Chapter 4 #2
I walk toward the water station, my quarterstaff resting across my shoulders, arms draped over it. Garrick limps a little. Jarek’s shirt is sticking to the bruise already blooming across his chest. Rian’s quiet, but I can see the tension in his jaw—he took the hardest hit at the end.
I grab a canteen from the stone basin and toss it to Rian without a word.
He catches it one-handed, unscrews the cap, and drinks deep. Then hands it to Garrick, who’s leaning against the post like it’s the only thing holding him upright.
Jarek grabs another canteen for himself and tips it straight back.
I let myself breathe. Just for a moment.
No prophecy. No politics. No girl behind a closed door with the fate of the world pressing on her shoulders.
Just this. My brothers bruised and beaten . . . but here.
I find my own and drain half of it in one go. The water is cold and sharp in my throat, grounding me more than anything else has since the match started.
Then I drop onto the nearest bench like my bones have turned to stone, the quarterstaff thudding against the side as it falls from my hand.
And just like that, it all catches up to me—bruises stinging sharp, ribs pulsing like war drums, muscles aching in places I forgot could ache. I rest my forearms on my knees and exhale, sweat cooling fast in the open air.
Rian sits beside me with a low grunt. Garrick flops to the ground at my feet. Jarek leans back against the bench behind us, still sipping water like he’s trying to calculate how many more sips it’ll take before he can stand straight.
Garrick takes another sip from the canteen, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“So how’s it going with the Spiritborn?” he asks, casual as anything. “Is she awake yet?”
I don’t look at him, just lean forward, elbows on my knees, eyes fixed on the dirt. “She’s awake. And as far as how it’s going . . . oh, you know. Denial. Grief. Disbelief.” I take a slow breath. “How it usually goes when you find out you’re part of a prophecy.”
Jarek lets out a low whistle. “She holding up?”
“She’s still standing.” I pause. “Which is more than most could manage.”
Garrick hums—low, thoughtful. “Sounds about right. Girl’s got teeth. Valen told me what she did at her village when the Fellborn hit.”
Across from me, Rian’s eyes shift to mine—quiet and steady. That look he gives me isn’t surprise or sympathy. It’s understanding. The kind that doesn’t need words. Because they all know. They were there when I found out.
I hold his gaze for a beat. A nod passes between us.
Jarek leans his head back against the bench with a grunt. “Prophecies are overrated anyway.”
Garrick sprawls in the dirt like it’s a feather mattress. “I still think if the gods are going to hand out destinies, they could at least do it with a proper feast. Maybe some wine. And a warning.”
“Would’ve been nice,” I murmur.
The courtyard hums with heat and distant voices. A hawk cries overhead. Somewhere in the mess hall, metal clatters against stone. The kind of midday lull that lets everything ache a little louder.
We stare up at the sky, half-broken and half-healing. And for a second, it almost feels like we’re all thinking of something deeper.
Then—
As if the thought has just occurred to him, Garrick lifts his head and says, “You know . . . she’s lovely to look at. The Spiritborn.”
I blink. “What?”
“I’m just saying,” Garrick continues, undeterred. “The gods may be cruel, but they have taste.”
Rian exhales like he’s preparing for impact. “You’re going to get hit.”
“I’ve already been hit,” Garrick says, rubbing his ribs with a wince. “Might as well earn it.” Then he squints at the sky, thoughtful. “What’s the Spiritborn’s friend’s name again?”
I stare at him. “The Spiritborn’s name is Amara Thalor,” I say flatly. “And her friend is Lyra Durnhart.”
“Oh, right,” Garrick says, entirely unbothered. “Amara and Lyra. Sounds like the start of a ballad where one of them saves your life and the other ruins it.”
Jarek mutters, “More like a funeral dirge.”
But Garrick’s off and grinning now, eyes gleaming with mischief. “I mean, look at them. One’s got ancient power pulsing through her veins, and the other could talk a dragon out of its hoard.”
“She did talk Valen into letting her keep the training blade,” Rian adds. “Lyra was already sparring with the recruits two days ago while Amara was still unconscious. She wants to fight.”
Garrick sits up, grinning now. “I bet Lyra can talk anyone into anything.” He looks at me sideways, wicked amusement flickering in his eyes. “I could be persuaded . . . ”
I narrow my gaze. “Don’t.”
Garrick’s grin widens. “What? I’m just appreciating the strategic value of a woman like that. Dangerous. Charming. Probably keeps a dagger tucked in her boot.”
“I did see her tuck a dagger into her boot after training with the new recruits yesterday,” Rian confirms.
“See?” Garrick gestures broadly. “That’s not a red flag. That’s a challenge.”
Jarek snorts. “You’d be dead before you finished a sentence.”
“Worth it,” Garrick says cheerfully.
I exhale, rubbing the back of my neck. “Give them time, Garrick. Before you start . . . Garrick-ing all over everything.”
He blinks. “I’m an action now?”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
His smirk falters—just enough.
“They have a lot to consider. Valen visited with Amara this morning and gave her the whole realm is depending on you speech. Just days after her parents—” I stop. Shake my head. “It’s a lot.”
The mood shifts.
Jarek runs a hand over his face, suddenly looking older than he is. “Shit. I didn’t know Valen was doing that today.”
Rian nods once. “That’s not something you walk off.”
Garrick rubs his palms over his knees. “Yeah. Alright. Sorry.”
His smirk wavers and I let the moment settle.
“I know you’re joking. But they’re still trying to breathe through it.” The weight threads through my voice, quieter now. “They lost everything. Watched their home burn. Watched people die. And then we brought them here—to an outpost full of strangers with expectations they never asked for.”
I pause, looking down at the canteen in my hands, the sweat cooling on my skin.
“I spoke to Amara this morning.”
That gets their attention, their focus sharp like a blade.
I rake my fingers through my damp hair. “She’s having a hard time.”
Jarek shifts, running a hand over his mouth. “Think she’ll stay? Take on being the Spiritborn?”
I meet his eyes. “I don’t know.”
The words hang there—blunt and honest.
“But it’s important that it’s her choice. And for all our sakes—I hope she does.”
Rian looks at Jarek, sweat beading at his temple. He wipes them away with the back of his hand. “She’s still here.”
“She is,” I say quietly. “But let’s not make it harder on her than it already is.”
I keep seeing the way she looked this morning. Still wrapped in her blanket, hands fisted in the edges like she’s holding on for dear life. I don’t know what to do with that image. So I file it away next to the rest of the approaching war.
Garrick leans back on his elbows, jaw clenched now. “Yeah. Alright. Message received.” Then, his voice lower than before, “She doesn’t owe any of this to us. Or to anyone.”
“No,” I agree. “She doesn’t.”
He glances up at the sky. “Beautiful and terrifying. That’s the worst kind. The kind that ruins you while you thank them for it.”
Jarek snorts softly. “Spoken like a man already halfway ruined.”
“I’m just saying,” Garrick goes on, quieter now, “she’s not just strong. There’s something in her. Something that knows how to survive.”
He looks at me. “And that scares the shit out of me more than the Shadow Forces do.”
I don’t laugh or argue. He’s right.
She’s grieving, and yet—she’s still standing. There’s a fire in her; I saw it in her eyes this morning.
I just hope, for all our sakes, she chooses to fight.