EIGHT #2
I think of my place here. How much has changed, how much I’ve changed. I’m not walking into this as the girl who barely survived.
The bond hums beneath my skin. In this short time, it’s become something I lean into without thinking. It changed everything. And I know not everyone will accept what we are.
I inhale deeply through my nose and exhale a controlled breath through my mouth. Once. Twice. A third time. Counting my breaths helps settle the unease curling in my stomach, the same technique Valen taught me to center myself when wielding.
Control your breath. Control your mind.
It doesn’t make the nerves disappear, but it keeps me from fraying at the edges.
Beside me, Thane glances down at me, assessing.
“Nervous?” he asks, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips.
“I definitely am,” I admit, my voice quieter than I mean for it to be.
His fingers tighten around mine, a reassuring squeeze.
“He will love you,” he says. “Just like my mother would have. No matter what’s changed in him over the years, I know his heart.”
The words settle deeply, unexpected and grounding all at once.
I hold his gaze for a moment longer, then nod.
As the massive doors swing open, the sheer grandeur of the space unfolds before me. The room is vast, heavy with history. Dark beams stretch overhead, the stone walls softened by crimson and black tapestries embroidered with the victories of the Fire Clan. The space is glorious, built for a ruler.
The floor is layered with rich rugs, their warmth dulling the echo of our steps. A large bed stands against the far wall, carved from dark wood, its presence commanding but not indulgent. Everything is orderly and maintained.
To one side, a fireplace sits cold, the season making its heat unnecessary. Nearby, a table and chairs suggest quiet conversations once held here by the Lord and Lady of the realm.
On the opposite wall, a large map of Lumoria stretches nearly from floor to ceiling—the same tapestry that hangs in Thane’s room.
Its presence here makes me pause. The weight of history, of war, of the ever-changing borders of the realm, a silent reminder of the world beyond these walls.
Scattered throughout the room, several members of the household staff move with quiet efficiency. A woman smooths the bedding. A man adjusts items on a nearby table. Others tend to the Warlord who once ruled these halls, with a gentle hand.
They have not abandoned him.
Thane steps forward. I follow.
Elira enters behind us. I glance back, raising a brow slightly. She gives a small, reassuring nod.
I return it, grateful she understands without words.
The doors close behind us with a heavy thud.
In the sitting area, Thane’s father sits on a long, cushioned couch.
He looks older than I expected. The golden hair I saw in the family portrait has gone entirely gray, his beard neatly trimmed, his face lined not just with age, but with something heavier.
He wears simple clothes, a dark tunic, casual trousers, but even they seem slightly loose on him, as if he has lost weight he never meant to lose.
A pair of reading glasses rests on the bridge of his nose, an unexpected detail that softens the image of the warlord I had imagined.
Beside him, a chamber attendant sits close, speaking gently, coaxing him to eat. A plate rests on the low table before him, holding fresh fruit, eggs, and bacon. The meal is mostly untouched.
There is something strangely intimate about the scene—this once-mighty ruler, draped in the quiet comforts of his quarters, not commanding armies but being cared for.
Thane’s posture goes rigid beside me. I feel it in the way his breathing shifts, the way his fingers flex once at his side before stilling.
The attendant looks up at our approach and bows her head. “My Lord,” she murmurs before rising.
She hesitates, glancing at the untouched plate.
Thane’s voice is quiet but firm. “It’s all right. Leave it. I will feed him.”
She nods once before stepping away, disappearing into the background of the room like the others.
I turn back to his father.
He sits in silence, his gaze fixed somewhere ahead of him, unfocused. His shoulders slope forward, his hands resting loosely in his lap, as though even lifting them would take more effort than he has to give.
I expect something: a reaction or recognition of Thane’s presence. But when his eyes finally lift, it is sluggish, as though he’s pushing through something thick and impenetrable just to focus.
And then he sees him.
For a moment, the only sounds are the quiet creak of the wooden beams above us and the soft rustling of the chamber attendants moving about the room.
Then something shifts, barely perceptible.
His gaze lingers on Thane, as though trying to reconcile memory with what stands before him now. But it’s not the sharp appraisal of a father sizing up his son or the warmth of a reunion long overdue.
A faint crease forms between his brows, as if somewhere beneath the weight of it all, he understands that time has passed and that the boy he once knew is gone.
But whatever flickers behind his eyes, he does not speak.
Thane doesn’t either.
I glance at him, at the rigid set of his jaw, the way his fingers flex once against his thigh before stilling again. Whatever emotions churn beneath the surface, he keeps them locked away beneath that quiet, unshakable control he has spent years perfecting.
And yet, I see it.
The hesitation. The weight of all the years lost between them.
Then, his father’s eyes drift to me.
There is no curiosity or judgment. Just a flicker of acknowledgment; a labored nod, as though anything more would take effort he cannot afford to give.
I offer a small smile. I’m not sure he sees it before his attention slips away again.
Thane moves to the couch to sit beside his father, settling into the space the attendant left behind.
With a small motion of his chin, he gestures for me to sit across from them.
As I do, Thane picks up the plate, balanced with fruit, eggs, and bacon, and cuts a piece of the food with careful precision.
Then, gently, he offers it.
I hold my breath.
For a moment, nothing happens. His father’s fingers keep moving against the worn wooden arm of his chair. Over and over, they follow the same familiar path, tracing grooves so deep they’ve darkened with age.
Without looking at Thane, he opens his mouth and takes the offered bite. His fingers never stop moving.
A swell of emotion nearly overtakes me.
It is a small thing. It shouldn’t feel like anything at all. And yet, sitting here, watching Thane patiently feed the father who once ruled these halls—it feels fragile. Something so pure and beautiful.
Thane doesn’t rush. Doesn’t falter. He offers another bite, and another. His father takes each forkful with great effort, but he doesn’t resist.
The attendant returns, her steps light as she approaches. She pauses, taking in the scene. Then exhales, soft with relief.
“That’s great,” she says warmly. “I’m so glad you got him to eat.”
She smiles at Thane, a genuine expression of appreciation. Thane looks up at her, his own smile small but real. Quieter than the ones I’ve seen before. Unguarded.
His father finishes the last of his breakfast, the plate nearly empty. Thane reaches for the glass of juice and holds it out.
His father stares at it for several long moments, his expression unreadable. The silence stretches.
Thane does not rush him. He simply waits, the glass secure in his grasp. It’s a patience I’m not used to seeing from him—so different from the sharp, relentless focus he carries into training and sparring. There, he pushes, demands, never allowing hesitation to linger.
But here, with his father, he does none of that. He only waits.
After a long moment, his father lifts his arms with considerable effort. His hands close around the glass, his fingers trembling slightly as he brings it to his lips.
Thane gives a single, almost imperceptible nod.
His father doesn’t notice. Or if he does, he gives no sign of it. He drinks in measured swallows, gaze distant, as though each one requires more effort than it should.
When he finishes, he holds the glass away from him, wordless, his hands trembling with the effort. Thane takes it from him, just as quietly, and sets it back on the table.
He exhales softly, then speaks. “Hello, Father. It’s good to see you.”
No response. His father’s gaze remains unfocused, somewhere far beyond the room.
Thane doesn’t falter.
“I want to introduce you to someone.” He gestures toward me. “This is Amara Thalor. The Spiritborn. Bonded rider to dragon Calryx. Wielder of all four elements.”
A pause.
“And my lady.”
The words settle between us, heavy enough to feel. My heart stirs at the way he said them, each title carrying its own gravity—but it is the last that lingers. Not just a statement of fact, but of choice.
Thane looks at me, his eyes twinkling with a kind of ease I haven’t seen before.
“Amara,” he says. “This is my father, Lord Eryndor Caelum.”
I turn fully to the man before me. Not just as Thane’s father or the former Warlord of the Fire Clan, but as he is now. Distant. Worn. The Sadness of the Heart draped over him like a heavy cloak.
I incline my head. “It’s an honor to meet you, my lord.”
For a moment, I wonder if he will respond. If my presence means anything to him at all.
Lord Eryndor’s eyes shift, just enough to meet mine. They are hazel, almost golden. Once, I think, they must have burned with fire and purpose.
But now, they are dull. The light in them has faded.
But for this moment, he sees me.
I smile, hoping—willing him to speak. Not for my sake, but for Thane’s. Because I know how much it would mean for his father to say something. Anything.
A long breath passes.
Then, almost lagging, “Hello, Amara.”
His voice is rough, gravelly, like it hasn’t been used in a long time. The sound of it settles into the room.
My breathing stalls. Across from me, Thane goes still.