Chapter 8
SHADOW WARS
EIGHT
“Long ago a scroll, roughly translated as The Dragon Rider’s Forging, was used to help a new rider learn how to use their greater magics. The scroll has been lost over the centuries, but we all remember our respective elemental couplets.
‘Earth, awaken from slumbering stone—Rooted deep, the form is known.
Water, release—become the flow—to wield the tide, let all else go.
Air, the freedom never forced—Feel, then trust to guide its course.
Fire, the will where passion runs—Feral, free—unshackled ones.’”
—VALEN’S JOURNAL
AMARA
The barracks are quiet. The rhythmic rise and fall of breaths, the occasional murmur of a dreamer, the faint creak of a bed shifting under tired muscles—it all blends together into a lullaby of exhaustion.
My body aches from the day’s training, every muscle sore, my knuckles raw and tender from training with Thane. Every inch of me begs for rest, but my mind won’t quiet. The weight of everything that happened today presses down on me, heavy like armor I can’t remove.
Eventually, exhaustion wins and sleep pulls me under.
The meadow stretches endlessly, bathed in golden light. The sky above is an endless blue, streaked with wisps of white clouds that drift lazily. Sunlight wraps around me, like the embrace of an old friend.
The grass beneath my bare feet is soft, lush, a sea of emerald and gold. Wildflowers brush my ankles as I move, their petals trembling with each gust of wind. The air is thick with the perfume of honeysuckle and lavender, the delicate sweetness of wild roses, the earthy aroma of sun-warmed grass.
I breathe it in, and it fills my lungs with something so familiar, so comforting, it almost hurts.
In the distance, I hear the soft hum of crickets in the tall grass, the occasional chirp of a bird flitting through the air. The wind carries with it the rustling of leaves, the faint trickle of a hidden stream.
The world is perfect here. Untouched.
This is home.
Then I hear it—laughter, soft and familiar. I turn, and there they are.
My parents.
My mother, smiling, reaching out to me. My father—tall, steady, his eyes full of light. The sight of them fills my chest with something I haven’t felt since before that last day in the village, peace.
Their faces illuminated by the golden light, my mother’s eyes bright with happiness, my father standing tall, his broad frame solid, familiar.
“Amara, my love,” my mother calls, her voice warm, full of light. “Come join us.”
A lump forms in my throat. I don’t hesitate. I step forward. The meadow stretches endlessly. The wind carries their voices like music.
“Come, Amara,” my father says, a smile in his voice. “We’re waiting.”
I take two steps. But they don’t get closer.
I frown.
My feet press into the grass, the warmth still on my skin, the scent of the wildflowers too perfect.
“Amara, come on,” my mother coaxes, her laughter like a bell. “We’re right here.”
I walk forward again. They drift further away.
I stop, my pulse spiking.
No.
I take more steps, faster this time. They are still smiling, their hands outstretched.
“Come on, love,” my mother says, gentle, inviting. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
My breath catches. I step again. They move further away. My stomach clenches. This isn’t right.
“Come, Amara,” my father calls again, but now sounds distant, too light, too airy.
The warmth isn’t real.
My heart slams in my chest.
“We’re waiting.”
I break into a run. They keep slipping away. The golden light flickers. The wind dies. The scent of wildflowers turns. My mother’s voice is still light, still sweet, still calling for me but they are so far away now.
“Amara, love, hurry up,” she sings.
I run harder.
“You’re almost here,” my father promises. Gentle. Warm.
Wrong.
The ground beneath my feet softens.
“Come on, love. Just a little closer.”
Their smiles don’t change. Their voices don’t waver.
“Amara,” my mother’s voice lilts again, weightless, unnatural. “You’re almost home.”
I choke on my breath, my legs burning. I can’t reach them. They’re always just beyond reach.
“Amara, we’re waiting.”
The warmth dims, the sunlight flickers, like a candle struggling to stay lit. The scent of wildflowers turns sharper, the sweetness now sickening, unnatural. The golden glow darkens at the edges, the blue sky bleeding into a deeper shade, like ink spilling across a canvas.
The earth beneath my feet shifts, softens. I try to move faster, try to reach them before the light disappears entirely.
A whisper coils through the golden light. “You cannot escape your destiny, Amara.”
The meadow shatters. The warmth rips away, the golden light fractures, and the shadows rush in.
They pour from the edges, swallowing the wildflowers, devouring the light, curling toward me like living smoke.
The voices of my parents twist, their laughter stretching, distorting, becoming something else. My stomach turns to ice.
“The pain will only make you stronger,” the slick voice hisses.
I scream.
And the world rips away.
I wake gasping for air, drenched in sweat, my body trembling in the darkness of the barracks. My breath ragged, the echoes of their laughter still ringing in my ears.
The dream clings to me, heavy and suffocating. I’m still trying to get to them. Still failing.
A hand presses gently onto my shoulder. I flinch.
“Amara.”
I blink against the darkness. My vision swims as the barracks come into focus.
Lyra is there—perched on the steps of our bed ladder, peering at me, concern etched into every line of her face. Moonlight filters through the window slats, casting pale ribbons across her features. Shadows deepen the worry in her eyes.
She doesn’t say anything at first—just watches me, waiting, her grip on my shoulder firm.
I swallow hard, trying to steady my breathing. The barracks are no longer silent. A few of the other soldiers have woken up, shifting in their bunks, murmuring softly. Someone near the doorway lets out a groggy curse. Another turns over, muttering something about nightmares.
I drag a shaking hand across my face and force myself upright. The dream clings to me—wet and heavy, like a soaked cloak I can’t peel off.
Lyra’s fingers tighten slightly, but she doesn’t push.
I lick my lips, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’m fine.”
Lyra doesn’t look convinced. “Yeah. Sure.” Her tone is light, almost teasing, but her eyes don’t leave mine.
I rub my eyes. My hands won’t stop trembling.
The nightmare lingers—its voice echoing along the edges of my thoughts, cold and serpentine. It doesn’t feel like a dream. It feels like a warning.
“I’m fine,” I say again. A little louder but no steadier.
Lyra continues to watch me, her gaze sharp in the dim light. But after a moment, she exhales, tilting her head slightly.
“Okay.”
She climbs back into her bunk without another word. The bed creaks softly beneath her weight.
The barracks settle again. A few of the other soldiers shift, rolling over, pulling blankets tighter around them. A couple of murmurs fade into nothing, and then, one by one, the breaths even out.
The night returns to what it was. Quiet. Still.
But I don’t move. I sit there, staring at the ceiling, hands clenched in the thin fabric of my sheets. The echoes of the dream wind tight around my ribs like a vice.
Eventually, I lie back down. I close my eyes. I don’t dream again.
The morning air is crisp as the barracks stir to life. The scent of damp earth and fresh dew lingers in the air, mixed with the quiet rustle of soldiers dressing for the day.
Lyra tightens the laces of her boots before turning to me, her expression full of concern—but she doesn’t ask about last night. She steps closer and squeezes my shoulder. A simple gesture to let me know she’s here.
I just nod.
She gives me a lopsided smirk before slinging her weapons belt over her shoulder. “Try not to get tossed around today, yeah?”
I huff a breath. “No promises.”
She laughs, then heads off toward the weapons yard, disappearing into the flow of soldiers.
I stand there for a beat longer, adjusting the wraps around my hands, flexing my fingers. Then, I turn in the opposite direction, heading toward the open field where Valen waits.
The training grounds are quiet beneath a pale sky. The wind slips through the tall grass, curling at my skin. Valen stands at the center, robes shifting faintly in the breeze.
He doesn’t turn as I approach—he already knows I’m here.
“You’re late,” he says.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Barely.”
He glances at me—tilts his head. Measuring. Always measuring.
“Today, we focus on Air,” he says, gesturing around us.
“You’ve felt it before, but now you will learn to use it.
To guide it. Air is not something you hold,” he says.
“It is not weight beneath your feet, nor pressure in your chest. It does not burn like Fire, nor resist like Water. It moves. It shifts. It flows.” His gaze flickers to the tall grass swaying at our feet, to the way his robes shift with the wind.
“It is constant, yet untouchable,” he continues.
“Your task is not to command it, Amara. It is to move with it.”
I exhale, shaking out my hands. The wind curls gently around my ankles, but frustration still burns hot beneath my skin.
“Why do you always speak in circles?” I mimic his cadence with barely veiled annoyance. “Move with it, don’t force it, let it guide you—what does that even mean?” I narrow my eyes. “Why can’t you just tell me what to do?”
Valen doesn’t even blink. He doesn’t smirk, doesn’t rise to the bait.
“Because the elements are not weapons you wield,” he says simply. “They are forces that exist beyond you. You cannot shape what you do not understand. You cannot control what you do not listen to.”
I huff, crossing my arms. “Fine.”
Valen doesn’t react. Of course he doesn’t. He just watches, waiting. I inhale sharply, forcing down my frustration. My knuckles tighten, but I don’t argue.