NINE #2
The way he always pulled me to my feet after a grueling training session, never letting me stay down longer than necessary. The night he caught me when I’d had too much to drink, irritation clear, but never once letting me fall. The long hours he sat beside my bed while I healed.
Or does it go back even further—to the very beginning?
To the night of the attack on my village, when my Elemental magics broke free and the world blurred at the edges. When I was blacking out, my body betraying me, my magic raging out of my control—and he was the one who caught me.
Maybe it started there.
Or was it something quieter?
The way he sought me out when I first arrived at the outpost, his presence grounding me even before I knew I needed it. The way his voice changed when it was just us.
Or maybe it was the first time I reached for him without thinking, knowing he would be there.
And he always is.
We reach the bottom of the stairs and turn left. Thane doesn’t let go of my hand as he leads us deeper into the castle, through corridors that stretch farther than I expect.
We’ve been walking for fifteen minutes.
And we’re not even close.
My entire village could fit within this space alone. The scale of it presses in, impossible to ignore.
The halls rise high around us, lined with stone pillars etched in flame, their edges catching the light from the sconces mounted along the walls. Crimson banners hang between them, the Fire Clan’s sigil repeated again and again: wings spread, rising from flame.
Everything is maintained. From the carved wooden doors we pass to the iron chandeliers above, candlelight casting long shadows across the vaulted ceilings.
Staff move through the halls with purpose, their steps quiet against the stone. Some carry trays of food, others fresh linens or stacks of documents. The place never stills.
Despite the scale, nothing feels excessive. Everything has a use.
Like its ruler.
I glance at Thane, at the ease with which he moves through these halls; he is confident and assured, as if the stronghold is simply an extension of himself.
He belongs here. But do I?
Thane glances down at me, his smoke-gray eyes sharpening. “What’s wrong?”
Of course.
The bond.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes at the damn thing.
There’s no hiding anything from him. Not the quiet awe tightening in my chest. Not the weight of realizing just how small my world was before this. Not the way my fingers unconsciously curled tighter around his.
I force a small smile. “Nothing.”
He doesn’t look convinced. His gaze lingers, searching. I feel it through the bond—his attention pressing at the edges of mine, waiting. I turn my attention forward, pretending I don’t notice. Pretending I have control over what I let him feel.
We round a corner, passing a row of arched windows that open to a courtyard far below. Even from here, I can make out the outline of training grounds, the flare of magics, the clash of steel carried faintly upward.
And still, we walk.
How did I ever think this was just a castle? It’s a fortress. A city of its own. A place built for war just as much as it was for rule.
We turn again, the corridor stretching ahead, lined with deep crimson tapestries. Halfway down, Thane stops.
A heavy wooden door stands before us, reinforced with iron, the edges carved with intricate runes that I don’t recognize.
Valen’s quarters.
Thane lifts his hand and knocks, the sound echoing around us.
The door swings open, revealing Valen, his silver-blue eyes warm, his smile easy.
“Good morning,” he says, stepping aside.
“Hi, Valen,” I reply, returning his smile.
After all these months, he has become something close to a father to me.
Reliable. Patient. A guiding presence when everything else felt uncertain.
He never replaces what I lost, but in his quiet way, he has always been there—teaching, challenging, believing in me when I struggled to believe in myself.
Standing here now, surrounded by hidden history and buried truths, I realize just how much I trust him.
Thane nods in greeting and steps inside. I follow, and the moment I step across the threshold—I feel it.
Magics.
Valen closes the door behind us, then waves a hand through the air. A faint shimmer ripples across the room, almost imperceptible, but I feel the pulse of magics sealing the space.
“Wards,” he explains. “No one outside this room can hear us.”
His quarters are nothing like the war chambers.
There’s no rigid structure here, no sharp lines or symmetry. Instead, the space is layered—books, scrolls, notes left open mid-thought, knowledge spilling into every corner.
Shelves climb the walls, packed with ancient tomes, scrolls and books. Some lie open on tables, marked with careful annotations. Faint symbols glow along the edges of certain pages, reacting softly to the magics in the room.
A wide desk sits beneath a tall window, morning light cutting across scattered notes, maps, and instruments. A small, glowing crystal hovers just above the surface, pulsing softly.
In one corner, a brass brazier rests on a raised platform, filled with ash and rune-marked coals—the kind used for scrying or ritual casting. Nearby, a tall iron stand holds several staffs, their carved handles etched with sigils.