Chapter 6
TATTOOS
SIX
Only those bound to dragons bear an elemental mark upon their back.
A rider does not command the element by will alone, but through the bond—when dragon and rider are joined in purpose, and the element flows between them, strengthening what is latent in the rider.
The mark comes after, a sign of the connection made. It has always been so, until now.
—VALEN’S JOURNAL
AMARA
Now that we’re officially staying, Lyra and I have been assigned to the barracks with the other warriors. No special treatment. No private rooms. Just rows of bunk beds, boots lined beneath them.
They give us standard gear—several pairs of trousers and tunics, a belt, and boots tough enough to survive the training grounds. Everything smells faintly of smoke and soapstone, like it has been washed but has lived through too much to ever be truly clean again.
Even as the Spiritborn, I’m not exempt. Thane made that clear. I’ll still train harder, get more eyes on me. I’m expected to become something more. And ready or not, I’m already part of this war.
We find a corner table in the mess hall, bowls of porridge steaming in front of us.
“Eat,” Lyra says, pointing her spoon at me like a weapon. “It’s your first real training day. You’ll need fuel.”
“Yes, mother,” I mutter.
She grins. “Don’t ‘mother’ me. You’re the one who has to wield four elements. I’m just here to make sure you don’t forget how to breathe.”
Before I can fire back a retort, a woman approaches our table with two men trailing her. All three are carrying trays piled high with breakfast foods.
“Hi! Can we join you?”
Lyra smiles and says, “Sure,” then spoons more porridge into her mouth.
The woman grins and slides onto the bench next to me. Her skin is rich brown, her braids pulled back in clean, neat rows. Her eyes—warm, curious—flick between Lyra and me like she’s already clocking everything.
Two men follow and take the bench across from us, both smiling like they’ve decided we’ll be fun to sit with.
“I’m Taila,” she says, then gestures to the others. “That’s Darius. And Fenric.”
Darius gives a small nod—bronze skin, dark hair, and thoughtful eyes the color of strong tea.
He has the steady kind of presence that says he probably listens more than he speaks.
Fenric, on the other hand, looks like chaos wrapped in charm.
Windswept blond hair, blue eyes that sparkle like they’re always mid-joke.
“Darius and I are Water Clan,” Taila adds. “Fenric’s Air Clan.”
Fenric bumps Darius with his elbow, casual. Darius just rolls his eyes, the corner of his mouth tugging into a smile. There’s an ease between them—intimate, familiar.
Lyra, never one to filter a single thought, eyes the two men across from us. “Are you two . . . together?”
I nearly choke on my porridge. Subtle as ever.
Fenric just grins, completely unfazed. He rests a hand on Darius’ lower back, fingers brushing there like it’s instinct. “This one’s mine,” he says, glancing between Lyra and Darius with a grin. “Try not to be too heartbroken.”
Darius chuckles, quiet and easy, and leans into the touch without a word.
Lyra leans back, eyebrows raised in approval. “Damn.”
Fenric raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying himself. “What? Hoping I was available?”
“No,” Lyra says, shoveling another spoonful of porridge into her mouth. “Just admiring your taste.”
Darius chuckles. “Sorry to disappoint.”
“Oh, you guys are fun,” Lyra declares, nodding like she’s just decided they’re officially part of the group.
Then she gestures toward me with her spoon. “This is Amara. I’m Lyra.”
I nod, offering a quiet “Hi.”
Taila smiles back, then picks up a piece of bacon between her fingers, turning it once before taking a bite. She chews, swallows, then looks straight at me.
“We know who you are,” she says.
No accusation. Just calm certainty, like she’s naming the weather.
“You’re the Spiritborn.”
The word hangs there for a moment, heavier than I expect.
Taila sets the bacon down, her gaze steady. “We were told to leave you be. Let you come to us, if you wanted to.” A pause. “And since you’re here, you clearly chose. So—hello.”
I glance at Lyra. Her face is neutral, but there’s something flickering underneath it. Caution, maybe. Curiosity. Or just the silent question: You good?
I nod. Once. Then turn back to Taila.
“I didn’t come here to be treated like a relic,” I say, voice steady. “I came here to train. To fight. Same as the rest of you. Please treat me just like any other warrior.”
Taila holds my gaze for a beat, then nods—smiling, a little softer this time. “Good,” she says. “We could use someone like you.”
Fenric lifts his cup. “To the Spiritborn—who eats porridge just like the rest of us.”
That earns a snort from Darius and a full-blown laugh from Lyra.
And just like that, the tension breaks.
Lyra leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. “So how long have you three been at the outpost?”
“Six months,” Taila says, wiping her fingers on a cloth. “We came in with one of the earlier intakes—mostly from the Water and Air Clans.”
“It’s been . . . intense,” Fenric adds, flashing a grin. “The food’s questionable, the beds are too short, and the drills were definitely designed by sadists.”
Darius hums in agreement. “But it’s good work. Grounding.”
Taila nods. “And no one here coasts. You either carry your weight, or you’re gone.”
Her eyes flick back to me.
I meet her gaze. “I’m not here by accident,” I say quietly. “I know what’s coming.”
“Good,” she says, then picks up another piece of bacon. “Because it only gets harder from here.”
Fenric leans in like he’s about to share a secret. “Word of advice? If you value your spine, avoid the east training yard after it rains. Mud turns to quicksand, and Sergeant Brenn still makes you spar in it.”
“I lost a boot in there,” Darius adds, deadpan.
“He sank,” Fenric adds, grinning. “Like a stone. They had to haul him out like a tragic swamp casualty.”
Darius just shakes his head, but the amusement in his eyes says he doesn’t mind the telling.
Taila sighs. “Ignore them—mostly. But do listen when it comes to the training structure. You’ll be assigned a rotation commander, usually someone who reports directly to the Warlord or Captain Elaris. They set your daily schedule and decide whether you’re progressing fast enough.”
“Or when to break you down and rebuild you from scratch,” Fenric mutters, stabbing at his eggs.
Lyra whistles. “Sounds fun.”
Taila offers a wry smile. “Depends on your definition. You’re evaluated every two weeks. If you’re falling behind, they notice. If you’re improving, they notice. Either way, they push harder.”
I nod. It’s not unexpected, but hearing it from someone who’s already survived it makes it all the more real.
Lyra points her spoon at me. “Oh, she won’t be in rotation. She’s training with the Warlord himself.”
That gets a reaction. Darius and Fenric trade a look. Taila’s brows lift, slow and high.
“Well that’s . . . interesting,” Fenric says, dragging the word out just enough to imply things he hasn’t said.
Darius flicks his ear without even looking. “You don’t have to turn everything sexual.”
“I didn’t!” Fenric protests, clearly lying. “I just said ‘interesting.’ You made it weird.”
Taila snorts. “You always make it weird.”
Fenric spreads his hands, unbothered. “I bring color to your otherwise drab military lives.”
“You bring headaches,” Darius says. “But I adore you anyway.”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. Lyra grins into her bowl.
Taila watches me for a beat, head tilted. “That tracks. You’re the Spiritborn, and the Warlord’s the best warrior in the realm. One of the strongest Fire Wielders alive.”
“Yeah,” I say slowly. “I think they’re fast-tracking me. Some kind of training program Valen and Thane have worked out.”
Fenric raises a brow, all too pleased. “First names, huh?” He waggles his eyebrows. “Very interesting.”
Darius rolls his eyes. Taila sighs. I bite back one of my own.
If only they knew how complicated all of this really was. Or how little control I actually have over any of it.
“You’re funny,” Lyra says to Fenric, clearly delighted.
“What about the other trainees?” I ask, trying to steer us back to solid ground. “Anything we should know?”
Fenric and Taila exchange a glance. It’s Darius who answers.
“Most are decent. A few keep to themselves. A couple like to test the new ones, see where they stand.”
“Test?” Lyra echoes.
“Push your buttons. Challenge you in the yard. See if you crack,” Taila says. “Some of it’s harmless. Some of it’s . . . less so.”
“Just hold your ground,” Darius adds. “Respect earns respect.”
Fenric leans back with a grin. “Or you can do what I did and trip one of them face-first into the sparring pit. Really sets the tone.”
I smile, unguarded. Lyra laughs out loud.
And then I feel it.
A shift in the air—subtle, electric. Controlled power pressed into silence.
Thane.
I turn my head just as he steps into view from the far side of the mess hall. His movements are quiet, precise. Eyes sweeping the room, then they land on me.
Darius, Fenric, and Taila spot him a beat later. All three rise from the bench and salute in perfect unison—backs straight, expressions shifting into crisp professionalism like someone just flipped a switch.
Lyra and I don’t move.
Thane stops at our table. His eyes sweep over the three standing warriors, then land on the two of us—still sitting like we own the place. Lyra casually scoops another bite of porridge into her mouth. I just meet his gaze.
A beat passes. Then another. One corner of his mouth tugs upward.
“Good,” he says. “You’re making friends.” His voice is calm, but there’s something in it—approval, maybe. Or relief.
Taila straightens. “Warlord.”
“At ease,” he says, his tone clipped but not cold. “Please—go back to your breakfasts.”
They murmur a respectful “yes, sir” and ease back into their seats, though the air still hums from his presence.