FIFTY-FOUR
WHERE I LIVE NOW
Even in the wild, no hunter runs the day after a shattered leg has mended. Strength returns gradually. So too does the spirit. Trauma leaves unseen marks, and these require their own season of healing. Time is not merely the passage between injury and recovery; it is often the medicine itself.
—VALEN’S JOURNAL
AMARA
Ispend a week in bed, resting. The healers say I’m healed, but recovery isn’t just about mended skin and stitched wounds. The dark magics that coursed through my veins left a mark, even if it’s not outwardly visible. My body needs time to purge what it endured. Time to remember how to be whole.
They told me that if I hadn’t healed myself when I did, I would’ve died.
So I don’t argue with the healers or push myself to do more than they say is allowed. I let the silence settle over me like a balm. Despite everything—the pain, the fear, the lingering aftershocks—I’m grateful for this time of quiet.
For stillness. For the simple gift of being alive.
Instead of working in his study or the war room, Thane spends most of his time at the desk in our quarters.
I know it’s intentional. He won’t say it aloud, but I can feel it: that quiet, stubborn need to stay close.
To keep watch. He doesn’t listen when I say I’m fine, that it’s okay to go.
He simply brushes a kiss across my forehead and returns to his work as though I never spoke.
While he’s bent over maps and reports, his brow furrowed in concentration, I lie nestled in bed with a book in my lap. For once, I’m not poring over ancient ledgers or combing through dragon lore. I’m not studying court politics or unraveling the histories of fallen clans.
I’m reading stories.
Simple tales of magics and mischief, of love and laughter. Stories that don’t demand anything from me but to feel. And gods, it’s a comfort I didn’t realize I needed.
I haven’t read like this since before all the Spiritborn business started. Before the prophecies and war councils. Before I knew what I was. Back when stories were simply stories, not warnings or histories, but escapes.
It feels like a lifetime ago.
Once the healers released me after a night in the infirmary, Thane and I talked through the battle—what happened, what nearly happened, and everything in between. There was so much I needed to say. Not just about the fight itself, but about the choices I made, why I made them, and what they meant.
Thane had been sitting on the edge of the bed while I lay propped against the pillows, still weak and sore.
It had only been a day since the battle, but the shame still clung to me, tight and unrelenting. The memory of what I’d almost done, how close I came to compromising the entire squadron by charging after the Gorganthe alone, still made my stomach twist.
I needed him to know I understood. Not just the mistake, but why it mattered. I told him I see it now—that I’m part of something bigger. I have a role to play, and I can’t afford to act as though I’m carrying the burden alone.
Even when it feels like I am. Because the truth is, I’m not.
Thane knows that weight. He’s carried it far longer than I’ve known what real power feels like. He didn’t scold me the day we spoke about it. He didn’t pull rank or make me feel small. He listened and nodded.
Then he said something I didn’t realize I needed to hear until the words left his mouth.
“You’re learning,” he said simply.
When his gaze met mine, there was no judgment in it.
“Don’t apologize for that. You’ve had less than a year to train. I’ve been preparing for this my whole life.”
A brief pause followed, thoughtful and measured.
“What you did out there, most warriors don’t attempt that kind of fight until they’ve seen ten years of battle.”
His words landed like a balm, soothing the sharp edge of my guilt. He wasn’t excusing my actions, but rather recognizing the heart behind them. The effort and intent.
I think about those words more than I probably should. Because even now, days later, I still need to believe they’re true.
But Thane didn’t stop there.
He leaned forward, his forearms braced on his knees, and said, “Listen. There are going to be times when we move as one, part of a unit, following formation, trusting each other to hold the line.”
His eyes softened, a glint of something knowing behind them.
“And there will be times when we have to trust our guts. When instinct takes over and doing what feels right in the moment is the only path forward. We’ll feel it out, situation by situation.”
He shook his head, almost smiling to himself.
“This isn’t a normal war. If war can even be called that. There’s more at stake than strategy and survival. And I know who you are, Amara. What you are. The reason the Spiritborn exists.”
He covered my hand with his.
“There will be times,” he said, his voice quiet but firm, “when I’ll be taking orders from you.”
I remember the way he said it, like it wasn’t hypothetical. Like it was already decided.
And then he winked, as though he hadn’t just upended everything I thought I understood about power, rank, and us.
That moment has stayed with me.
Thane, the Warlord of the Fire Clan. The leader of the realm’s armies. The man who has spent his life wielding command like a weapon. He sees me not just as someone worth training, but as someone worth following.
We talked about the bond, too. Thane had reached the same realization I had: what we did out there, the way we moved together during that battle, wasn’t normal. It wasn’t just training or instinct.
It was something else entirely.
What takes most warriors years to build—the dance, the unspoken understanding, the kind of trust forged through blood and battle—we already have. And we built it in only a few months. Thane has spent most of his life training for war. I only began less than a year ago.
As a pair? As bonded partners moving in sync, wielding blade and magics as one? That only started when we came to the capital.
And yet . . .
We move like we’ve fought together for years. As one. Magics and steel. Breath and thought. Each step and each strike flowing together as though we were made for it.
Because when the bond is open, when we let it guide us, it becomes more than instinct. It’s a current pulling us forward. A rhythm only we can hear.
And maybe that’s the point. Maybe that’s why the prophecies speak of two. Because together, we become something greater than either of us could be alone.
This man I love, so aware and so attuned, didn’t just talk strategy or praise what I’d done. He checked on me.
He asked how I was feeling after my first true battle. Not just physically, but emotionally and mentally. He wanted to be sure I was okay. That the weight of the bloodshed, the carnage, the screams, hadn’t carved too deep. That I wasn’t losing myself to it.
That I was still me.
Because Thane knows what war can take. What it erodes if you’re not careful. And gods . . . the way he looked at me then, not like I was fragile, but like I was worth protecting, broke something open in me and stitched something else back together.
He didn’t use to be like this. Not when we first met. Back then, he was guarded. Stoic. Always holding something back, as if letting anyone too close might break him. As if closeness itself was a kind of weakness.
But I know now that he was protecting everyone around him from the curse.
Now there’s softness behind the steel. A depth to his strength that has nothing to do with fire and everything to do with choice. He chooses to care. To show it. To stay.
And I’ve changed too.
I’m not the same girl who stood on a training field trembling under his gaze, unsure if I was meant to wield anything at all. I’ve bled and fought and burned. I’ve fallen, and I’ve gotten back up. Over and over again.
And now, when he looks at me, it isn’t just with hope. It’s with the certainty of belief. More importantly, when I look at myself, I see someone worth believing in too.
I see it now, even in the smallest moments.
This morning, I woke before dawn, the room still draped in darkness, and found Thane at the desk in the corner, reviewing reports by lantern light. Not in the war room. Not in his study. Here. Because he doesn’t want to be too far from me for long.
When I stirred, he looked up. The faintest smile touched his mouth. He set down his quill, crossed the room, and pressed a kiss to my forehead before returning to his desk.
No words. Just that gesture.
Thane gave me an update while I was recovering, his voice gentle, as though he didn’t want to burden me with too much. But I asked. I needed to know.
The battle left Greythorne Keep badly damaged. Thane said Lord Hale has already begun organizing the rebuilding effort. He’s staying behind to oversee it himself, coordinating crews, gathering supplies, and taking charge like a man trying to reclaim control of something he failed to protect.
Lady Evelyne, on the other hand, is headed to the capital. She left almost immediately after the battle. Lord Toren’s sister said she needed to represent her house at court and ensure the council provided the necessary support for the rebuilding efforts.
Maybe that’s true. Or maybe staying, facing the aftermath, the ruin, the loss, was simply too much. I don’t blame her. The losses were heavy.
Thane didn’t list the names. I think he knew I couldn’t bear it yet. But I saw the grief in his eyes. He carries it like armor, worn smooth by years of use and impossible to set aside.
Because I’ve been ordered to bed rest this past week, I’ve had a constant stream of visitors. My friends. Various healers. And Valen.
I don’t think Thane’s quarters have ever seen this much company before. What used to be a disciplined space of dark wood, neatly rolled maps, and the lingering scent of smoke and steel now feels warmer. Lived in.