Chapter 4
brOTHERS
FOUR
“The reports of Shadow Force attacks increase weekly. The Shadeheart appears to be creating new forces from some powerful source. We need to find it. We need Amara to join the realm in this fight. Or I fear we will all be lost to the Shadeheart’s nefarious objectives.”
—VALEN’S JOURNAL
THANE
The sun sits high overhead, casting short shadows across the courtyard. The stone beneath my boots has finally started to warm, but the air still bites—sharp and clean the way only spring can be. It smells like dew baking off the rooftops, old wood, and steel.
Soldiers ring the sparring circle, cloaks drawn tight, some perched on crates and barrels, hands curled around mugs still steaming in the sun. The cold clings to the shade, but the courtyard glows where the light touches stone—brighter. Harsher. Like the gods themselves are watching.
I grip the quarterstaff in my hands, flexing my fingers once, twice. The wood is cool and worn smooth from years of use. Familiar and balanced. Something I can control.
Across from me stand three warriors—Garrick, Jarek, and Rian. My brothers-in-arms. My oldest friends.
“No protective enchantments,” I say. “No magics.”
“To the death, then,” Garrick replies, already grinning, hazel-colored eyes alive. His sandy blond hair falls messily across his brow like it’s made a permanent home there. “My favorite kind of afternoon.”
“To your death,” I mutter.
Jarek rolls his shoulders with a sigh. He looks a lot like his older brother, but a bit taller.
His own sun-streaked hair is tied back in a loose knot.
A few strands fall free, before the sparring match has even begun.
Jarek’s always been the more composed of the two—until someone gives him a reason not to be.
“Three against one?” he grins. “Feels a little unfair.”
I smirk. “For you.”
My breath no longer fogs, but there’s still a tightness in the air—spring hasn’t yet decided what it wants to be.
Rian stands to my right, silent until now.
He’s the tallest of us all, broad-shouldered and cut like a statue, his dark skin catching the sun like burnished bronze.
His head is shaved at the sides, the rest of his dark hair pulled back into tight braids that group into a tail. His slate-blue eyes flick toward me.
Water Clan. Controlled. Exact.
He nods once. It’s time to spar.
And I’m grateful for it—more than I want to admit.
I need this fight.
Not for the training or the edge it sharpens. But to quiet everything else.
I glance toward the stone arch that leads to the inner rooms. Amara is still there, recovering. Her frame looked smaller than I remembered. Shoulders hunched. Eyes hollow. She moved like someone trying to outrun the echo of a scream.
I’ve seen that look before—on soldiers too young to understand what they’ve survived. And gods help us, she’s supposed to be the Spiritborn. How am I supposed to prepare someone who looks so fragile to lead the realm against the darkness?
Garrick claps the staff against his palm, snapping me back. “Well. Can’t back out now.”
Jarek exhales, sliding his eyes to me, mist curling from his mouth. “You just want an excuse to bruise us without consequences.”
“You volunteered,” I remind him.
Garrick grins. “I live for consequences.”
“That explains a lot,” Rian murmurs.
“Come on, War God,” Garrick calls, spinning his staff like he’s on stage instead of dirt. “Show us what you’ve got.”
I adjust my grip. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
They step into the ring with me. This is tradition. My friends. My brothers. The only ones who still look at me like I’m not already halfway legend.
Jarek lunges first. He always does. Fire Clan pride—fast, hard, no hesitation.
I parry high, but he’s got more strength in the swing than I expect. The impact shudders down my arms.
Garrick follows immediately, coming in low from the other side. I block his first hit, but the second catches my thigh. Hard. I grunt through it. Pain lances up my leg—sharp, immediate—but I twist with it and drive the butt of my staff into his ribs.
He stumbles back, wheezing, and grins.
“I’m good,” he coughs. “I’m good.”
Then Rian is there, sliding into the opening like water rushing downhill. His strike is too fast to block fully—I absorb it across my ribs, the wood slamming in with enough force to knock the wind from my lungs.
But I don’t stop. I use the recoil, spin, and slam my staff across Rian’s side. He takes it with a hiss, forced back two steps.
Garrick circles wide now, eyes sharper, looking for another angle. He’s smart when he’s not being loud.
Rian changes tactics too. He drops his center of gravity, moving like water—rolling through the cold, graceful in that fluid way of his.
Their breath fogs the air with each exhale. We’re all sweating now despite the chill.
And for a moment, I wish I could stay here in this ring, trading bruises with my brothers. They don’t see prophecy when they look at me. They don’t need me to believe in something I’m still wrapping my head around.
Scholars whispered about prophecy for decades, but only recently has the realm begun to believe. Whispers turned to shouts with desperate people clinging to hope. And soon, they’ll know we found the Spiritborn.
Garrick tries to tackle me. I sidestep at the last moment and he crashes into Jarek instead. They both go down in a heap, tangled and swearing. Laughter erupts from the edges of the courtyard. A few soldiers call out jeers.
I pace around them slowly, breath even, staff resting on my shoulder. “Again?”
“Bastard,” Jarek groans, shoving off his brother.
Garrick raises a hand. “I can’t feel my ass.”
“Because you landed on it,” I point out.
“You made me land on it.”
I shrug. “Cause and effect.”
Rian, still standing, just exhales and says, “You could at least pretend to struggle.”
“I am struggling,” I say mildly. “To stay entertained.”
We reset, breathing hard. I flash a grin.
Jarek aims for my head. I duck. Garrick swings upward toward my jaw. I lean back, but the end of his staff grazes my cheek, stinging hot. I taste blood.
I twist and drive my staff into his side—he stumbles, cursing. Then Rian tries to sweep me. His staff clips my ankle, nearly taking me down.
I recover fast, thrusting forward. My staff crashes into his shoulder with a satisfying crack that echoes off the stone. Jarek sees his chance and charges. He feints high—then slams the staff into my ribs again. Same spot.
I grunt—pain flashing through me—but I turn into it, grabbing his staff with mine, locking it down, and yanking hard.
He loses his grip.
I shove him back. A wave of whistles and whoops rises from outside the ring.
“Still unfair?” I ask.
He glares. “You’re bleeding.”
“So are you.”
They start to find rhythm. And I start to feel it.
My left side aches. My thigh throbs. My jaw stings. But I don’t stop.
Rian comes at me from the right, silent and fast. I deflect, jab, step in. He’s smarter than the others—he doesn’t linger, doesn’t overextend. He fades back, letting Jarek take the brunt again.
I drive my staff into Jarek’s ribs—controlled, but firm. He gasps and drops back. The crowd winces with him.
“Still breathing,” he coughs. “Barely.”
Around us, soldiers clap, boots stomping the dirt in approval.
We reset. The midday sun gleams off the ends of our quarterstaffs like firelight as my brothers eye me up and down, looking for any opening or weakness.
This time, they attack together—Fire Clan fury and Water Clan flow—and they don’t hold back.
Jarek drives me back with fast, disciplined strikes. Garrick follows, wild and grinning even through exhaustion. Rian waits, watching, reading the gaps.
I absorb another blow from Garrick—this one to my upper arm—then spin low, knocking his legs from under him. He hits the ground with a wheeze.
Jarek’s on me before I rise. We lock staffs—wood straining between us, arms shaking with the strain.
I smile through gritted teeth. “Stronger than last time.”
“Training with you’ll do that,” he growls.
I break the lock and slam the heel of my staff into his gut. He crumples.
Only Rian remains standing, staff ready, eyes narrowed. We circle. His strike is clean, cutting the air. I parry. He spins, counters—clips my hip, fast and clean.
Gods, he’s fast. But I’m faster.
Before he resets, I lunge—drive the end of my staff into his chest and knock him flat.
They all rise again—barely. Garrick’s lip is bleeding. Jarek’s got a welt blooming across his collarbone. Rian rolls his shoulder like it’s half out of socket. But they come.
We clash again—fierce, brutal, unrelenting. The kind of sparring that leaves marks. That proves something.
I disarm Garrick with a feint and a hook.
He scrambles and gets a boot in the gut for his trouble.
I sweep Jarek hard—he hits the stones with a grunt and doesn’t rise right away.
Rian lasts the longest, as always. But I catch his staff, twist, and shove—he stumbles, and I press the end of mine to his chest.
“Dead,” I say.
He closes his eyes, breathless. “You bleeding bastard.”
I grin. “You’re welcome.”
The sun spills down like molten gold, turning the courtyard into something sacred. Steam rises from our skin. My breath burns in my chest. My ribs scream. But I’m still on my feet.
The others are scattered across the stone, cursing and laughing under their breath.
“Same time tomorrow?” I ask.
“Gods, no,” Garrick groans.
Jarek mutters, “I might actually be dead.”
Rian sits up slowly. “We almost had you.”
I wipe the blood from my cheek with the back of my wrist. “Almost.”
The crowd begins to scatter, murmurs fading into the hum of midday. A few soldiers linger, casting sidelong glances our way as they leave—some grinning, others wincing like they took the hits.
We move slowly, limbs aching, breathing still ragged.