TEN #2
“Lyra,” I hiss, reaching out to shush her. “Don’t tempt fate.”
“Fate be damned. You’re the Spiritborn. The gods chose you. So clearly you were meant to bring me back—and that means they chose me too.” She winks.
I roll my eyes.
“You’re the worst.”
“And alive,” she shoots back, grinning.
I open my mouth to argue, but the words stall.
Alive.
The word lands differently now. For a moment, I see it again—the way her body went still, the way the world seemed to stop around her.
The way I thought—
I blink hard, forcing the memory away.
Lyra is still watching me, her grin softening just slightly.
“Hey,” she says, quieter now. “I’m here.”
I nod, swallowing past the tightness in my throat.
“Yeah,” I say, pushing a piece into place a little harder than necessary. “You are.”
Rowena knocks on Lyra’s door and steps inside without waiting for a response.
“Dinner’s ready,” she says, arms crossed as she leans against the doorframe.
“Excellent! I’m starving.” Lyra says, stretching her legs out in front of her.
“Thane’s still at the Water Clan outpost?” I ask as we step out into the hall.
“Yes,” Rowena confirms. “The strategy meeting is taking longer than expected.”
I nod, trying not to let the hollow pang in my chest settle too deep. The bond feels distant, a faint pulse at the edge of my awareness, just out of reach.
Rowena angles her head towards Lyra.
“Your man is with Thane.” she grins. “I have to say—I love that the two of you are together. It just makes sense.”
Lyra snorts. “Careful. Keep talking like that and I’ll start thinking you’re sentimental.”
I glance at Lyra, catching the faintest flicker of something softer beneath her grin.
“Does that mean you and Sera are our entertainment for the evening?” Lyra asks, bumping her shoulder against Rowena’s, grinning.
“Gods help me,” Rowena mutters.
Lyra cackles, and I shake my head, smiling as we make our way to dinner.
The halls we walk through are unfamiliar to me.
They feel older than the ones near our rooms, their stone walls lined with intricate carvings of warriors and dragons locked in eternal battle.
The sconces burn with blue-tinged flame, casting shifting shadows over aged murals—scenes of past wars, great victories, and solemn oaths sworn in blood and fire.
The air is cooler here, carrying the faint scent of old parchment and polished stone, as though these corridors have been walked by countless generations before us.
We turn a corner, and the space opens.
The narrow hall gives way to a wide passage, the ceiling rising high above us, vaulted and grand.
Banners hang from the arches, bearing the insignias of ancient houses.
Tall, narrow windows spill slants of golden light across the polished floors, stretching the corridor into something vast. Almost reverent.
Our footsteps echo faintly, a quiet reminder of how small we are against the history etched into these walls.
Portraits line the corridor in gilded frames, their painted eyes seeming to follow as we pass.
The faces are stern, regal—former Warlords and their families, their expressions frozen in time.
Some wear the armor of their era, others are dressed in ceremonial robes, but each carries the same unmistakable weight of leadership.
Lyra and I slow, drawn in.
My gaze lingers on one—an imposing woman with dark braids, a golden cloak fastened over her shoulder, a dragon’s head sigil embroidered into the fabric.
Rowena notices and gestures toward them as if it’s nothing out of the ordinary.
“The Warlords of the past,” she says, matter-of-fact. “And their families.”
I scan the line again. Some are older. Others younger.
And then I see them. Women.
Standing just as proud, their portraits taking up as much space as their male predecessors.
“There were female Warlords?”
Rowena nods. “In the past two centuries, there were two. The Fire Clan doesn’t care about bloodlines as much as strength. If you prove yourself, you lead.”
She says it simply. Like it’s fact.
I frown, looking back at the portraits.
I always thought of the Fire Clan as patriarchal—especially with Vaerion, the God of Fire, at its center. Where I come from, leadership is chosen through elections. Women hold power as often as men. We are a matriarchal society because of Saela, the Goddess of Earth.
But here . . . the history tells a different story.
My gaze shifts back to Rowena.
Thane has told me about how fierce she is in battle. I’ve seen the way people listen when she speaks, the way they move when she gives an order.
And I know how close she came.
“And you would have?” I ask quietly.
Rowena’s mouth curves, not quite a smile.
“Would have,” she says. “But it wasn’t my time.” A beat. “And I’m grateful Thane stepped forward.”
My thoughts drift to Thane as we walk, the realization settling deeper than I expect. He didn’t just inherit this. He proved himself.
And somehow . . . I’m standing beside him.
A grand portrait hangs along the stone corridor. A family, painted in striking detail.
My steps falter.
I know those eyes.
It’s a younger version of Thane, standing beside his father, the resemblance unmistakable.
Beside them stands a woman.
Dark hair falls in soft waves over her shoulders, her features sharp and elegant—high cheekbones, full lips, smoke-gray eyes that mirror her son’s. There is a quiet authority in the way she holds herself.
She wears deep crimson, the fabric threaded with gold, a fine chain resting at her collarbone. Even in paint, she is stunning, her beauty commanding attention. Not just a noblewoman, but a queen in her own right.
My stomach tightens.
I glance at Rowena. She’s already watching me.
Her gaze shifts back to the portrait, her expression unreadable at first. Then, with a quiet sigh, she speaks.
“She was the heart of this family,” she says, her voice softer than I’ve heard it. “Our father was the Warlord, but our mother . . . she held everything together. She made people feel seen. Like nothing was too heavy for her to carry.”
A pause.
“For all his strength, even my father relied on her more than he’d ever admit.”
“Hey,” Lyra cuts in, tilting her head, “why is she wearing two rings on the same finger? Is that a Fire Clan thing?”
I look closer.
On one hand, a simple gold band. On the other, a darker ring set with onyx.
Rowena smiles faintly. “No, that’s just a special ring my father gave my mother.”
“Like an engagement ring?” Lyra offers.
Rowena shakes her head. “No. That’s this one.” She gestures toward the painting.
I follow her hand and spot the other ring.
My attention shifts.
Kastiel.
Thane looks no older than thirteen in this painting. That would make Rowena sixteen, and Kastiel nineteen.
Five years before he died.
Their father stands tall, broad-shouldered, exuding the quiet authority of a ruler who has spent a lifetime leading. His sandy hair and hazel-gold eyes look familiar, but different from the man I met earlier today.
Here, he is whole.
Composed. Commanding. A man who has carried power for a long time and knows how to wield it.
The Warlord.
I think of Thane feeding him this morning, and the contrast hits harder than I expect.
I can see both parents in the three of them. Rowena and Thane carry their mother’s dark hair and smoke-gray eyes. Kastiel has their father’s coloring. But it’s more than that—their features blend, strong jawlines, high cheekbones, the same unmistakable presence.
What strikes me most is the pride in their expressions. The ease. The closeness. This was a family, bound not by duty alone, but by something deeper.
My chest tightens, the loss tangible. Here, they are whole. Now, two are gone. And one is slipping away.
I think of my own family. I am all that remains.
The truth lands, and there’s nowhere to put it.
Then, I feel it.
An unexpected pulse in the bond.
I braced for grief—for the hollow ache of loss—but this is different.
Softer. Comforting. A brush against my thoughts, like something reaching for me.
I still.
Is that Thane?
I hold my breath, reaching back through the bond to catch that fleeting warmth before it slips away.
Lyra lets out a quiet sigh beside me—so unlike her that it draws my attention more than the portrait itself. She stands there, studying it in silence.
I wonder if she’s thinking of her parents. They’re still alive. Still whole.
I’m grateful for that. Grateful for them and how they always made room for me.
Rowena breaks the moment with a sharp clap of her hands.
“We can stand here staring at the past all night,” she says, “or we can go get drunk.”
Lyra brightens instantly. “Let’s go get drunk.”