TWENTY-EIGHT
KNOWN
There is no greater weapon to wield than hope. It can turn even the smallest among us into a warrior. A beacon for others.
—VALEN’S JOURNAL
AMARA
Thane’s quarters are tucked away in a quieter wing of the Keep, far from the chaos that rocked the ballroom. Here, the stone corridors are untouched, cool and smooth beneath our steps. There are no signs of fire or ash, and no healers rushing past. Only the echo of our boots on polished stone.
It feels like a different world from the one we fell asleep in.
We walk side by side in comfortable silence.
I glance at Thane. His jaw is set, his expression unreadable, but I can feel the weight pressing on him through the bond.
It hasn’t disappeared. If anything, it feels like it’s waiting for the first moment he’s no longer distracted enough to hold it at bay.
As we turn a corner and pass through an archway into the main corridor, the atmosphere shifts.
The quiet gives way to movement. Voices echo off the high ceilings in low, urgent tones. I catch snippets of conversation—reports, supply requests, questions about the wounded. A pair of guards pass us, offering stiff nods. Someone else murmurs a respectful, “my lord,” without breaking stride.
Already, the castle is stubbornly recovering, one step at a time.
We don’t speak. But when Thane’s hand brushes mine, he catches it and holds on, firm and quiet, as though he needs the contact to keep the rest of himself together.
I squeeze back, answering with the only thing I can give him right now: I’m here.
We continue through the corridor side by side, the Spiritborn and the Warlord moving as one.
Everyone we pass glances our way. While this is clearly nothing new for Thane, I’m still getting used to being the center of attention.
Most of the looks hold simple acknowledgments.
Some carry respect. Others reveal something deeper. Relief, perhaps. Maybe even hope.
Eventually, we reach his father’s door. The tall, flame-etched panels loom before us. The guards stationed outside offer small nods before pushing them open. As the massive doors swing inward, the quiet of the room unfolds around us.
A grouping of dark wood chairs surrounds a low table near the hearth, where cold ashes rest undisturbed this warm morning in late summer.
Lord Eryndor Caelum sits among them, slightly reclined against a throw pillow.
Light spills through the open windows, casting soft gold across the floor.
A breakfast tray rests untouched nearby.
His broad frame is wrapped in a dark robe lined with deep red, the fabric pooling around him like a shadow. His shoulders slope beneath its weight, no longer carrying themselves with the effortless authority of a warrior, though traces of the Warlord remain.
His beard is neatly trimmed, and his gray hair has been combed back, though a few stubborn strands have escaped. Deep lines mark his face, etched there by years of command, responsibility, and sacrifice.
Yet dignity still clings to him. Strength, too. Not the kind forged on a battlefield, but something quieter and no less enduring.
Maris takes careful, loving care of him and it shows. She rises as we enter, smoothing her tunic and bowing.
“My lord,” she says to Thane, then nods to me. “Spiritborn.”
Lord Eryndor’s gaze lifts. His eyes, though shadowed with fatigue, find Thane first, then me. There’s no surprise in his expression or reaction to our joined hands, only the faintest flicker of recognition.
Thane releases my hand and steps forward.
“Good morning, Father,” he says softly.
He leans down and kisses Lord Eryndor on the cheek.
For a moment, there’s no reaction. Only silence and stillness.
After a momentary delay, Lord Eryndor’s eyes crinkle.
A faint smile spreads across his face. It’s small and fragile, the kind of expression that feels as though it might disappear if anyone breathes too hard.
And I’m grateful. After everything that happened last night, Thane needs this.
He lowers himself into the seat beside his father, close enough that their shoulders nearly touch. Thane places a reassuring hand on his back, a quiet offering of comfort.
Maris gathers the tray and slips from the room with a nod, leaving the three of us in warm silence.
I ease into the chair opposite Thane, beside Lord Eryndor. A soft breeze drifts through the open windows, stirring the edges of the tapestries. It carries the scent of sun-warmed stone and distant flowers.
Thane keeps his hand on his father’s back as he speaks.
“Do you remember Amara?” he asks gently. “The Spiritborn. My Lady.”
Lord Eryndor turns his head slowly, as though moving through water. His golden-hazel eyes find mine, and for a moment he simply studies me, as if searching for something he almost remembers.
Then, with visible effort, he lifts his hand. I reach for it before the moment can slip away.
His fingers are cool and dry, his grip faint. But there is a squeeze. Weak, yes, but intentional. I squeeze back, covering his hand with my other one and holding it gently between my palms.
His eyes remain fixed on mine, and though he says nothing, something passes between us. I don’t know if it’s recognition, gratitude, or simply the comfort of being seen. Whatever it is, it feels important.
The breeze lifts a strand of hair from my cheek, and somewhere outside, a bird calls. It’s a soft, melodic reminder that the world is still turning, even after everything.
I glance across Lord Eryndor’s shoulder to Thane to find his eyes shining with emotion, softened in a way that makes my heart squeeze.
I tighten my grip on Lord Eryndor’s hand, grounding myself in both moments at once.
Thane never mentions the attack. He doesn’t speak of the wounded or the breach.
Today, he lets his father have peace. Instead, he talks about other things.
Thane tells Lord Eryndor how his brothers are doing—Garrick, Jarek, and Rian.
He shares a story about a sparring match, a ridiculous wager Garrick lost, and the way Jarek nearly choked laughing because of it.
He even mentions that Rian has somehow become the rooted one in the middle of all the chaos.
As he speaks, I watch Lord Eryndor’s fingers trace the same deliberate pattern across the worn arm of his chair that I noticed the first time Thane brought me here. The movement is sluggish, repetitive, almost instinctive—his fingertips following the same shallow grooves over and over again.
After a while, Thane’s gaze drifts past his father to where I sit across from them.
“And Garrick,” he adds, a half-smile tugging at his mouth, “has finally met his match in Lyra Durnhart, Amara’s childhood friend.”
At that, Lord Eryndor’s lips twitch with a glimmer of something old and warm. He has known these men since they were boys—watched them train, fight, and grow. For a moment, the weight behind his eyes seems to lift, if only a little.
Thane studies his father for a moment before speaking again, his voice quiet but laced with warmth.
“Oraxis misses you. He tends to stay near the castle, spending little time with the other dragons. He rarely leaves Volcaris.”
Thane has told me about his father’s massive black dragon, larger even than Xaroth. Oraxis is Xaroth’s uncle.
Losing a rider to death is devastating for a dragon, but at least there’s closure. What Oraxis endures feels crueler somehow. Every day he waits for a rider who is still alive, yet farther away than ever.
Lord Eryndor’s expression doesn’t change, but something in him seems to withdraw. His gaze drifts toward the far wall, and his shoulders sink a little farther beneath the weight of his robe.
Thane notices it too.
“Xaroth’s been restless,” he says lightly, steering the conversation elsewhere. “He loops the outpost twice before landing now, wings flared like he wants everyone watching. The others think he’s showing off.”
An almost-smile touches Lord Eryndor’s face. It never quite reaches his lips, but some of the distance leaves his eyes.
Then Thane looks at me.
“Tell him about Calryx,” he murmurs. “He should hear that from you.”
I nod, still holding Lord Eryndor’s hand in mine.
“She’s unlike any dragon I’ve ever heard of,” I begin.
“She’s clever. Blunt. Always three steps ahead of me, and she knows it.
She has shown me her love of flying high and feeling the wind beneath her wings.
And she never lets me get away with anything.
Sometimes she’s more like a mother hen than a dragon. ”
Lord Eryndor’s attention slowly settles on me.
I tell him about my village, nestled among rolling hills where wildflowers grew thick and stubborn, and where the wind carried the scent of old trees and warm earth each spring.
I tell him about my mother’s strong hands and my father’s quiet laughter.
About how everything changed the night of the attack.
A shadow passes through his eyes when I tell him how my parents died.
Then I tell him about Lyra—how she charges through life as though it owes her something, how she speaks first and thinks later, and how she helped me survive those first difficult months at the outpost.
Lord Eryndor watches me the entire time. When I meet his golden-hazel eyes, they seem brighter than before, as though something inside him has stirred awake. Time drifts around us, marked only by the shifting sunlight spilling through the windows and the soft rustle of the breeze.
Eventually, Thane glances toward the sunlit floor and gives a faint nod. The moment has come to an end. He leans forward first, pressing a gentle kiss to his father’s cheek.
“I’ll return soon,” he murmurs.
I follow, brushing my lips against Lord Eryndor’s other cheek. His skin is cool beneath mine, and I linger for a moment before pulling away. He doesn’t speak, but his eyes follow us as we rise. There’s focus in them now, a glimmer of presence that hadn’t been there before.