Rain and Thunder

In Balaera the sun did not just shine; It flowed over the coast like warm, liquid gold, laden with the aroma of crushed jasmine and the sharp, clear salt of the turquoise sea. For sixteen years Princess Rain had known nothing except this endless warmth. Her existence had been measured in the rhythmic lap of waves against white sandstone cliffs, the whisper of sheer, silk curtains blowing in the afternoon air, and the brilliant, lilting melodies of court poets strumming stringed instruments under the shadow of orange orchards.

The Blessed Coast of Balaera

But the sun that morning, the morning of her departure, seemed less a blessing than a harsh farewell.

Rain beat against the soaring arched windows of her bed-chamber, her fingers curled tight about the stone ledge. She was dressed in the traditional attire of a Balaeran girl ready for marriage, a free flowing gown of coral pink silk that draped around her tiny body, leaving exposed the golden tan flesh of her shoulders and arms. Her beautiful golden hair, the color of sun-spun thread, was let loose, falling in thick waves beyond her waist, with natural lights that shimmered like the brightness of the ocean. You would look at her and see the essence of a southern paradise, delicate, glowing, not even somewhat overburdened by the harsh realities of the northern world.

But under that frail, ethereal skin, Rain’s heart was thumping out a worried, steady beat. “You must stop looking at the horizon as if it is going to swallow you, my love,” said a smooth and graceful voice from the doorway.

Rain smiled thinly, a strained expression for her mother, Queen Ananda. The Queen was gorgeous in her sea-green robes but her expressive eyes, the very same sea-foam green as Rain’s, were clouded with a deep parental sorrow. “ I’m not afraid of the horizon, Mother.” Rain said in the soft, sweet singsong voice of her people. I’m terrified of what’s behind it. They claim Halyia is a region where the soil is jagged black rock and the sky forgets the hue of the sun.

Queen Ananda walked across the open-air room, the sheer silk hangings parting about her like water. She stretched out, and her warm palms closed round Rain’s little hands. Halyia is a hard world, indeed. But it’s a needed one. This marriage treaty is the only defense our kingdom has against a wholesale invasion. The old King of Halyia has pledged that as long as you belong to his house, their renowned iron army will never set foot on our soil.“To be in his house,” Rain said again, the words like ash on her tongue. “To be part of Prince Thunder. One day He will be King and you shall be His Queen. In all their steel and armor, Halyians do not at all have a gift you possess. You are empathetic. You have a listening heart. Don’t let their coldness dry your spirit. Remember, no matter how soft, water will eventually erode away the strongest stone, given enough time.”

Rain swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded. Leaning forward she buried her face in her mother’s shoulder, breathing in the familiar soothing aroma of sandalwood and sea air for the last time.

Two hours later she was climbing aboard the big royal galley. Rain didn’t look away as the oars hit the water and the white towers of Aethelgard began to recede. She gazed until the golden shore of Balaera was a thin, glimmering line on the horizon, swallowed whole by the huge, endless blue.

The crossing didn’t occur all at once, but a long torturous theft of color and warmth, from south to north.

As the three week voyage continued the air grew thinner and more acrid. The blue of the sea turned roiling dark slate gray. Before Rain had been forced to abandon her beloved silks, the royal carriage sent by the Halyian crown to meet her at the northern port had begun the hard climb into the hazardous jagged peaks of the northern mountain ranges.

She sat inside the large, cramped wooden carriage draped in a thick, suffocating wool cloak quickly bought for her by her ladies-in-waiting at the ports. Her skin, typically a golden hue from the sun, grew pale, shocked, translucent white against the dark fabric. Outside the glazed windows the scenery seemed terrifyingly vast. Dark bruised sky loomed above and fierce iron pikes of towering snow-capped peaks pierced it. Massive, ancient pines stood along the narrow, twisting dirt roads like silent, frozen sentinels.

And then, out of the swirling grey fog like a sleeping beast, rose the capital.

The Obsidian Citadel was no beautiful palace. It was a fortification constructed for war. Its huge walls of dark volcanic stone soared hundreds of feet into the sky, carved right out of the steep face of the tallest mountain peak. High narrow windows peered like suspicious slit eyes at the approach. The great gates of iron, studded with huge steel spikes, swung wide to admit the carriage into the outer courtyard.

The Mountain Citadel of Halyia

The sudden hush inside the cabin when the carriage drew to a stop was startling. The sole sound was the fierce winter wind moaning against the thick wooden doors.

A Halyian guard, his terrifyingly massive plate armor clanking loudly with every step, threw open the door. A blast of chilly, freezing air entered the carriage, and Rain gasped as the cold bit hard into her lungs.Princess Rain of Balaera,” the guard said, his voice devoid of any warmth or hospitality. “Welcome to the Obsidian Citadel. The royal family is waiting for you in the Grand Hall.”

Rain drew a deep, steadying breath. 'Stone wears away water' she told herself. She collected the thick folds of her woolen cloak, lifted her chin and stepped out onto the hard frost-covered ground.

Walking through the stronghold was a sensory blast. The flooring were of rough-hewn granite, cold enough to bleed through the thick soles of her leather boots. The passageways were narrow and twisty, lit only by flickering iron torches that threw long, dancing shadows on the windowless walls. The air was thick with the smell of burning firewood, aged stone and the metallic taste of iron.

Finally the guards arrived to a pair of huge iron doors. With a low, resonant groan the doors swung inward, exposing the Grand Hall.

The area was big with a huge stone hearth at the far end where what looked like an entire tree trunk was burning giving out an intense, crackling heat. Long tables of strong, dark oak flanked the edges of the hall. The stoic, quiet Halyian lords and women sat at them in thick furs and dark, practical leathers.

The Halyian royal family stood in the front of the room, before the royal dais. Rain knew him immediately, the old, sickly King, his crown heavy on a face furrowed with disease. Beside him were two little girls, whom she would later discover were Princess Sahara and Princess River, staring at her with wide, inquiring eyes.

But it was the man standing right in front of the dais that made Rain’s breath seize in her throat.

Prince Thunder.

He was the heir to the Halyia throne, twenty years of age and terrifyingly physically imposing. He was well over six feet tall and broad and powerful, filling out his black leather riding armor with menacing authority. His short, wild black hair seemed to have been recently tossed by the mountain wind. His face was sharp and angular, with a powerful, clenched jaw and a nose slightly bent, rugged, as if broken in a childhood conflict.

But it was his eyes that had her captive. Completely. They were a stormy gray, penetrating, the color of a fierce storm over a winter sea.

Rain walked down the long granite aisle, and the whole hall sank into a stifling dead quiet. All eyes were on the exotic golden-haired princess from the south who appeared far too frail for their terrible world. Rain looked at Thunder, without looking down, not letting him see her trembling knees.

“King Othmar. Prince Thunder,” Rain said, her melodic voice cutting through the heavy silence of the hall like a silver bell. “I am Princess Rain of Balaera. I come in the name of peace, to offer my hand and my heart to your noble house.”

For one long tortured time nobody said. The ancient King nodded faintly, a glint of approval in his worn eyes.

But Prince Thunder remained still. His boots were firm on the granite floor, his massive arms crossing across his large chest. His stormy gray eyes moved slowly, methodically over her, noting the pallor of her skin, the sun-golden hair, the delicate elegance of her posture. There was no adulation in his eyes, just pure cold that dripped from them. There was a chill arrogance that hit you like a physical blow.

Thunder slowly uncrossed his arms and stepped down from the dais. He took every stride with a hard, deliberate, predatory tread. He came to a stop immediately in front of her, his huge form shutting out all the warmth from the great blaze behind him. He moved so close into her personal space that Rain could smell the cold wind, the aroma of horse leather, and the faint, clean scent of cedar clinging to him.

An unexpected, frightening wave of raw physical chemistry exploded between the two, an invisible current that made the air suddenly dense and hard to breathe. Her heart thudded urgently against her ribs. She gazed up, her sea-foam green eyes meeting his stormy ones.

Thunder stretched out, his thick, rough palm stained with mud from the training ground, catching her tiny, delicate hand to lift her from her curtsy. As soon as his flesh made contact with hers, an electric charge seemed to flow between them. Thunder’s eyes flared, and for the barest fraction of a second there was a flicker of astonishment, a tightening of his grip. Then his features hardened again into a mask of emotionlessness.

He did not kiss the back of her hand, as a gentleman should. He only held it, his thumb grazing her smooth skin with a rough, contemptuous pressure. “You’re small, Princess.” Thunder’s voice was a deep, powerful growl that vibrated right through Rain’s chest. It was a magnificent, dangerous sound, like a roll of thunder over a far-off valley. “And you look as if a strong north wind might break you in two.”

The remark was delivered with a quiet, biting arrogance that made the lords around them whisper. Rain felt a scorching flash of wrath flare up in her chest, melting the cold that had begun to settle in her veins. “Prince Thunder, the wind has tried to break many things in Balaera,” Rain said in a low, urgent whisper that only he could hear. She didn’t tear her hand away, but instead clutched his hand, her thin fingers startling him with their rebellious power against his calloused palm. “But our towers stand and our people still smile. “Don’t confuse my mercy for weakness.

Thunder’s jaw tightened, a muscle in his cheek twitching. His gaze dropped for a dangerous, lingering second to her full, trembling lips before snapping back to her eyes. His irises, stormy, flashed with black possessive intensity, a sudden territorial knowledge that this soft, golden creature was suddenly his, even if he didn’t want her. “We shall see, Princess,” Thunder said gently, his voice full of cold cynicism. With a dismissive flick of his hand he released her grasp, as though she were but a nuisance. “Halyia kills things that don’t move with the times. Welcome to your new home.

Thunder without more word turned his back on her, marched back up the dais and resumed his seat beside his father, his face entirely closed off and hostile.

Rain stood alone in the middle of the big, frigid hall, her hand still tingling with the stunning heat of his touch, her heart thrumming with a dangerous combination of fury and dread. Her eyes darted from the cold stone walls, to the dark sky outside, and finally to the arrogant prince that held her future in his hands.

The fight has started. And Rain knew, without the least shadow of a doubt, that she would have to either melt the ice in Prince Thunder’s heart, or be buried beneath it forever.