. She was tall, silver-haired despite her youth, her presence commanding.
"So," she murmured, "the prophecy moves again."
Miren frowned. "You think it's her?"
"I know it's her," said the silver-haired woman, her tone cutting through the room like glass.
"The fire of Ashmere was never meant to vanish. The curse that shrouds her is not merely punishment .... it's containment. Ishara sealed her for a reason."
Miren swallowed. "Then the King...."
".....has no idea what he's trying to unleash."
The taller woman walked to the center of the chamber. Candles lit themselves in her wake, one by one, their flames trembling though there was no wind.
Around the room, seven other women emerged from the shadows, forming a circle. Their faces were veiled, their hands inked with symbols, old ones.
"Sisters of the Veil," she said, her voice low and ritualistic. "The Queen of Fire rises under the storm's crown. And when the Cael'haran Hunt begins, her chains will break."
"The Hunt?" Miren whispered. "That's months away."
"All the better," said the leader. "Time enough to prepare. Time enough to choose a side."
She turned to the others. "If the curse lifts, the old magic returns. If it stays ... we all burn."
The circle repeated softly, their voices rising like a hymn:
If it stays, we all burn. If it stays, we all burn.
****
That evening, in a candlelit chamber overlooking the sea, Far above, in his tower, Tiberin Dorrick stood at the window, unaware of the secret gathering below the city.
He watched the lightning flicker far out on the horizon ....faint, harmless, but constant. Not knowing that somewhere beneath those same streets, the first spark of rebellion and prophecy had just been rekindled.
A servant entered quietly. "My lord, the King requests that preparations begin tomorrow morning. He also wishes the people to attend outside the castle gates."
Tiberin nodded. "Let it be done."
As the servant bowed and left, he lingered at the window a little longer. The sea wind pressed cold fingers against his face.
He whispered, not without a hint of grim affection,
"She'll need more than a crown to survive this."
And somewhere else, in one of the rooms in the castle... in the quiet of her chambers ...Aurelia Stormborne dreamt uneasily, as if her soul had heard the words spoken beneath the city:
.... If it stays, we all burn.....