TWENTY-THREE #2
Valen looks at him briefly before turning back toward me. “You need to be careful. Power like that—it has consequences.”
A heavy silence settles between us. Thane’s grip still hasn’t loosened. His breathing is still too controlled, too sharp, too measured.
“Next time,” Valen continues, more quietly now, though no less serious, “you may not be able to pull yourself back.”
I swallow. Because for the first time I wonder if he’s right. But part of me knows he’s wrong. I had Calryx and Thane with me.
I feel Thane’s gaze on me even after Valen steps away. He hasn’t moved. Hasn’t let go. And I know what this is. Fear.
Fear that I pushed too far. Fear that I’ll do it again. Fear that next time, I won’t come back.
“Thane.”
He doesn’t speak. Just watches me. Just holds me.
But I don’t know what to say to him. Because I know he isn’t afraid of my power.
He’s afraid of losing me.
I exhale shakily, staggering on wobbly legs, the Elemental force inside me still raw. My body feels strange—like it belongs to me and yet somehow doesn’t. Like I left too much of myself inside the power I unleashed.
Thane is still holding me upright, his grip like iron.
The ballroom falls eerily silent.
But my ears still ring with the echoes of battle—the ring of steel, the screams, the hiss of fire meeting shadow. Now, there is only the quiet aftermath. Bodies litter the floor. Some are shadow creatures, nothing but wisps of darkness curling into the air, fading into nothingness.
Others are not.
The silence doesn’t last.
A ragged sob breaks through it. Then another. A sharp, keening wail rises through the ruined ballroom.
People begin snapping out of their shock all at once, horror crashing over them in brutal waves. Cries of grief, of pain, of relief erupt from every direction. Figures stumble through the wreckage, searching desperately for loved ones, shaking fallen bodies, praying for breath that will never come.
Blood stains the marble—red and black, life and shadow mingled together.
A woman screams as she clutches a lifeless body to her chest, rocking back and forth as though she can somehow force life back into it. Nearby, a man staggers through the debris with one hand pressed tightly against a wound in his side, his face pale with shock.
Healers burst into the ballroom, moving with frantic urgency, their robes already streaked with blood before they even kneel beside the fallen.
Rowena’s voice rises above the chaos as she shouts orders, directing survivors and securing the wounded.
Beside me, Thane sighs, and the last traces of emotion disappear behind the mask of command.
The Warlord.
The leader.
The man who now has to answer for everything that just happened.
“Stay safe,” he says, already slipping back into command.
I blink. “I—”
“Garrick,” Thane calls over his shoulder.
He appears almost immediately, blood still splattered across his tunic as his sharp eyes sweep over me in quick assessment.
I follow his gaze down. To the ruins of my dress, torn and singed, the once-rich crimson fabric now tattered, streaked with soot and blood.
I look back at Thane. At what the battle has done to him. His clothes are slashed and scorched, smeared with blackened shadow residue and blood from wounds not yet treated.
The cuts. The bruises already forming.
And still, he stands like iron.
“Take her to rest,” Thane says. “She needs it.”
I bristle. “I’m fine—”
Thane’s gaze snaps to mine. “You’re not. Remember what Valen said.”
The words land like a stone in my chest, quiet but absolute. I can’t even argue.
His eyes linger on me a moment too long.
Then he turns away, already shifting back into the Warlord, already preparing for the endless hours of council meetings, damage control, and leadership the realm will demand from him before the night is over.
“It’s going to take hours,” he mutters under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair.
And just like that, he’s gone, striding toward the shattered remains of the council as responsibility closes around him once again.
Garrick nudges my shoulder.
“What does Calryx call you? Virelya? ‘Little Flame, right?’” Garrick chuckles softly. “Come on, Little Storm. Let’s get you somewhere warm before you collapse in the middle of the ballroom.”
I want to argue. But exhaustion is creeping in, pressing down on me like a weighted cloak. And Thane was right. My body is barely holding together. For the first time since the battle started, I let myself feel just how much has already been taken from me.
Garrick guides me out of the ruined ballroom, his arm firm around my waist. We pass shattered chandeliers, scorched marble, and the remnants of a battle that never should have touched a place meant for celebration.
I lean into him as we move through the wreckage.
A sudden chill cuts through my exhaustion.
Kieran.
I jerk my head toward Garrick, my breath catching. “Kieran—he’s—”
“Alive,” Garrick cuts in before I can finish.
Relief slams into me hard enough to make my knees buckle. Garrick’s grip tightens around me before I can fold to the floor.
“He took a bad hit, but the healers are with him. He’ll be fine,” Garrick continues. Then his lips twitch into a smirk. “Very alive. And very pissed off.”
My brows rise. “Pissed off?”
“Oh yeah,” Garrick says, crossing his arms. “Apparently, he didn’t appreciate getting knocked out of the fight. Something about ‘not needing a godsdamn rescue’ while bleeding all over the floor.”
I exhale sharply, somewhere between a laugh and a sob, pressing a hand to my forehead. “That sounds like him.”
“That’s what I said,” Garrick chuckles. “So naturally, he told me to go fuck myself.”
I let out a real laugh this time, shaky but genuine. “That definitely sounds like him.” I draw in a breath. “And Lyra? I saw her helping some of the wounded.”
“She’s a spitfire, that one. As fiery as the red in her hair,” Garrick muses, a rare softness in his voice. Then his expression pinches slightly. “Wouldn’t listen to me for a second when I told her to get to the dais with the other guests. She wouldn’t leave my side.”
“The woman nearly died only days ago, and tonight she’s fighting Fellborn.” He shakes his head, the memory clearly still rattling him. “Nearly gave me a heart attack when she lunged at a group of Fellborn on her own.”
“That’s Lyra,” I murmur, exhaustion dragging at my bones.
Realization hits hard, and I turn to Garrick, my brows furrowing. “Are your parents . . . ”
I trail off, afraid of the answer.
Garrick smiles. “They’re fine. They got out of the ballroom before the fighting got too bad. And before you ask, yes, Jarek and Rian are fine. And Row. And Sera.” He lets out a low whistle. “Considering everything, we were lucky so many channelers and soldiers were at the ball.”
Relief washes over me and a thought occurs to me.
“Garrick, where did everyone get weapons? I thought weapons were not allowed at formal ceremonies, except for the Warlord.”
Garrick looks at me questioning. “Has Valen not taught you about summoning?”
My eyes widen.
“Ah, I see. Future lesson then. Also, we have weapons stashed in secret compartments in every large space in the castle for reasons exactly like tonight.”
But I can’t think about it. Everything aches. My body. My mind.
The magics are still inside me, raw and jagged beneath my skin, curling through my veins like something restless and unfinished. The ache left behind feels vast enough to swallow me whole.
Every step feels harder than the last. My limbs grow heavier beneath me, exhaustion bleeding through my muscles faster than I can fight it. My breathing slows, but my ribs still feel too tight, like my body has forgotten how to fully draw air.
I don’t realize how badly I’m fading until Garrick sighs beside me, long and dramatic.
“You’re moving like an old woman,” he mutters, adjusting his grip on my arm like he’s already preparing to catch me.
I try to glare at him, but the effort barely sticks. “I’d like to see you wield four elements at once and still be standing after.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re terrifying,” Garrick drawls. “Now let’s get you somewhere—”
A door swings open ahead of us.
I barely have time to react before Lyra barrels into me.
“Amara!”
Her arms slam around me hard enough to drive what little breath I have left from my lungs.
Pain flashes through me instantly. Bruised muscles. Frayed magics. Exhaustion woven deep into my bones. I wince before I can stop myself.
“Lyra,” I wheeze.
She pulls back just enough for me to see her face—flushed, streaked with sweat, her emerald dress in tatters, the rich fabric torn and smeared with blood. Dark streaks stain the shredded sleeves, the once-elegant gown ruined by battle.
But her eyes . . .
Gods, her eyes are wide and wild, overflowing with emotion.
“What the fuck was that?” she demands, her voice sharp despite the tremor beneath it.
“You didn’t just fight, Amara. You—gods, I don’t even have words for what you did.
” Her fingers tighten around my arms to convince herself that I’m still standing.
“You didn’t see yourself,” she breathes, shaking her head.
“You weren’t fighting. You were the storm. ”
Unease curls low in my stomach.
Because I remember how it felt. The pull of it. The raw, unchecked power. The moment it nearly swallowed me whole.
And Lyra saw all of it.
“It wasn’t—” I start, but she cuts me off immediately.
“Don’t you dare say it wasn’t a big deal.” Her grip tightens again. “I saw what it did to you.”
“I won,” I say instead, my voice duller than I intend.
She stares at me in disbelief. “That’s not the point, Amara.” Her voice cracks around my name. “You didn’t just win. You broke something in the air. In the way magics works. You—”
She stops abruptly, dragging a hand through her sweat-damp hair.
“I thought I lost you.”
The words land harder than all the others.
I blink. “Lyra—”