Chapter 1 #4
That’s why most riders begin as warriors. They’re not just chosen for strength—they’re trained for it. Some rise to serve the high courts after serving in the army. Others choose higher positions as captains or generals. But their roots are always the same: discipline, sacrifice, skill.
Most of us are not warriors.
We don’t command, but ask or coax. And sometimes—when we’re patient—when we’re steady enough—the land answers.
I glance at Revan again, his cheeks flushed, eyes glowing. Already dreaming of the sky. And for a moment, I feel it too—an ache. A spark.
“Wait—wait!” Revan suddenly exclaims, his voice breathless and urgent. “Will I be able to wield water?! Or air? Or—fire?!”
The table goes still for a heartbeat.
Then Galen leans forward, voice gentle. “No, little one. You’re of the Earth Clan. Even dragon-bonded riders can only wield their own Element. The bond makes it stronger—but it doesn’t change what lives in you.”
Revan’s face falls. “So I can’t do all of them?”
His disappointment is quiet, but it hits me harder than I expect.
And for a moment, I think of the dream I had last night—the woman who looked like me but wasn’t. Standing in a storm of all four elements—earth rising at her feet, fire blazing in her hands, wind twisting around her, water like ribbons in the air.
All of it at once.
Imagine if that were possible.
I blink, but the image lingers, too vivid to be forgotten.
“No one can do all of them,” my father says, his voice warm but sure. “But earth is enough. You’ll be surprised how much power sleeps beneath your feet.”
Tamsen grins. “And frankly, I’d rather you not have fire, Revan. My garden would never recover.”
He pauses, serious. “So only Fire Clan wields fire?”
I nod slowly, remembering the time I stood in the field behind our home, arms outstretched to the wind, willing it to lift me.
It never did.
“Sorry, Revan,” I say gently. “Magics follow bloodlines. Fire for Fire Clan. Water for Water. Earth for us.”
Revan slumps a little. “Mama and Papa are both Earth Clan.”
I smile softly. “Then you’ll be one of us. And Earth?” I reach out, tapping the table. “Earth is strong. It holds and supports and remembers. It doesn’t need to roar to be powerful.”
I watch a flicker of hope return to his eyes.
“You’ll do amazing things with it. I know you will.”
He looks at me, quiet for a moment. “Even if it’s not fire?”
“Especially because it’s not fire.”
Revan studies me, as if tucking the words away somewhere sacred. Then his expression shifts, brightening once more.
“Then I’ll build the strongest castle in the whole realm!” he declares, flinging his arms wide. “With towers that pierce the clouds—and walls no Shadow will ever break.”
Laughter bubbles around the table again—but this time it’s lighter, warmer. Even my father smiles, the lines in his face softening.
And something quiet settles in my chest.
Dinner winds down in a haze of full bellies and flickering candlelight.
Revan barely makes it through dessert before his mother calls from the front door, voice lined with that now, not later tone.
He protests sleepily, hugging Lyra one more time, waving at us like a tiny, drowsy prince before shuffling into the night—still mumbling about stone towers and dragon wings.
The adults linger at the table, wine glasses half-full, conversation unlikely to end any time soon.
Lyra nudges me with her shoulder. “Come on. Help me with the dishes or my mother will hex me into a toad.”
I follow her into the kitchen nook. We fall into rhythm easily—passing plates, scrubbing, not needing to speak. The kind of silence only possible between people who’ve known each other long enough to fill in the blanks.
Then Lyra glances at me sideways.
“You’ve been quiet,” she says.
I rinse a bowl. “Just tired.”
“Hmm.” She hums it like a song note. “Not a lie. But not the whole truth either.”
I sigh. Of course she sees through me.
I look out the window. The sky is deep indigo, stars burning through the dusk like pinpricks in fabric.
“Something I overheard today,” I murmur. “About the wards and the Shadeheart. I can’t stop thinking about it. It feels like . . . ” I trail off, unsure of the shape of what I’m trying to name.
Lyra waits.
So I tell her.
Not every word Aiel said—but the feeling of it. The cracks in the wards and the organized raids. That sense that something ancient has started moving again.
My friend listens, her hands moving through the water like she’s grounding herself in the work.
When I finish, she sets her dish down and looks at me.
“If that’s true,” she says, “then we’re not as far from the fight as we thought.”
I nod. “I’ve always thought this village was its own world. That nothing out there could really touch us. But tonight . . . ”
I run my fingers through the water, watching it swirl.
“ . . . tonight it felt like the edges are starting to fray.”
“We always joked about what we’d do if the world started falling apart,” she says, softer. “Ride west. Fake our deaths. Open a bakery.”
A smile tugs at her mouth, but it fades almost as quickly.
“But if it’s real . . . ” she meets my eyes, green and fierce. “Then I want to know how to fight. To protect the people I love.”
A beat.
“I want you to know how, too.”
The silence between us is heavy with quiet understanding—the kind that exists between two people who have been friends for a very long time.
Then Lyra exhales. “Well, at least Revan’s ready.”
I blink. “What?”
She grabs a clean plate, handing it to me with a smirk. “Did you see him tonight? Already planning his earth-battlements, probably drawing battle maps in his sleep.”
I laugh under my breath. “He said he was going to grow trees that touch the clouds.”
“Gods help us if he figures out how,” she mutters. “He’ll crown himself King of the Blackberry Army and start taxing everyone in acorns.”
I laugh—really laugh—and Lyra grins, victorious.
And just like that, the ache in my chest eases. Maybe the world is fraying.
But I have Lyra.