Chapter 9 #2
A statue. Female. Tall, robed, carved from pale stone. She stands beside the temple doors like a guardian—solemn, steady. But this time, I notice something I didn’t before.
She’s not alone. There are three others with her.
Another woman and two men. Weathered and covered in overgrown vines, but still clear representations, facing outward with quiet resolve.
The Elemental Gods.
All four of them.
I haven’t spent a moment honoring them since I arrived at the outpost. Not one whispered prayer or candle lit. I’ve been too busy running. Filling every hour with motion and knowledge so the ache in my chest won’t rise up and drown me.
Grief has a way of hollowing you out. Of making room for rage and blame. Somewhere along the way, I think I turned from the gods because part of me held them responsible.
For taking my parents and shattering the only life I’ve ever known. For making me this—the Spiritborn. A title I never wanted. A fate I didn’t choose.
I step closer, the breath caught somewhere between my ribs.
Saela, the Earth Goddess, stands closest. Her stance is wide and grounded, bare feet rooted in cracked stone.
Vines twist up her legs and across her arms, as if the earth itself still clings to her.
Her head is tilted slightly forward, her eyes lowered—not in submission, but in listening.
I feel it in my bones. The quiet strength of her.
The memory of hands in soil. The scent of home.
Beside her is Nerai, Goddess of Water. She’s carved with graceful curves and soft lines, as if sculpted by waves instead of chisels. Her palms are lifted, facing the sky, robes flowing like currents caught mid-motion. There’s a serenity in her face that pulls something loose in me.
Like rain before it falls. Like grief that’s been given somewhere to go.
Vaerion, God of Fire, towers behind them—broad-shouldered, cloaked in stone shaped like flame.
One hand rests on the hilt of a sword, the other clenched at his side.
His gaze is carved to face the horizon, stern and unblinking.
Even in stillness, he radiates heat. I can almost feel it pressing against my skin.
He doesn’t look like a god of comfort, but rather a god of war.
And then there is Auren, the Air God. Lighter in build, his robes are windswept, his head tilted as if listening to a whisper only he can hear. The edges of his form blur slightly, not with wear—but with motion, as if a breeze moves through him.
He looks like he could leave at any moment. Or that he never truly arrived.
The hairs on my arms rise. And for a moment, I swear the air shifts around me—just enough to stir the vines again.
I step forward, the hem of my training pants brushing against stone and moss. My fingers tremble slightly as I lower myself, pressing one hand to the base of the statue—where Saela’s feet meet the earth.
The stone is cool beneath my palm, solid and rooted, just like her.
I bow my head, eyes fluttering closed. The morning is quiet around me, but something shifts inside—like a door cracking open after being shut for too long. And for the first time in what feels like forever, I let my heart speak its truth to the gods.
Saela . . . I’m so angry. I’m so full of pain and I don’t know where to put it. I don’t know how to let it go. I don’t know how to keep moving without it breaking me in half.
Something stirs beneath my hand. A quiet warmth, faint and fleeting. As if the ground itself is reminding me:
You are not alone in your grief.
But then—something changes. Not just warmth this time, but a hum beneath my palm. Low and ancient. Alive.
A chorus of voices speak in my mind. Two female and two male, twined together like roots and flame and wind and water.
You are not alone in your grief.
We see you, Spiritborn.
And we mourn what has been taken.
There’s a pause, and then just a deeper voice—fire, perhaps, or air—
But know this: the path of light does not bloom without cost. Sacrifice is its seed.
I jump back, stunned—my hand springing away like I’ve touched a hot stove. I stare at the statue, at Saela’s stone feet, like they might move.
It’s as if the world is holding its breath with me.
I press a hand to my chest, trying to steady my racing heart. That voice—those voices—they were not imagined.
I blink hard, a strange heat stinging my eyes. Awe, followed by a kind of ache. I slowly, quietly drop to my knees. Like anything louder might break the moment.
Their words replay in my mind, softer now, like river stones worn smooth:
You are not alone in your grief. The path of light does not bloom without cost. Sacrifice is its seed.
Tears slip down my cheeks because I feel seen—truly seen—by something older than time.
“Amara?”
For the second time that morning, I jolt—yelping—and scramble to my feet. I whirl around, heart still racing, and find Thane standing just a few feet away. Concern shadows his expression.
Of course it’s Thane.
How is it always him? Always the one who sees me like this—cracked open, caught in the softness I’ve been working so hard to bury.
I swipe at my cheeks with the back of my hand, quick and clumsy, as if I can erase the evidence, then force a smile. It barely settles on my face.
“I’m fine,” I say, because it’s easier than the truth.
And the moment the words leave my mouth, I realize—he didn’t ask how I was.
Great.
“Sorry I scared you . . . I saw you out here. It’s early.” He pauses, scanning my face. “Are you okay?”
I nod too fast, like that alone could convince him. But it only makes it obvious that I’m absolutely not okay.
My throat tightens. My pulse won’t settle.
The Elemental Gods just spoke to me. Not in symbols or dreams, but actual voices.
How could I possibly be okay?
But I hold the nod. Let the silence do the lying for me because saying it out loud would make it real.
I clasp my hands behind my back, hiding the tremble in my fingers, trying to stitch myself back together. Trying to reconcile the impossible—that the Elemental Gods just spoke to me—with the very human fact that I’m now standing in front of Thane. A person. Flesh and breath and wary eyes.
“Yes, yes,” I say quickly, the words too clipped, the smile too practiced. “I am. Really.” I force a shrug, as if that will sell it. “Just taking a walk in the quiet of early morning.”
Then, desperate to change the subject, I redirect—my voice a little too bright.
“What are you doing up this early?”
He smiles. Not the usual half-tilt or guarded smirk I’ve seen during training, but something real and warm.
And for a moment, I’m taken by it. That warmth is rare—precious, even—in the weeks I’ve been here. Like sunlight breaking through overcast skies.
“I’m always up before everyone,” he says softly. “It’s the only time of day I can get some peace.”
THANE
She doesn’t fool me.
The too-quick smile. The too-bright voice. The way she clasps her hands behind her back like she’s holding something in.
I don’t press. Instead, I offer a smile.
Something flickers across her face when she sees it—surprise, maybe. She has clearly noticed that I don’t smile like that often.
“I’m always up before everyone,” I tell her. “It’s the only time I can get some peace.”
She nods but doesn’t speak. The silence stretches.
Her eyes keep flicking to the statue behind her.
Saela, the Earth Goddess. Moss climbs her legs, her face half-worn by time.
I’ve walked past these statues more times than I can count. I usually don’t pay that much attention to them. But something happened here—I can see it in Amara’s shoulders; the way she’s bracing herself for something.
And for a breath, I hesitate.
Not because I don’t care, because I do. She’s the Spiritborn. The weight on her shoulders would crush anyone else. And part of my role—my duty—is to make sure it doesn’t. Not just to train her, but to keep her standing.
I step closer, slow and measured—I don’t want to spook her again.
“You want company,” I ask, “or quiet?”
Surprise flickers across her face—this time it’s clear—and I have to stop myself from smirking. Apparently, I’ve made quite the impression.
Warlord. Weapon. Untouchable.
She’s not wrong. But still.
“Um . . . sure,” she says, hesitant but not unwilling.
I nod once and offer another small smile. One meant to disarm—not command. Then I gesture toward the path leading away from the temple, giving her space to walk beside me if she chooses.
We walk in silence for a while. It’s not awkward, just quiet. Spending all this time with her, I know she’s capable of talking a lot. But she also knows how to be in silence.
I’m good at quiet. I’ve learned how to make space for others to speak—or not.
I’ve used it to read the intentions of men who’d rather lie with flattery than speak plainly, which is useful in the political games.
I’ve used it to let soldiers breathe out what they couldn’t carry back from the battlefield.
Silence draws out truth in ways words rarely do.
And honestly? Quiet is easier than talking.
Safer, too.
I glance at her.
She’s not as thin as she was in those first weeks after arriving at the outpost. The sharp edges have softened, her strength returning. She’s eating. I make sure of it—even when I’m not the one watching. Trusted eyes keep track when mine can’t.
But the shadows are still under her eyes. Is she not sleeping well? Or is it from the sadness I know still lingers beneath the surface. Whatever light is in her doesn’t yet blaze.
But it’s there. Flickering. Holding on.
I know she still grieves. Of course she does. But she gets up every day. She trains, listens, and learns. She fights. And by the gods, that’s all I can ask.
I steal another look. She walks with her shoulders drawn, her gaze low, like she’s still half inside whatever happened back at that temple.
I want to say something. Tell her she’s doing well. That I see the fight in her. That she’s not alone. But the words sit on my tongue—heavy. Unfamiliar.