THREE #2
“That man is wrapped around your finger,” Lyra murmurs. But instead of her usual teasing, she says it with something close to wonder.
I glance at my best friend. Her eyes are shining.
Sera is watching her, a warm smile playing at the corner of her lips.
Before turning to leave, Sera pauses in the doorway, watching me take it all in.
“Don’t worry,” she says dryly. “I’m completely confident you can transform the rest of this room—like you did Thane.”
Lyra snickers. I press my lips together, holding back a laugh.
Sera turns to my best friend leaning against the doorframe. “Come on, Lyra. I’ll make sure your room isn’t in the dungeon.”
Without explanation, she slips an arm around Lyra’s shoulders, taking some of her weight. Lyra’s cheeks color, but she doesn’t resist the kindness.
I catch Sera’s eye and smile my thanks. She nods once, then pulls the door shut with her free hand.
The latch clicks closed.
And I’m alone in his space.
My gaze drifts across the room as I let out a breath, rubbing the back of my neck, the significance of it settling over me.
He’s my trainer.
My ally in war.
Protector of the Spiritborn.
Warlord to the realm.
And in ways I never expected—he has become my whole world.
I should be annoyed. Not long ago I would have marched back down those halls to argue, furious he made this choice for me.
But now?
Now I’m . . . thrilled.
He’s still the most infuriating man I’ve ever met. But I’ve finally stopped lying to myself. This thing between us? It’s not just about the bond or the battlefield.
It’s so much more.
I laugh out loud, pressing a hand to my mouth, unable to contain the swell in my chest.
As my eyes dart around the room, my gaze catches on a tapestry hanging on the far wall, stretching nearly from floor to ceiling.
It’s a map of Lumoria.
I step closer. The woven fabric is rich with history, every thread telling a story—a reflection of the world as it was meant to be. The four great clans, each marked in their colors—Earth in deep green, Air in silver-white, Water in blue, and Fire in crimson gold.
Their lands are etched across the weave like veins of power stretching through the realm. Interlocking. Interdependent. A world built on balance and unity.
And though the Fire Clan resides in the south, it still anchors the rest of the realm with the weight of purpose, woven not as conquerors, but as protectors.
My thoughts travel back to the records kept by the Shadow Clan during the Shadow Wars. I wonder what else Valen is uncovering as he excavates the truth from that history.
The myth we’ve all been told. The truth we all chose to believe.
I let my fingers hover just above the fabric, tracing the lands stitched into history. I’ve seen maps of Lumoria before—we studied the clans and their histories in school. The lessons come back to me as my eyes sweep over the expansive fabric.
But for the first time, I find myself wondering if the tapestry tells the whole story—or only the one the Fire Clan wanted remembered.
The Fire Clan’s lands blaze across the south, their deep reds and golds dominating the weave. The seat of power lies in these fortresses, volcanic ridges, and sprawling cities. It is the heart of the realm.
To the west, the Water Clan’s waters glisten in dark navy and turquoise; their rivers twist and flow into the sea, their ports stitched in looping patterns, built for trade and movement.
To the east, the Air Clan’s lands rise in soft grays and pale blues, vast and open, their cliffs reaching toward the sky. Their capital is built into a mountain.
And to the north, the Earth Clan’s forests stretch in deep greens and browns, their land carved with fields and valleys, their mountains holding the realm together like an unshaken foundation. My clan.
I step closer, letting my fingers pass over the tapestry’s surface. The fabric is dense, textured, the threads woven so tightly that they feel like the land itself—rugged in the mountains, smooth where the rivers have been stitched in shimmering silver.
Each region is marked, labeled, their borders outlined with careful precision.
I exhale.
Fire.
Water.
Air.
Earth.
The same four woven through my magics. The same Elements I carry inside me.
In school, we were taught the realm had once been divided—each clan isolated, fighting over land and resources.
But the tapestry shows them united—stitched together in gold and crimson thread. A realm restored after the Shadow Wars. No more fractures. No more fighting.
But as my fingers move across the weave, something inside me tightens.
It’s all here.
And yet . . . it isn’t.
The image is whole, but it doesn’t feel complete.
Like a song missing a final note.
A truth edited for display.
I trail my fingers lower, past the Fire Clan’s borders down, down, down.
To the Forsaken Lands.
A barren stretch of gray thread. Lifeless. Empty. Just as Valen showed me in his lessons.
But the map can’t capture the truth of it—the way the land breathes. Shifts. Watches.
No kingdom claims it. No army dares to cross it. It is a graveyard of the Shadow Clan.
I press my palm fully against the tapestry, feeling the thickness of the fabric beneath my skin.
Feeling the absence of what should be here.
The space where something should still remain.
And he comes to mind.
Thane.
A flicker of warmth follows, unfurling low in my chest. Subtle. Faint.
The bond stirs.
My hand rests over the place the world forgot—and I think of him. Of his bloodline. Of everything buried.
The bond tightens, sharp and sudden, like it knows exactly where my thoughts have gone.
Valen’s voice echoes in my mind:
“Legends say the land is cursed. That it devours those who enter, twisting their minds, making them disappear.”
I see him again, standing at the old table in the war room, pointing to this very spot, expression grim.
“The air is thick with old magics,” he’d said. “Remnants of what was lost bleeding through fractures in reality. Some say the land shifts, that paths once taken do not lead to the same place twice.”
But what unsettles me most isn’t the land.
It’s what waits within it.
Selene.
Valen said the Shadeheart commands her forces from deep within the ruins, hidden in a fortress of obsidian and shadow.
Some believe she built it upon the wreckage of an ancient citadel, a place of power before the fall.
Others whisper that it has always been there, older than the clans, older than the war itself.
Waiting.
The Shadow Forces gather there, growing stronger.
Because the Shadeheart isn’t hiding.
She’s preparing.
And the only thing keeping her from spilling into Lumoria—into the realm we call home—are the wards. Ancient magics, bound to dragonkind, protecting our borders.
For now.
“The wards hold,” Valen had said, “as long as the dragons do.”
But for the first time in three decades, no new dragons have hatched, and no one knows why. If the wards fail—if the last remnants of that magics falter—then nothing will keep the Shadeheart out.
My gaze drifts, fingers trailing upwards along the weave.
And then I tilt my head.
My fingers still over the center of the map.
A thickly forested section. Unmarked. Unclaimed. A vast stretch of land with no name, no sigil, no claim of rule.
What’s there?
The maps we studied in school showed a much smaller, wooded area. But this area is massive. Larger than any other clan region.
A thought takes root, quiet but insistent.
What other history has been rewritten?
I inhale deeply, rubbing the back of my neck, blaming it on exhaustion. On the weight of the day.
Then turn away from the map, letting it blur into the background.
I keep moving, telling myself I’m just getting my bearings.
But the truth is—I’m looking for something.
Something that makes Thane more than the Warlord. More than the man the realm sees.
I frown, my fingers brushing against the edge of the desk. It’s simple, stained dark, and covered in parchment and reports.
And then I see it.
Something small, tucked between stacks of documents.
A dagger.
My fingers hover over it, tracing the air just above the hilt.
It’s not like the others on the wall. Those blades are pristine, polished, maintained with the precision of a man prepared for battle at all times.
But this is worn, the leather wrapping smoothed by use. Not a ceremonial blade or a weapon meant for war.
Why is it here in his private quarters? Why doesn’t he carry it with him?
The moment my fingers brush against the hilt, something shifts.
Another flicker of warmth beneath my skin, a presence just at the edges of my awareness.
The bond.
My fingers linger, waiting to see if the feeling deepens. But as quickly as it came, it settles. The bond isn’t pulling. It’s simply there—quiet, dependable, waiting.
I don’t let myself dwell on the map, the dagger, or any of it.
Because gods, I’m exhausted.
A nap. Yes, a nap would be good. My muscles are screaming after healing Lyra.
Then I see the bath.
The most luxurious tub I’ve ever laid eyes on.
That is clearly what I’m supposed to do.
I run the water and begin to strip my clothes. When the tub is full and the steam rising, I slip in. The warm water from the bath eases the tension in my muscles, but it doesn’t do much to clear my head.
Everything from the past few days continues to swirl around and around in my mind. It’s almost unbelievable how much has happened: the worm, Lyra almost dying, the chamber, being able to read the markings left in the Shadow Clan ruins, the records we unearthed and our arrival at the capital.
I dry off, slip into a sleeping gown pulled from my bag, and climb into Thane’s bed before I can convince myself to make sense of all that happened today.
The furs are soft and heavy. For the first time in days, I let myself drop into a very deep, dreamless sleep.