Chapter 5 #6
“Oh for fuck’s sake, Garrick,” Jarek mutters, grabbing his now ale-soaked napkin and utensils.
Lyra yelps and lifts her plate like it’s contagious. “Seriously?” she says, tipping it sideways as amber liquid drips from the edge.
Garrick is grinning like he just won a duel. “That was brilliant.”
Valen sighs and flicks his fingers. A small gust of air sweeps the worst of it clean.
Thane just shakes his head, muttering something under his breath as he slides a clean cloth across the table toward me. “No, that’s not how we do things here. I only sit at the head when I have to.”
Garrick bursts into laughter. “Yeah—like when he’s got to impress nobles at fancy balls.” He clasps his hands dramatically. “And this, dear friends, is where we toast to treaties with overpriced wine and pretend to like each other.”
Lyra laughs, clutching her dripping plate. Jarek grins, clearly proud of the chaos his brother has stirred. Rian rolls his eyes, but a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.
I should laugh, but it sticks in my throat. Like I’m watching it all from just outside myself—close enough to see it, too far to feel it.
A moment later, the door creaks open and a young server steps inside, eyes wide, clearly having heard the ruckus.
“Everything okay, Lord Caelum?” he asks, gaze darting toward the mess in front of Garrick.
“Three new place settings,” Thane says calmly, gesturing toward Garrick, Jarek, and Lyra. “Please.”
The server nods and quickly retreats.
Garrick lifts his ale in salute, still grinning. Jarek shrugs with a casual flick of his fingers. Lyra offers a polite smile, wiping the last of the spilled ale from her hands and straightening like she’s trying to reclaim some shred of dignity.
As the laughter fades and the mess is half-heartedly cleaned, I sit back in my chair and take it all in.
The easy rhythm. The banter. The way no one seems surprised by Garrick’s chaos—or particularly bothered by it.
Jarek’s dry smirk. Rian’s quiet eye-roll.
Lyra, trying to look composed even as her plate drips onto the table.
Thane, calm beside me, like he’s seen this exact moment unfold a hundred times.
It’s nothing like what I imagined when I thought of warlords and their command. No stiff formality or masks. Just . . . warmth and familiarity. Realness.
I’m not part of it though—not really. But for the first time since my world shattered, I think . . . maybe I could be. Eventually.
The door creaks open again. The young server returns, arms full, balancing a stack of clean plates and fresh utensils. He sets them down quickly at the seats for Garrick, Jarek, and Lyra—each murmuring some version of thanks—then clears out the ones that were sprayed with ale.
Behind him, a small procession of servers follows—each carrying heaping bowls and steaming trays. The air floods with the rich scent of roasted meat, seasoned root vegetables, fresh bread still warm from the oven, and something sweet—spiced fruit, maybe.
The table shifts into motion—hands reaching to help pass dishes, spoons clinking against serving bowls, quiet thanks and murmurs of appreciation exchanged between bites of food.
As the sounds of serving and conversation fill the space, I feel a soft touch against my back. I glance to my left.
Lyra offers me a warm smile and a small, encouraging nod—wordless, but clear. Go on. Eat. Join in.
I haven’t had much of an appetite lately. Grief clings to everything, even hunger. But I know what she’s saying, what she’s trying to give me. A moment of normalcy and belonging.
I manage a small smile—just enough to let her know I’m trying. Then reach for the nearest bowl and begin to fill my plate. Not because I’m hungry, but because I want to try for her.
I spoon a small portion of roasted meat onto my plate, the rich scent of herbs and smoke rising. Then the root vegetables—golden and crisp at the edges, glistening with oil. The aroma does nothing to stir my appetite.
I don’t say much at first. Just listen. The conversation drifts around me—not of war or strategy or politics like I expected. No sharp orders or talk of borders or battle plans. But rather, the kind of talk that exists between people who’ve shared years, not just duties.
Inside jokes. Half-told stories. Garrick poking fun at Jarek for falling off a training platform last week. Rian offering a single dry comment that makes the whole table laugh. Even Valen joins in, amused and knowing, like he’s seen them all grow up.
It doesn’t feel like a court—it feels like family.
Lyra must catch me quietly watching, because she suddenly straightens in her chair, clearly deciding to shift the attention.
“So,” she says, loud enough to be heard over the clatter of cutlery, “how did you all become friends? Garrick mentioned you met as kids.”
Garrick brightens instantly, leaning back in his chair like a man preparing to perform. “Oh, that story. Classic!”
Jarek groans. “Here we go . . . ”
“No, no—this one’s formative,” Garrick says, brandishing his fork like a sword. “Picture this: we’re eight. Training yard behind the barracks. Someone—definitely not me—sneaks into the armory and ‘borrows’ a few of the wooden practice blades.”
“They were full-size,” Jarek mutters. “We could barely lift them.”
“Details,” Garrick waves him off. “Anyway, Rian had just arrived from a Water Clan outpost. New kid. Real serious. So naturally, we told him that the only way to prove himself was to take down the fiercest young warrior in the Fire Clan.”
Lyra gasps. “You didn’t.”
“We absolutely did,” Garrick says, grinning. “And who better for the role than Thane himself? We hand Rian this oversized plank of a sword, expecting him to hesitate—but no. He walks across the yard, no warning, and wham! Full swing. Right into Thane’s ribs.”
“I went down hard,” Thane admits, a faint smirk playing on his lips.
“With a full swing,” Rian adds calmly, not looking up from his plate.
“You dropped like a sack of coal,” Jarek says, now laughing.
“And landed in the trough that happened to be right behind him,” Garrick finishes, pounding the table. “Soaked from chest to boots.”
Even Valen is chuckling now, eyes crinkling.
“Sword flew one way, pride the other,” Garrick says, laughing so hard he nearly chokes on his drink. “And Rian? Just stands there like nothing happened.”
“I was following instructions,” Rian says calmly.
“I thought Thane was going to murder me,” Garrick adds, wiping his eyes.
“I was going to,” Thane replies. “Until I saw he had better form than half of the older recruits. Even at eight years old.”
“Thane stood up, soaked from head to toe, and just stared at him,” Jarek adds. “And then he says, ‘You’ve got good form.’ Like he hadn’t drowned in front of the entire yard!”
“We made Rian one of us that day,” Garrick says, lifting his mug. “Partly because he earned it. Mostly because we were scared of what else he might swing at.”
Laughter circles the table—real, easy.
Garrick raises his ale. “To the Phoenix Ring!”
Jarek clinks his mug against his brother’s, grinning. “And to water troughs.”
Even Rian lifts his glass. Valen, and Lyra raise theirs too. Thane just shakes his head—but he’s smiling.
I raise my glass too. I should feel like one of them. I don’t. But I lift my glass anyway—because maybe pretending is how it starts.
But I can sense Lyra isn’t done. My eyes slide to hers, catching the mischievous glint as they dart between Garrick and Jarek.
“Why are your names so similar? Other than the topknot on Jarek’s head, how am I supposed to tell you two apart? Your mother couldn’t come up with something more original?”
I widen my eyes and kick Lyra under the table.
“What?” she says, turning to me with raised brows.
Garrick nearly topples his chair back with how hard he laughs, thumping the table as if Lyra just told the best joke of the century. Jarek only shakes his head, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth—his amusement quieter but no less sharp.
But it’s Rian, the serious one, that laughs, the sound rumbling through the room like a waterfall. I feel the weight of a gaze and turn.
Thane is watching me, smiling—not the sharp smile he shows his men, but something softer. I can’t help but smile back, small but real, the warmth in his expression tugging me out of my grief for a breath.
“It’s okay, Amara. Our mother was sure she was having twins,” Jarek explains, tone steady, hazel eyes lit with humor. “She had our names already chosen. When Garrick showed up alone, she was determined to try again until I arrived.”
Garrick snorts. “Unfortunately for our father, our mother always got her way.”
Rian laughs at that, along with the rest of the men.
As the laughter fades and the table settles into that easy rhythm of full bellies and shared memory, I find my gaze drifting across the table to Valen. He’s quiet, as always. But there’s something in the way he watches the others—soft, knowing. Like he’s seeing more than what’s in front of him.
“How did you end up in the Fire Clan?” I ask. “Working with Thane, I mean.”
The table quiets, all eyes falling on the mage.
Valen meets my eyes. His expression is as calm as always—warm, composed—but something flickers behind it. Older. Wiser.
“I sought him out,” he says simply.
That surprises me. I glance at Thane, but he says nothing. Just watches Valen with a quiet deference I hadn’t expected.
“I spent most of my life in the Air Clan,” Valen continues, “studying elemental balance, ancient texts, and . . . prophecies. Some are long lost, others preserved only in fragments—riddles written in fading tongues, half-truths woven into verse.”
He doesn’t look at Thane, but I can feel the weight of the moment shift toward him.
“But one prophecy stayed with me,” Valen says. “It spoke of a figure who would rise in a time of unrest. Someone who didn’t fit the mold of any one path. Someone who would carry a burden no one fully understood.”
He pauses.
“It wasn’t clear—not like the Spiritborn—but the signs were there. Enough to follow.”
My breath hitches at the word, Spiritborn.
“But you found Thane,” I say quietly.
“I looked for a young man trying to learn every path without losing himself to any of them,” Valen says, finally glancing at Thane. “And I knew—whether the prophecy meant him or not—he would shape what came next.”
Thane doesn’t speak, but his jaw tightens faintly. He looks away, just for a second.
I look at him—really look. Not at the warlord. Not at the trainer. But someone who’s been walking a path he may not have chosen, like me.
We don’t always get to choose what calls us, he’d said. Only whether we answer.
I turn to him, voice quieter now. “You’re in the prophecies?”
Thane’s eyes meet mine, steady and unreadable. He doesn’t answer right away. Across the table, the others have gone still—watching, listening.
“It appears I might be,” he says at last.
Then he lifts his ale, takes a slow sip—his eyes never leaving mine over the rim.
A quiet admission wrapped in layers of things he’s not ready to say. And somehow, it says everything.
My eyes flick between Valen and Thane.
“You didn’t tell me.”
Valen sets his cup down gently. “You needed time,” he says, his voice calmly. “You’d already been told so much—and gone through even more. We wanted to give you space. A chance to process, to breathe.” He pauses, the flicker of something softer in his eyes. “To choose freely.”
The room is still.
Then, quietly, Valen asks, “Would it have changed anything if you knew?”
I look down at my plate, the weight of silence pressing in around me. I can feel their eyes on me—all of them waiting. Lyra’s hand finds my shoulder, a gentle squeeze, steadying. Reminding me I’m not alone.
I peek at Thane. He’s still watching me, but not with expectation. There’s a softness in his expression now.
Understanding.
I lift my gaze to Valen. “No,” I say, my voice steady now. “It wouldn’t have.”
And I mean it.
Valen nods. A smile pulls gently at the corners of his mouth. His silver-blue eyes gleam with something close to pride.
Not in what I am. But in what I’ve chosen. And for the first time all evening, I feel like I’ve stepped fully into the room.
Into this place.
This circle.
This path.