Chapter 5
CHOICE
FIVE
I leave soon to renew the runes on the ancient wards—those first forged during the Shadow Wars. Each year, they require more reinforcement, as if a long slumbering evil is awaking. The urgency grows stronger with every new attack—especially after the capital attack. The people are near panic.
—VALEN’S JOURNAL
AMARA
The air holds the lingering chill of morning, biting at my exposed skin.
Lyra and I step out into the open courtyard of the outpost. Sunlight filters through the towering stone walls, casting short shadows across the packed dirt paths weaving between sturdy wooden structures.
The scent of damp earth and smoke lingers in the air, mingling with the faint metallic tang of steel from the training grounds.
Beneath my boots, the ground is uneven—rough, hardened by countless drills and the weight of warriors preparing for war.
The outpost is alive with motion. Soldiers from all clans move with quiet precision. Some spar in the open yard, their blades clashing in rhythmic strikes. Others tend to horses or haul crates toward a stone building that looks like it could withstand a siege.
I pause, tipping my head back to take in the full scope of this place.
The walls of the outpost rise high above us, a fortress of dark stone reinforced with thick iron gates.
Watchtowers loom at the corners, their narrow windows revealing glimpses of archers stationed within.
The banners of the Fire Clan hang from the battlements, their crimson and gold insignia catching the wind, snapping like embers against the pale morning sky.
Beyond the courtyard, another training field stretches out—rows of warriors drilling under the sharp commands of their instructors. Further still, a set of stone steps leads to a raised platform, where a circular structure overlooks the entire outpost like a watchful eye.
Lyra glances at me, a flicker of something—uncertainty, maybe—crossing her face. “So, what do you think?”
I hesitate, trying to find the words. The scale of it. The precision. The cold certainty of what they’re preparing for. “It’s . . . it’s a lot.”
She snorts, but I hear the tension in her voice. “That’s one way to put it.”
We follow a worn path along the wall, passing a line of training dummies battered and burned. Boots striking the ground echoes around us as a group of warriors practice their footwork, their instructors barking sharp corrections.
My gaze lingers on a soldier repairing a row of spears—his hands quick, methodical, like he’s done it a hundred times. Even the quiet work feels like preparation. Everything here is meant for battle.
A passing warrior eyes me briefly, assessing, before turning away. The glance is fleeting, but it lingers in my mind.
I’m an outsider. A piece that doesn’t quite fit.
A sudden gust of wind sweeps through the outpost, and I look up just as a shadow passes overhead. A quiet gasp slips free.
High above, a trio of dragons soars, wings carving arcs through sky. One of them has obsidian black scales, its form sleek and intimidating. Another shines gold, its scales catching the sun like molten fire. The third is a deep sapphire blue.
Sunlight dances along their hides. Each shift of their wings sends a ripple through the sky like thunder waiting to break.
Beside me, Lyra stops, eyes wide with wonder.
“They’re incredible,” she breathes. “I always wished one had stayed near our village. I remember when Mireya was called by a dragon—she could’ve flown back at least once. Let us gawk properly before she vanished into legend.”
I nod, unable to tear my gaze away. The sheer size of them, the raw power in their every movement—it’s overwhelming. They are creatures of legend, beings of strength and fire, and seeing them like this, so close, fills me with a strange mix of admiration and unease.
I can’t deny the thrill that courses through me as I watch them disappear beyond the horizon.
We continue walking, letting the energy of the outpost settle around us. Our footsteps fall into an easy rhythm as we head toward the mess hall for breakfast, the scent of fresh bread and herbed roasted meat drifting through the air.
Just ahead, an arched stone passageway frames a path into the next section of the stronghold, its edges worn with time.
As we pass beneath it, hushed voices catch our attention.
In the shadows beyond the archway, tucked just out of view of the main pathway, stand Thane and Valen. Their heads are close together, their voices low but tense.
I instinctively slow. Lyra too. Though they speak in hushed tones, the words still carry on a breeze.
“We need to give her time,” Valen says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Her heart still grieves, and that will shape her choices.”
Thane exhales sharply, frustration clear in his stance and gestures.
“Time’s not a luxury we have, Valen. The wards are weakening.
More villages. More outposts near the Forsaken Lands—” He cuts off, his voice thick with urgency.
“Every day we wait, more lives are lost. She could change everything. Give us an advantage.”
Valen shakes his head. “If we push too soon, she will break. And if she breaks . . . we lose everything.”
I exchange a glance with Lyra, my pulse quickening.
We slip away, pretending we didn’t hear, but the weight of their words linger as we continue toward the mess hall.
The next few days pass in a blur of exploration and recovery.
Lyra and I wander the outpost, watching the soldiers train, studying their precise movements as they hone their skills. We admire the dragons overhead, their massive wings cutting through the sky with effortless grace. Each time I see them, I feel a deep pull in my chest—a mix of wonder and unease.
Lyra spends the afternoons training with a squadron of new recruits, already moving like she belongs here. I know she wants to stay, no matter how often she insists she’ll go where I go.
But I don’t know where to go. Or where I belong anymore.
I catch myself watching Thane and Valen from a distance. They give me space, as if knowing I am not ready to face them just yet. Thane spends most mornings sparring with three men I’ve come to recognize—Garrick, Jarek, and Rian.
Their skill is undeniable, each strike and counter fluid, honed from years of training. Their camaraderie is evident in the way they challenge one another, never holding back.
“They’re cute,” Lyra mutters as we watch, nudging me with her elbow.
I snort. “You think everyone’s cute.”
“No,” she says, grinning. “Just the ones who could kill me and look good doing it.”
She’s not wrong.
Garrick’s grin is all teeth and trouble. Jarek moves like he’s always listening for the next threat.
Even in a camp full of warriors—they stand out.
Rian is the balance between them. The calm inside all their fire and noise. He doesn’t speak often, but when he does, everyone listens.
Still, I feel distant from it all.
The outpost buzzes with purpose—like the high day of the market back home, only every face here knows war and everyone here belongs.
I walk through it like a ghost.
At night, I cry for my parents. For my village. For everything that burned.
Sometimes Lyra sits with me. She doesn’t say much, but her presence is enough. She grieves too, in her own quiet way. I see it in the lines around her eyes, the way she stares too long at the fire.
One afternoon, I slip away, needing the quiet.
I sit beneath the sprawling branches of a beautiful ancient oak tree, letting the sounds of the outpost fade into the background. My thoughts tangle—grief, guilt, the weight of a name I never asked for.
Spiritborn.
They keep saying it like it’s a name. But it doesn’t feel like mine.
It feels like a prophecy wearing my skin.
The cool breeze rustles the leaves above me, but then another wind rises—stronger and heavier. A shadow passes over me, and I look up, startled.
An obsidian black dragon lands with a powerful thud, sending a gust of wind rippling through the grass.
A flicker of awe catches behind my ribs as Thane dismounts, moving with a quiet ease. The dragon lowers its massive head, and Thane strokes its jaw, his fingers brushing over dark scales with practiced familiarity.
Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he leans his forehead against the beast’s thick neck. They stay like that for a long moment. There is something deeply intimate about the gesture, a quiet understanding shared between them.
Gods. I wonder what it’s like to be chosen like that.
Then Thane steps back.
With a mighty beat of its wings and a kick of its back feet, the dragon lifts off. The wind from its departure whips around us, sending Thane’s long leather duster flaring out behind him.
He turns, his gaze landing on me. I hadn’t meant to watch, but now that he sees me, I don’t look away.
As he strides toward me, I take in the details of his black warrior leathers, the orange and red flame sigils stitched into the fabric—a clear mark of the Fire Clan. A fire wielder.
“That’s Xaroth,” he says when he’s just a few feet away. “We bonded when I was sixteen.”
I look up, watching his gaze trail after the dragon’s fading silhouette.
“He’s restless.” His lips twitch, but the expression doesn’t reach his eyes. “We both are.”
I stay quiet, my eyes drifting back to the sky where Xaroth had disappeared, in awe of the majesty of it.
Thane shifts on his feet, watching me. “How are you?” His voice is softer now. “Are you finding everything you need?”
I nod slowly. “I’m okay. Yes, thank you.”
The words sound like they belong to someone else. I look away, my gaze drifting toward the forest beyond the lake.
Thane rubs the back of his neck, hesitating before trying again. “How’s your room?”
I exhale slowly, realizing he isn’t going to leave. Resigning myself to conversation, I shift to face him, my fingers tracing absent patterns on the ground.