THIRTY-TWO
EIGHT CHAIRS
“After speaking with Thane, we agreed Amara needed to be at the table. She will be essential. The attack patterns by the Shadow Forces are changing. They appear to be growing more intelligent. What were once mindless drone-type fighters are now more skilled. More dangerous.
—VALEN’S JOURNAL
AMARA
The council chamber is built for war.
The late afternoon sun streams through the windows as I take my place at the table, and despite the fact that less than a day has passed since the attack, it feels as though I have lived an entire year in those hours.
Everything about the room—the cold stone walls, the unyielding obsidian table, the torches burning low—feels designed to command fealty and remind anyone who steps inside that power carries consequences.
The room is circular, its walls carved from the same black volcanic rock as the rest of the fortress. A massive obsidian war table dominates the center, its surface veined with crimson ore that catches the torchlight like veins of fire.
Seven chairs surround it. One belongs to the Warlord, one to the War Veteran, one to the Diplomat, and one to the Scholar. The remaining seats are held by those who have earned their place through service, experience, and sacrifice.
For generations, the people seated at this table have shaped the course of the Fire Clan.
Now, there is an eighth.
Mine.
I should feel honored.
I don’t.
A chair is just a seat. But what it represents settles over me like iron. Responsibility. Expectation. The knowledge that every decision made at this table will ripple far beyond these walls.
The council watches me. I feel the intensity of their scrutiny, their calculations, their judgments.
They still don’t know what to make of me.
Even after witnessing my power at the ball, I remain an outsider.
I wasn’t raised among them. I didn’t grow up learning their customs, their politics, or their history.
And yet, here I sit in an eighth chair, breaking another of their traditions.
I meet their gaze one by one.
Lord Edric Voss, the grizzled war veteran with battle-worn hands and eyes that miss very little. Lady Sienna Dain, the diplomat, composed as ever, her dark blue eyes sharp as flint. Master Orlon Revic, the scholar, his embroidered robes marked with symbols of old magics.
Then there is Rowena, Valen, and Garrick.
The torches flicker, throwing shifting shadows across the walls. Thane sits at the head of the table, his presence calm and unshaken. His gaze sweeps the room, lingering on me for only a moment before moving on.
He gives nothing away, as always.
I don’t want to be here.
The council chamber feels too small for the expectations pressing in from every side. Every seat around this table belongs to someone who earned it through years of service, sacrifice, knowledge, or experience. Years.
I know that I have earned my place differently, but that knowledge does little to quiet the discomfort sitting heavy in my chest.
That morning, after Thane called me little zephyr, I stood with my arms folded and tried to make him understand.
“This isn’t my place.”
“It is now,” he had said, unyielding.
His words hadn’t sat right with me then. They still don’t.
But now, seated at this war table and surrounded by seasoned commanders, politicians, and warriors, I find myself replaying the rest of that conversation. I had demanded answers, and the ones Thane gave were difficult to argue with, no matter how much I wished otherwise.
“Because the castle was breached,” he had said, as though the answer should have been obvious.
“And?”
He paused, studying my face, as if choosing his words carefully.
“And the council is stuck in its ways. Firepower. Brute force. Open war. That worked, until it didn’t.”
I had frowned, but I hadn’t argued because he had been right.
“You think differently,” he continued. “You see problems from angles the rest of us miss.”
I had crossed my arms tighter across my chest. “That doesn’t mean I belong on the council.”
“It does mean you belong in the room.”
There had been no hesitation in his voice.
“You’re the Spiritborn. You wield powers none of us have, and whether you like it or not, your decisions affect the future of this realm as much as mine do.”
I had opened my mouth to argue, but he hadn’t given me the chance.
“And after everything you’ve done, nobody can seriously question whether you’ve earned a seat at that table.”
His gaze had held mine.
“The council doesn’t need another person who thinks exactly like the rest of us. It needs perspective. It needs someone willing to challenge assumptions.”
I remember rolling my eyes. “Is that your polite way of calling me difficult?”
A hint of amusement had touched his expression. “Yes.”
I had laughed despite myself, but instead of laughing with me, his expression had turned serious again.
“I wanted more time.”
The admission had caught me off guard.
“For what?”
“For you.” His gaze had held mine. “For all of this. You’re still learning the realm. The clans. Politics.”
I had shaken my head, trying to absorb the weight of it all.
“There’s one more thing,” he continued.
My eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“Your seat on the council isn’t just for today.”
Now, sitting here and watching Lord Edric Voss lean forward, his gaze sharp as he says, “I assume there is a reason the Spiritborn is here,” I finally understand why Thane had insisted I be in this room.
This isn’t just about this meeting. It isn’t just about war or strategy.
Thane didn’t bring me here because of who he is.
He brought me here because of who he believes I can become.
He isn’t forcing me into this. He’s offering me a seat, a voice, and a choice.
And now it’s up to me whether I step into it.
There’s no condescension in Edric’s tone, only blunt practicality. He doesn’t waste words or entertain formalities. In his mind, time is war’s most precious commodity, and right now he thinks I’m wasting it.
The words don’t sting. They simply echo the doubts I already carried into the room.
Before I can respond, Thane leans back in his chair.
“She fought for this kingdom before it ever claimed her.”
The room falls silent.
“She bled for it. She nearly died for it—more than once.”
No one dares to interrupt.
Thane’s eyes move around the table, meeting each council member in turn.
“She changed the battlefield itself. If you want to keep fighting an enemy with the same tactics we’ve relied on for generations, that’s your choice. But our enemies are changing. They’re adapting. And if we refuse to do the same, we’ll lose.”
His gaze settles on Edric.
“Amara brings something to this council that none of us can. A different perspective. A different way of thinking. And I will not ignore that simply because it challenges tradition.”
A charged silence follows. I feel the force of his words settle over the room. His next words are deliberate, sharpened like the edge of a blade.
“If there is anyone in this room who has earned the right to be here, it’s her.”
Thane’s declaration hangs in the air, impossible to ignore.
Then Edric exhales sharply through his nose, a sound of quiet frustration.
“That is not the issue, Warlord,” he says at last, his tone measured but firm. “No one is denying what she has done. Or that she has earned respect.”
His sharp hazel eyes land on me briefly before returning to Thane.
“But respect is not the same as a seat at this table.”
His meaning is clear. In Edric’s mind, this isn’t about merit. It’s about precedent and what it means to place someone at a table where decisions shape the future of the Fire Clan.
Sienna shifts slightly in her chair, listening without offering an opinion. Orlon’s attention settles somewhere beyond Garrick’s shoulder, his expression unreadable. Rowena, Valen, and Garrick remain focused on Thane, waiting to see how he answers.
I wonder if they knew before this moment. If Thane had already had this conversation with them and I’m the last person in the room to realize what he’s been trying to do.
Thane doesn’t respond immediately. He gives Edric’s words the consideration they deserve before leaning forward and resting his forearms against the polished stone. His expression remains unchanged, but there is something dangerous in his stillness.
“Then perhaps it’s time we reconsider tradition.”
Edric’s jaw tightens. “That is not your decision to make alone.”
“Isn’t it?” The words are quiet, but there is no softness in them.
Edric doesn’t move. Neither does Sienna. Even Valen, who is usually the first to break tension with a well-placed remark, remains silent.
Thane’s voice drops lower, but somehow, it carries even more force.
“She is here because I want her here.”
The words land like a challenge.
“I will not sit in this room and listen to those who failed to protect their own walls question the worth of the one person who helped save them.”
Thane’s eyes settle on Edric.
“She sees things the rest of us don’t. If we’re going to survive what’s coming, then we need every advantage we can get. That includes her.”
I don’t move. I barely breathe.
His words reach places deep inside me I hadn’t realized were empty. No one has ever spoken about me like that. Not as a weapon. Not as a prophecy. Not as something to be used when convenient and feared when it wasn’t. But as a person whose voice belongs in the room.
The council chamber has gone quiet. Even though the air feels charged, like a storm gathering just before it breaks, my attention is fixed on Thane rather than the other council members.
I look at this Warlord, this man who carries the burden of an entire kingdom and somehow keeps moving forward beneath it. A man who spent months trying to protect me from this world, only to place me in the center of it when there was no longer another choice.
Now he stands before the council and tells them I belong here because he believes I do. And for the first time, I begin to believe it too.
I finally glance around the room and see that the council is truly looking at me. Not as an outsider, as the girl who walked into their war, or as the woman in the Warlord’s bed. But as something more.
Thane’s words linger long after he finishes speaking, impossible to dismiss. No one challenges him outright, but the silence is not agreement. It is the sound of people reconsidering assumptions they have held for a very long time.
Thane leans back in his chair, his fingers tapping once against the stone table before he speaks again.
“Does anyone else have a problem with it?”
His gaze sweeps around the table, settling on each council member in turn and giving them every opportunity to object.
No one does.
Edric exhales through his nose, his jaw still tight, but he doesn’t argue. After a moment, he gives a single nod, sharp and decisive.
Lady Sienna Dain holds Thane’s gaze the longest. Her dark blue eyes remain thoughtful as she considers the shift in the room and what it might mean for the future.
She offers neither agreement nor objection.
After several quiet moments, she folds her hands in front of her and settles back in her chair.
Master Orlon Revic merely hums. The scholar’s golden eyes gleam in the torchlight as he studies the people around the table rather than the argument itself. He had never openly opposed my presence, but neither had he supported it. If he has an opinion, he keeps it to himself.
Across from me, Valen leans back in his chair with his arms crossed. His expression remains composed, but there is a glint of satisfaction in his eyes.
Garrick, who had watched the exchange with quiet scrutiny, exhales and shrugs. “No problem here.”
And then there’s Rowena. She presses her lips together so tightly they nearly disappear. Her arms are folded, her posture perfectly rigid, but a slight tremor runs through her shoulders. She is trying very, very hard not to laugh.
I glance at her just in time to see her swallow it down. She blinks once, hard, forcing her expression back under control.
Thane continues to wait, his patience feeling like a weapon all its own.
“Anyone else?” he asks a second time.
The only sound in the chamber is the low crackle of fire.
Thane nods once, the gesture final.
“Good.”
Edric sighs, and a slow, reluctant acceptance settles across his features.
“I hope you’re right about her,” he says simply.
I don’t know if the words are meant for Thane or for me. Either way, the matter is settled. And this seat—the new eighth seat—is mine.
Thane’s hand settles on my knee beneath the table. No one else sees it, but I feel it everywhere.
It isn’t a reassurance or a request. It feels more like a claim, quiet and unquestioned, and some of the tension I was carrying begins to ease. I don’t react or let the moment show on my face, but I don’t move his hand away, either.
Valen leans forward and exhales through his nose. He had remained quiet throughout the exchange, letting Thane handle the argument. Now he takes hold of the conversation with practiced ease.
“We should move on,” he says, his tone light but firm enough that it doesn’t invite debate. “The attack at the ball. Let’s start there.”
Just like that, the shift is complete. The tension remains, but it now has direction. Edric doesn’t protest. Sienna doesn’t push back. The moment passes, and the council settles into the work before them as they have countless times before.
Edric speaks first. His voice is low, roughened by years of battle. “The castle was breached. Past our defenses. Past the wards.”
Sienna folds her hands together.
“Which means one of two things,” she says. “Either the Shadow Forces possess magics stronger than we accounted for . . . ”
She lets the implication hang in the air before continuing.
“Or they had help from the inside.”
The meaning is clear; there is a traitor in the capital.
The torches seem to burn hotter.
“Likely both,” Edric says gravely.
Master Orlon hums in thought. “The wards are crafted from dragon magics. Combined with our runes, they should not have failed.”
His golden eyes reflect the sunlight pouring through the windows.
“And yet they did.”
Rowena leans forward, her fingers tapping against the table. “Then the question isn’t whether someone helped them.”
She looks around the table.
“It’s who.”