FORTY-FOUR
FIREbrAND
It is written that the Spiritborn shall learn faster than any who walk beside her.
The blade shall feel as an old companion in her grasp, and the pen as an extension of her thought.
I believe this is true for Amara. She’s caught up to others in her class who have been practicing since birth, and now appears to surpass them.
—VALEN’S JOURNAL
AMARA
In the late afternoon, I join Lyra and Rowena for a training session, while Thane remains with Garrick and Jarek, drilling with the other warriors. Rian is on patrol with a few other riders.
The moment I step into the training hall, familiar sounds greet me: leather striking flesh, boots thudding sharply against training mats. Warriors are scattered across the room, sparring with practiced precision.
Late afternoon sunlight streams through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the floor, but the air carries the unmistakable chill of autumn.
The scent of sweat and polished wood hangs in the room. For the first time all day, the noise in my head begins to quiet.
I take a deep breath, letting the air steady me.
Training has become something of an anchor for me. A place where the questions stop multiplying and the future feels a little less overwhelming. Here, there is only movement. Muscle and instinct. Repetition and effort.
The world makes sense when I am training. I never would have believed that when I first arrived at the outpost months ago, exhausted, frightened, and certain I didn’t belong. Now too many days without it leave me restless.
Lyra strides ahead, scanning the room with her usual confidence. Rowena follows behind her, adjusting the sleeves of her tunic as we weave through the occupied sparring mats.
We stop beside an open mat.
“Hello, Rowena. And Amara.”
My stomach sinks before I even turn around.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you since the memorial.”
I recognize the voice immediately.
Ardyn.
I turn toward the weights and find her watching us.
Sunlight catches on her golden hair, woven into a flawless braid that gleams like spun gold. Not a single strand is out of place. A faint smile curves her lips.
Ardyn’s posture is straight and poised, as I imagine it always is. Her form-fitting training tunic, a deep blue that makes her golden hair seem even brighter, is simple and practical yet somehow tailored to perfection. There isn’t a sheen of sweat on her. No sign of exertion.
Everyone else in the hall looks as though they’ve been training. Ardyn looks as though she stopped by on her way to a royal portrait.
“Hi, Ardyn,” Rowena says, her tone carefully neutral.
She shifts slightly, placing herself just ahead of me. Just enough to make a point. Given Rowena’s history with Ardyn, I doubt the gesture is accidental.
The fact that Rowena is one of the smallest women in the room only makes it more amusing.
She barely reaches my shoulder, yet she plants herself there with the confidence of someone twice her size.
I imagine people make the mistake of noticing her size first. I doubt they spend much time thinking about it after watching her fight.
Ardyn extends a hand to Lyra, her smile polite but cool. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Ardyn.”
Lyra’s gaze flicks to the offered hand, then back to Ardyn, assessing her with quiet scrutiny. She makes no move to take it, leaving Ardyn’s hand suspended between them.
“Hello, Ardyn,” Lyra says, her tone flat, almost a challenge.
Then she turns away, clearly uninterested in formalities. I suppress the urge to grin and pull my best friend into the fiercest hug imaginable.
“Hmm,” she hums, her head tilting slightly. “It seems manners weren’t a priority in the village you came from.”
Lyra lifts an eyebrow. “Manners are for the deserving. Care to test that, Ardyn?”
For a moment, neither woman looks away.
I catch the faint twitch near Lyra’s right eye and immediately recognize it.
The last time I saw that expression, a boy from our village thought it would be amusing to steal my mother’s bracelet. It did not end well for him.
I step between them, placing a light hand on Lyra’s arm.
“All right, let’s not turn this into a scene,” I say, my voice calm but firm. I turn to Ardyn with a tight smile. “We’re here to train. Let’s keep it that way, yeah?”
I glance at Lyra, silently urging her to let it go. The tension lingers for another moment before she finally looks away.
As we turn toward the training mats, I catch Ardyn’s gaze drifting to my right hand. The sunlight streaming through the windows catches on the dark metal of the ring, drawing her eye.
For the briefest moment, something shifts in her expression. The change is subtle, but I see it all the same. Then, just as quickly, it disappears. Whatever emotion surfaced is tucked neatly away again, hidden behind the same flawless composure she wears like armor.
We head toward an empty mat away from Ardyn. I can feel Lyra’s frustration simmering just beneath the surface. She mutters curses under her breath, quiet but sharp enough to make me wince.
Rowena, walking just behind us, shakes her head as she listens, clearly entertained. Her gaze flicks to me, amusement dancing in her eyes.
“You’re not even trying to keep it down, are you?” she teases.
Lyra snorts. “No.”
I roll my eyes and give Rowena a look that clearly says, Do not encourage her. She chuckles in response.
Sighing, I tug at Lyra’s arm, urging her forward.
“Lyra, please. Forget her.” My voice is low but firm.
I steal a glance over my shoulder. Ardyn is still watching.
“Don’t let her get to you.”
Lyra grumbles something else under her breath, but thankfully allows me to pull her away. We have barely stepped onto the mat when Ardyn’s voice cuts across the room.
“Leaving already?” she asks. “Or are you afraid of what might happen if we spar?”
The three of us turn in unison, surprise flashing across our faces. Lyra’s expression hardens. Rowena shifts slightly, irritation sharpening into something more watchful. A knot forms in my stomach—I know exactly where this is headed.
Ardyn stands where we left her, her smile just a little too sweet as she waits for our attention.
Lyra takes a step forward, her lip curling, but before she can say a word, Ardyn lifts a hand.
“No.”
A sneer curves her lips as her gaze settles on me.
“I want to spar with the Spiritborn.”
A beat of silence stretches between us, just long enough to make everyone pause, unsure whether it’s a taunt or a genuine challenge. But the way Ardyn says it, her gaze fixed unwaveringly on me, tells me this is about more than a sparring match.
She wants to see what I can do. What I am.
Rowena’s voice slices through the charged silence, sharp and furious.
“No! What the fuck, Ardyn?!”
She steps forward, disbelief and anger etched across her face.
“I know you love the spotlight, but this is over the line. Have you lost your mind? You’re challenging the Spiritborn. The fate of the realm may rest on her shoulders, and you want to risk injuring her in a sparring match?”
Her eyes flash as she looks between Ardyn and me, clearly unwilling to let this go unchecked.
For a fleeting second, Ardyn’s smile falters, but she recovers quickly, her gaze flicking to Rowena with a mixture of annoyance and amusement.
“I’m not the one overstepping, Rowena,” she says coolly, her voice measured. “Amara agreed. And besides, this is the Fire Clan way, isn’t it?”
Rowena bristles, but I give her a small shake of my head, a silent plea to step back.
“It’s fine, Rowena,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “I can handle this.”
Lyra steps forward before Rowena can respond.
“I’m the one who challenged you,” she says, her voice low and dangerous. “You fight me, Ardyn.”
Then she moves between us, planting herself squarely in Ardyn’s path. The message is unmistakable.
Ardyn’s smile widens, her eyes gleaming with malicious amusement. She tilts her head, watching the tension she created coil tighter around us.
“What’s the matter, Amara?” she asks. “Do you always have someone fighting for you?”
She takes a step closer.
“Rowena. Lyra.”
Her gaze flicks briefly between them before returning to me.
“Just like at the ball.”
The implication hangs in the air.
“You’re the Spiritborn.”
The smile never leaves her face.
“And yet everyone else always seems to be doing the fighting for you.”
A few of the soldiers around us give low whistles and mutter curses.
“This isn’t right! She’s the Spiritborn!” one woman calls out.
Several others voice their agreement. Most of them, however, look far more interested in the spectacle unfolding before them.
Rowena scans the crowd, her expression tightening with concern.
Ardyn ignores them, her eyes fixed on me.
“Maybe you’re not as powerful as everyone thinks,” she muses, her voice turning colder. “Maybe all your strength comes from the people around you. You can’t even stand on your own.”
She pauses, letting the words settle over the room like ash falling from the sky.
“Tell me, Amara, how does it feel? To have everyone watching, waiting, but never truly wielding the power you’re supposed to have? How long before they all see you for what you really are?”
The words hit harder than they should because a part of me has asked those same questions. A part of me has wondered if everyone else sees a future savior while I still see the girl who grew up on a farm and spent most of her life feeling ordinary.
I refuse to give Ardyn the satisfaction of seeing her words land even if they do.
Forcing my expression to remain calm, I straighten my shoulders and meet her gaze. Whatever doubts I carry belong to me. She doesn’t get to wield them against me. Instead, I let every one of her words feed the fire building inside me.
For weeks, she’s been taunting me from a distance.
She stared me down in court, her glare burning into me as I sat off to the side, listening to Thane and Rowena meet with their citizens.
She has a talent for asking questions that sounded innocent.
How is your training progressing, Amara?
Have you managed to master that yet?