Chapter 5 #5
We round a bend, and I slow at the sight of a circular stone fountain—dry now, but clearly ancient. Strange runes are etched into the basin, their meaning probably lost to time.
Thane glances at it, then back at me. “No one knows who built that. Some say it was there before the outpost. Valen thinks it predates the Fire Clan altogether.”
We keep walking, and I start noticing more:
Reinforced gates leading down into shadow—underground storage, maybe.
A sunken garden tucked between two battlements, overgrown but clearly cared for.
A flat boulder, blackened with scorch marks that could only have come from dragonfire.
We don’t speak.
I don’t need to. There’s enough noise in my head already. Thane stays quiet beside me, but not like he doesn’t know what to say. More like he’s waiting—to see if I will.
So I watch instead. Let the outpost unfold around me.
To my right, faint markings shimmer across the stone—curved lines and angled script I don’t recognize.
“Old Fire Clan wards,” Thane says, matching his pace to mine. “Etched during the Shadow Wars. Reinforced with dragon magics—at least, that’s what Valen thinks. No one really knows anymore.”
We pass a half-hidden archway wrapped in vine. Just beyond it, a statue leans forward, its face worn smooth by time.
“Used to be a temple,” Thane says. “People came here before the clans, before the courts. To honor the elements. This was long before I was born.”
Up ahead, a wide yard lined with tall wooden frames and netting rises into view. Crates, pulleys, sand pits.
“That’s the aerial course. Teaches riders how to fight midair, keep their balance, adjust for wind. Looks chaotic—but it works.”
He pauses.
“It doesn’t get used as much anymore.” His voice softens. “Fewer dragons have been calling to riders these past ten years.”
My brows knit together. “Why is that? Why are fewer dragons calling?”
Thane slides his gaze toward me. “No one really knows.”
He pauses; there’s something heavy behind his voice.
“And they won’t say. Dragons have their own culture. Their own rules. Asking them something like that is . . . taboo.” He shakes his head. “It’s seen as a violation of the bond. A breach of trust.”
His eyes stay on mine.
“And we need them. Especially now. So we don’t push. We respect their ways.”
We walk on. Red banners ripple along the corridor—each one bearing a single word in bold flame-colored script.
Honor.
Strength.
Loyalty.
Endurance.
“I had them moved,” Thane says. “They used to hang in the great hall. No one saw them there, not unless it was a ceremony.”
He glances at me. “Felt like they belonged out here instead. Where people earn them.”
I glance at the word nearest me—Endurance. My stomach tightens. I’m not sure I’ve earned anything yet. Just survived.
We walk in silence again. The only sounds are the distant clang of steel and the low hum of voices drifting from the training grounds.
Then Thane speaks again, his voice lower now, careful.
“Thank you, Amara. For choosing it.”
He doesn’t say what it is, but I know.
For a moment, I don’t know what to say; I don’t know how to put any of this into words. The grief. The weight of stepping into something I didn’t ask for. The knowing that nothing will ever be the same again.
Eventually, I manage, “I don’t know what it’s going to mean yet.” My voice is quiet. Honest. “But I couldn’t walk away.”
It’s the only truth I have to give.
Thane doesn’t answer right away. Just walks beside me, our footsteps quiet on the stone. Then—
“That’s all any of us can do.”
There’s no judgment or expectation in his voice.
His eyes slide towards me. “We don’t always get to choose what calls us,” he adds. “Only whether we answer.”
I look at him. “Did you answer the first time it called you?”
His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, not quite bitterness. “No.”
A beat of silence.
“I ran for a while,” he says. “Thought I could outrun what it meant . . . what it would cost.”
“And did you?” I ask.
He shakes his head once. “It found me anyway.”
I wrap my arms around myself, fingers curling into the thick fabric of my coat. The wool is coarse beneath my palms.
We move through the quiet stretch of corridor—stone underfoot, torchlight flickering against the walls, the low murmur of distant voices echoing behind closed doors.
Thane doesn’t say anything else as we continue to walk side by side.
Finally, we stop in front of a heavy wooden door. Thane places his hand on the handle, then pulls it open, gesturing for me to go first.
I wonder if they’ll know the second I walk in—that I don’t belong here. That I’m just pretending to be someone who does.
I step inside.
The room is warm—lit by hanging lanterns and the soft crackle of a hearth on the far wall. A long table stretches through the center, already set for the evening meal.
Five faces turn toward me as I enter, one of them familiar as my own.
“Amara!” Lyra rushes forward, pulling me into a tight hug. “I’ve had the most incredible day,” she says, breathless. “I started hand-to-hand combat lessons! Well—we just worked on balance today, but still!”
She pulls back, green eyes bright, cheeks flushed. And for a moment, the weight lifts a little.
She grabs my hand, giving it a quick squeeze, her grin infectious. I can’t help but smile, the edges of my weariness softening.
“You’ll have to tell me about it later.”
Lyra grins. “Deal.”
Thane steps up beside me. “Let me introduce you to everyone,” he says, his voice low but carrying easily in the quiet room.
“This is Garrick Kaelen.”
The man at the far end of the table lifts a hand in greeting.
He’s tall and broad, sandy blond hair falling in a wind-swept mess across his brow.
Mischief glints in his eyes, and his crimson tunic—edged in gold thread—is unmistakably Fire Clan.
A black leather pauldron rests over one shoulder, more style than function.
He grins at me. “So you’re the Spiritborn.” Garrick’s hazel eyes travel up and down my body and I suddenly feel very exposed. “Huh. Thought you’d be taller—maybe glowing.”
Thane shoots him a look, but Garrick only winks at me. Lyra snickers.
Thane continues. “And his younger brother, Jarek Kaelen.”
Jarek is leaning against the wall behind him, arms crossed. Same hair—though his is tied back into a loose knot. He wears a dark red undershirt beneath a sleeveless leather vest, a flame-etched clasp at his shoulder. Quieter posture than his brother, but sharp eyes.
“Don’t mind him,” he says, gesturing towards his brother. “He thought the last ‘Spiritborn’ was a goat with a weird birthmark,” Jarek grins.
Lyra snorts beside me.
Thane nods toward the final man standing slightly apart. “And this is Rian Morne.”
Rian stands a little apart from the others, composed and steady.
His clothing is simpler—deep navy with silver detailing, clean lines with no excess.
Water Clan. It’s in the cool tones of his garb, the subtle wavework stitched into his collar, and the way he carries himself—measured, fluid, patient.
He steps forward and dips his head.
“Welcome, Amara,” he says. His voice is deep, smooth, carrying with it a gentleness.
I nod in return, something inside me easing at the kindness in his tone.
Thane speaks again, his voice low, almost reverent. “They call us a warband. A unit. Some even say we’re the last line of defense. But that’s not what we are.”
He glances toward Garrick, Jarek, Rian—each standing silent, meeting his eyes.
“We’ve burned together, lost, risen. Again and again.”
He pauses. Then, in a softer tone, adds:
“We’re the Phoenix Ring. Not because we survive—but because we return, and burn brighter each time.”
The words land like an oath. The men surrounding me grin, trading looks that only brothers-in-arms share—it’s history written in scars.
They know things about one another no one else could know.
And I understand the image—the fire, the rebirth, the bond that forged them.
But my heart is still too heavy, too raw, to hold the meaning the way they do.
So I nod. And I smile—small, thin, and not quite reaching my eyes.
Thane tilts his chin toward the last figure at the table.
“And of course, you know Valen—resident mage and scholar of the Fire Clan.” A faint smirk. “Even if he doesn’t belong to us by blood.”
Valen inclines his head with a soft chuckle. “Air Clan, through and through,” he says, the corners of his silver-blue eyes crinkling with warmth.
His robes are slate-gray, woven with pale blue and silver. Elegant, but the hems are frayed from travel. A carved staff rests beside him, polished smooth by years of use. His dark hair—streaked with gray—falls past his shoulders, and his expression is open, quietly watchful.
“Glad to see you here, Amara. Truly,” he says.
Just six words. But they carry so much weight.
Here—and alive.
Here—and choosing.
Here—in the room.
Here—found.
I give him a small nod, unsure which one I’m acknowledging. Maybe all of them.
Thane glances around the room. “Shall we sit?”
Lyra, still holding my hand, tugs me gently toward the seat she’d claimed earlier. I let her guide me, sinking into the chair beside her.
Garrick strides to the head of the table like it’s the most natural thing in the world and drops into the seat with theatrical ease. I expect Thane to take the opposite end—but instead, he pulls out the chair beside me and sits.
Across from us, Valen settles into his seat with a calm rustle of robes, and Jarek drops into the one next to him, spinning a knife idly between his fingers. Rian, takes the seat at the far end of the table—where I thought Thane would be.
I glance sideways at Thane. “Aren’t you supposed to sit at the head? You’re the Warlord.”
Before Thane can answer, Garrick chokes mid-sip and sprays ale across the table.
He coughs once, then bursts into laughter, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Gods, please don’t encourage him.”