Chapter 3
GRIEF MADE FIRE
THREE
“She may be the Spiritborn, and the realm will need her like no other, but she is still a young woman with a choice. We can only hope she chooses well.”
—VALEN’S JOURNAL
AMARA
Ijolt awake, breath catching in my throat.
Ash clings to my tongue. My hands tremble—I’m crashing back into myself.
Grief pummels me without warning—tight, cold, everywhere. And then I’m crying—full-body, rib-wracking sobs that tear through me. I feel like I’m breaking apart, like something essential has split wide open, and there’s no putting it back.
There’s a shift behind me. The mattress dips.
“Mara. I’m here.”
The words, followed by arms, wrap around me like a blanket. I turn my head, vision swimming.
Lyra’s eyes shine with tears she tries to hold back. I collapse into her, my hands fisting in her tunic, breath hitching in my throat. If I let go, I’ll fall apart again.
“Ly . . . ” My voice breaks. “Your parents. Are they—?”
She eases back just enough to meet my eyes. Her gaze soft, though marred by grief.
“They’re alive,” she says. “They’re safe.”
Relief punches through me, so fierce it leaves me dizzy. But confusion immediately follows.
“Then why—why aren’t you with them?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Just laces our fingers together, her grip tightening like she’s grounding herself too. When she speaks, it’s quiet.
“Because I couldn’t leave you alone in this.” Her voice quivering, but honest. “It’s enough for me to know they’re safe, but you need me more. And they told me to go. They wanted me to tell you they love you so much.”
The tears flow freely, faster, and I mourn not just my parents, but the life stolen from me. The version of myself that existed before the world as I knew it capsized.
Lyra says nothing. She doesn’t try to make me smile like she usually does, doesn’t fill the space with one of her ridiculous jokes or whimsical stories. She just holds me, her arms a quiet barrier against the collapse.
We breathe in the silence together, a silence so loud it reverberates in my bones.
Finally, her voice breaks through— “We’ll figure it out.”
I nod against her shoulder, even though I don’t know what that means anymore. Survival? Revenge? Healing? Each word feels too large, too distant.
I take in the space, trying to place myself in something real. But the room is unfamiliar. The bed I’m laying in—wide, sturdy, covered in a plain woven blanket—anchors the space. A chair sits in the corner beside a low table, where an unlit candle leans beside a clay pitcher of water.
I rake a hand through my tangled hair, fingers catching on knots. “How long have we been here?”
She shifts just enough to meet my eyes. There’s weariness in her gaze, but also warmth, and a thread of unspoken things she’s not ready to say.
“Three days,” she says quietly. “You’ve been asleep the whole time.”
Three days.
The shock of it leaves me breathless. Time is a blur—something fluid and untethered, and I’ve been drifting through it with no anchor.
How much has happened while I was gone?
What else have I lost?
The scent of cedar clings to the air, mingled with dried herbs and something sharper—medicinal, like poultices and crushed roots.
Stone surrounds us, but it’s not cold. There’s a quiet hum to the space, a stillness that doesn’t feel empty. A window stands half-cracked, letting in the hush of morning. The breeze stirs the curtains. Light spills in, soft and golden.
But I can’t feel any of it.
None of it touches the hollow ache inside my chest.
Lyra’s grip tightens and I sink into it.
The sobs won’t stop. They tear through me, ragged and loud, filling the room with broken breaths and pain I can’t contain. She holds me through it all, her voice a whisper against my ear—soft, steady, the anchor in my storm.
“I’m here,” she murmurs, her chin resting lightly on my head. “You’re not alone.”
I press my face into her shoulder, tears soaking her tunic. She doesn’t flinch; just holds me closer. A lifeline in a world that’s crumbled.
My body trembles, scraped raw by the force of everything I’ve lost.
Time slips by unnoticed—minutes, maybe hours. I don’t know. I only know that at some point, the shaking slows and the sobs quiet. What’s left is exhaustion, heavy and full and inescapable.
Lyra shifts beside me, her hand reaching to tuck a strand of damp hair behind my ear. The gesture is gentle. Sacred.
“Sleep,” she whispers. Not an order. A promise.
I want to argue. To rise. To be stronger than this. But my body won’t obey. I’m emptied out, hollowed by grief.
And she’s here.
The way she holds me like I won’t break—not if she has anything to say about it.
My lashes lower and the world fades.
The first day passed in a haze of grief—unforgiving and suffocating, like trying to breathe through smoke. Lyra never left my side. She held me through the worst of it, and for that, I am grateful.
But when I wake the next morning, something inside me shifts.
It’s not clarity—not even strength.
Just a quiet, brittle need to move. To know.
If I stay here much longer, I might disappear into the hollow ache inside me. I push myself upright, limbs heavy, every muscle weighted by loss. My chest still feels splintered, like I’m made of broken glass and breath.
Lyra is nearby, perched on the edge of a low chair, a book on her lap. Her gaze is steady, the kind that doesn’t flinch at cracks.
“Where are we?” My voice comes out hoarse, scraped thin from sleep and crying.
Lyra hesitates. “I don’t know exactly,” she says slowly. “But . . . we’re safe. And we’re with good people. That much I do know.”
I arch a brow. Safe? We thought we were safe in our village, far away from the darkness and shadows. Nowhere is safe anymore.
Lyra notices. Her fingers smooth an invisible crease from her tunic as she speaks again.
“The people that brought us here—they’ve done more than just drag us out of the wreckage. There’s a healer. She’s checked on you every morning. They’ve given us food, clean clothes, and these quarters for you to recover.”
Her mouth twitches—a flicker of dry amusement.
“They even brought me books when I started pacing too much.”
I almost smile.
“I’ve walked the grounds. Nothing’s locked down. No one’s watching us. At least, not like prisoners.” She takes a breath. “It doesn’t feel like a trap.”
Her gaze finds mine again. This time, there’s no hesitation.
“They want to help. I can feel it.”
Safe.
The word scrapes at me. I roll it around in my mind, but it feels hollow, like touching something familiar through thick glass.
What does safe even mean now? Where in this world could possibly hold that kind of peace?
Lyra shifts closer, her voice gentler now. “Someone wants to speak with you.”
I stiffen. “Who?”
Lyra doesn’t answer right away. Her eyes search mine, careful. “They can explain everything.” A beat. Then, softer—truer. “They saved us, Mara.”
I glance around. The stone walls. The unfamiliar bed. The soft blanket still creased from days I barely remember. All of it is foreign. All of it untouched by the shadows that tore through our village.
I’m done with the unknown. I want answers.
Lyra watches me for a moment longer, then rises. “I’ll make you some tea. Maybe find something light to eat. You should try.”
I nod, though I’m not sure I can. Hunger feels like a distant thing, irrelevant compared to the hollow ache still echoing in my chest.
She hesitates in the doorway. “Do you want help washing up? There’s a bathing chamber through there. It’s private. Attached to the room.”
I meet her eyes. There’s nothing pitying in her expression—just quiet concern.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “Okay.”
She offers me her hand, and I take it.
The weight of my own body surprises me. Each step is leaden, as if I’m made of stone and sorrow. My joints ache. My muscles protest. It feels like I’ve spent days under siege—not just by the world, but by grief itself.
After relieving myself, I brace against the sink, palms pressed to cool stone. I don’t recognize the reflection in the mirror. My face is pale, waxen. Hollow. Shadows sit beneath my eyes—bruised smudges, like grief has taken up residence in my bones.
Lyra’s voice carries through the door, soft as a lullaby. “Are you okay?”
I open it slowly and try to smile. Even that feels like too much.
Lyra doesn’t push. She simply takes my hand again, guiding me back toward the bed like she’s done it a hundred times before. I ease down slowly, grateful for the softness beneath me, for the way the blanket settles like something gentle and forgiving.
She pulls the blanket up to my waist, then meets my eyes with a small, reassuring smile. “I’ll go get someone who can explain.”
The door clicks shut behind her, and silence folds in around me.
Three days. Gone. Stolen. Swallowed by something I still don’t understand. My fingers knot in the fabric. I don’t want to sit here any longer—don’t want to drown in the unknown.
Before I can spiral, the door opens again and a man steps inside. The one with the gray-streaked hair.
And instantly, the room feels smaller.
He moves with purpose. Cloak worn from travel, boots dusted with earth, a staff in one hand—dark, polished wood veined with something older than time. His frame is solid. His posture relaxed, but not casual. Like someone who’s always assessing—always ready.
His eyes sweep over me—quick, precise, impossible to read. And I realize he’s older than I first thought. Streaks of silver thread through dark hair, and the lines on his face aren’t from age, but from memory. From experience. From carrying things most would never understand.
“You’re awake,” he says, voice low and level. Like he’s been waiting, but not anxiously. “Good.”
I straighten instinctively, ignoring the pull in my shoulders, the throb low in my spine. “Who are you? Where am I?”
He inclines his head. “Valen Thorne. You’re at an outpost of the Fire Clan. Half a day’s ride from the capital.”
I blink. “Why?”
“Because you’re safe here.”