Chapter 9 #5
She’s been coiled tight since arriving at the outpost. Unfocused.
Which is understandable. Considering the condition she was in when she got here . . . considering everything—anyone would feel untethered after learning they’re the answer to saving the fucking realm.
She’s grieving. Reeling.
And still, she shows up every day. Bleeding. Breaking. Pushing forward.
So yeah—I thought easing up might help. A little softness. A little curiosity. Something to remind her that she’s more than just the Spiritborn inked into war maps and whispered in prophecy.
I thought if I asked the right questions, acted interested—it might help her trust me.
That’s all it was supposed to be. Strategic.
I didn’t mean to give her anything back.
Not handing over pieces of my past like they don’t cost anything. Not speaking Kastiel’s name aloud. Not mentioning my father’s illness. Not nearly bringing up her.
Gods.
I don’t talk about that.
I don’t talk about anything.
But she just sat there—attentive, present—and somehow the words kept coming. Like she was the one I’d been waiting to tell.
And now I’ve gone and said too much.
I wanted her to trust me so I could train her for war—not because I needed her to see me. Not because I wanted to remember the boy I used to be—before death and duty made me . . . this.
I should pull back. Rein it in. Regain control. Because whatever’s happening between us—it’s not safe.
And yet . . . something about her makes me forget how to hold my silence.
She’s walking back to the barracks. There’s a sway to her steps—loose, unbothered. The soldier’s training uniform hugs her in all the right places.
Fuuuuck!
I grind my teeth, tearing my gaze away.
Enough.
I shake my head hard, like I can knock the thought loose.
Three deep breaths. That’s all I need.
One. Two—
“Hey, brother.”
A large, solid hand lands on my shoulder.
I flinch.
“By all the gods—” I snap, reaching instinctively for the blade at my hip. My fingers graze the hilt before I recognize the voice.
I spin, scowling. Rian stands behind me, his hand has already lifted away. His brows rise a fraction, that too-familiar look on his face. Observing. Calculating.
Judging.
“Relax,” he says, tone mild. “What’s got you so on edge?”
Shit.
Rian sees everything. Always has.
And I—godsdamn it—I never jump. But I can’t lie to him. And definitely not right now because it’s probably written all over my face.
I cross my arms, jaw clenched. “Don’t sneak up on me.”
He hums—a low sound, almost thoughtful. Still watching me. Too fucking observant.
That’s the thing about Rian. He doesn’t speak often. But when he does—it cuts straight through the noise.
He angles his head. “You were staring at her.”
I don’t respond.
His brow lifts, just enough to make a point. “You jumped, Thane.”
Godsdamn it.
“She’s my responsibility!” I snap, the words sharper than I intend.
Rian’s slate-blue eyes bore into me. Sharp. Unrelenting.
“Sit,” he says.
Not a suggestion. An order. Only my brothers can speak to me this way. At least when the other soldiers aren’t around.
I sigh, resigned, and sit down on the bench I was sharing with Amara only moments ago. Like I’ve just lost a battle I didn’t realize I was in. There’s no hiding from Rian.
He eases down beside me with the fluidity of water poured from a pitcher—quiet grace wrapped in coiled strength. Typical Rian.
He doesn’t speak right away. Just sits there, arms resting on his knees, staring out across the training field like he’s giving me a chance to explain myself.
I don’t take it.
Finally, he says, voice low, even, impossible to escape, “She’s getting to you.”
I press my lips together, then say, “She’s the Spiritborn. She’s supposed to.”
“Not like this.”
I look at him. He meets my gaze, level and calm.
“She’s under your skin.”
I exhale, slow and sharp. “You think I don’t know that?”
“I think you don’t know what to do about it,” he replies, blunt as ever. “And that’s the problem.”
“Why?” I snap. “Because it’s inconvenient? Because it’s messy?”
“Because it matters,” he says. Quiet. Unflinching.
And damn him—he’s right. Again.
“It can’t happen,” I say. Flat. Final. “And you know why, Rian.”
My voice is low, rougher than I intend, but I don’t care. The line has to be drawn. Held. Because if I let it slip—if I let her slip through—I don’t know if I’ll be strong enough to hold the rest.
And if I fall—everything does.
Rian doesn’t flinch. He just watches me, calm as ever.
Damn him.
“I do know,” he says quietly. “But I also know you’re already past that line you’ve drawn in your mind.”
I clench my jaw—hard enough I think I hear a tooth crack. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does, brother.”
“It can’t.”
The words come out like a growl, sharp and final. Because I’ve already made peace with this.
Or—I thought I had.
I shake my head, my gaze fixed on the dirt. “I’m bound to this realm. To its survival. If I let her mean too much, I’ll hesitate. I’ll make the wrong call. And people will die.”
Rian doesn’t answer right away. Then, calmly—“You’re already letting her mean something. And people are still alive.”
That hits harder than I expect.
I lift my head, eyes narrowing. “Don’t.”
He raises his hands in a gesture of peace. I scoff.
“I’m not judging you, Thane. I’m just saying . . . if you already care this much—and you’re still leading—maybe the truth isn’t as dangerous as you think.”
I exhale. Long. Slow. My hands are clenched on my knees, tension coiled beneath my skin like a blade waiting to snap free.
“She deserves more than what I can give her,” I murmur.
Rian studies me for a long moment. Then, softly—almost gently—he says, “You don’t know what you can give. Not yet.”
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, hands tangled together like they’re holding me in place.
“Rian . . . ” I pause, my throat tightening around the words. But I say it anyway—quiet, raw. “I told her about my family.”
He doesn’t speak. Just watches, the calm at the center of the storm tearing through me.
I keep my eyes on the ground.
“I told her about Rowena. About Kastiel. About my father.” I draw a breath. “I almost told her about my mother.”
That silence—the one Rian always carries like a blade—sharpens. I can’t look at him.
“She asked nothing,” I continue. “Didn’t push. Just sat there. And I—” I shake my head. “It was like the words just slipped out before I could stop them.”
Rian exhales slowly, the faintest sound. Not judgment. Just . . . understanding.
“Do you know how long it’s been since I said Kastiel’s name out loud?” I mutter. “Since I let myself think about what it was like—before?”
Still, Rian says nothing. Just a steady presence beside me. The same way I’ve done for others—when they needed space. When they couldn’t carry it alone. What I tried to do for Amara this morning when I found her at the temple.
And the confession tears free before I can stop it.
“I don’t do this,” I snap, the edge creeping into my voice. “I don’t talk. I don’t share. That’s not who I am. That’s not who I can be.”
Rian’s voice is low when it finally comes. “But you did.”
I look at him. Sharp. Defensive.
He doesn’t waver.
Bastard.
“You did, Thane,” he repeats simply. “And the world didn’t end.”
I huff, scoffing bitterly. “Not yet.”
He watches me for a long beat. Then, softer—“You never talk about your mother.”
“I know.”
“You almost did today.”
I nod once. Slow. “I haven’t even said her name in years.”
“Why is that?” he asks, and it’s not a challenge. Just a question. Gentle. Real.
I swallow. I can’t tell him—all of why I won’t talk about my mother. But I can tell Rian this one thing.
“Because she was the last person who looked at me like I was more than a weapon.”
The words sit between us. Bare and unforgiving.
Rian, steady as ever, rests his forearms on his knees and says quietly, “Maybe that’s why you keep looking at her.” He nods his chin toward the barracks, where Amara disappeared minutes ago.
My eyes follow—without meaning to. The door is closed. The light inside flickers faintly through the windows. She’s probably already changing out of her training gear, unaware of the chaos she’s left behind in her wake.
“I’m not looking at her,” I mutter.
Rian gives me a look. A single raised brow that says don’t insult me.
I scrub a hand down my face. “Gods.”
He leans back slightly, voice low. “You’re not the only one who’s lost something, Thane.”
I glance at him. That tone in his voice—the one he only uses when the past is pressing at his back—it’s rare. Heavy.
“She’s not trying to break your walls,” he continues. “She’s just . . . existing. And somehow, that’s enough to get through.”
I say nothing. Because he’s right. I hate that he’s right.
How did this even happen? It’s only been a few weeks. And yes—I see her every day. I train her. Fight beside her. Observe her training with Valen. Watch her break and keep getting back up. I’m there. Because I have to be.
But somewhere along the way, it stopped being just about duty.
I realize I notice things now. Small things.
The way she chews on her lip when she’s thinking. The way she tilts her head when she disagrees but won’t say it. The way her brow furrows when she’s trying to solve something she hasn’t quite figured out.
And I hate that I notice. Because once you start, it’s hard to stop.
I’m not . . . in it. Not yet. But I can feel it creeping in. Like fog. Slow. Inevitable. In the way her presence lingers after she’s gone. In the way I find myself looking for her before I even realize I’m doing it.
I didn’t plan for this. She’s supposed to be my responsibility. A weapon I’m meant to sharpen. A piece I place on the board.
So how the fuck did this happen?
She’s under my skin. In my thoughts. Beneath every shield I’ve spent years building.
I know her laugh. Her stubborn silences. The way she rolls her eyes when she’s pretending not to care, and the way her voice breaks when she’s trying not to show she does.
And gods—when she looks at me like she sees something good?
It undoes me.
I can’t want this. I can’t. I have to protect her. Prepare her.
Not fall for her.
Rian claps my shoulder and then walks off without waiting for a response. And I sit there, staring at the barracks. The door still hasn’t moved. The flicker of candlelight still glows behind it. And gods help me . . .
I am looking.
AMARA
After training, I limp back to the barracks. Shower off the dust and sweat. Try not to think, not to feel.
I head to the dining hall. Sit down alongside my friends with a full tray and an even fuller brain—Valen’s lessons on Elemental flow and ancient lore still swimming behind my eyes. But before I can even finish my meal, Thane appears beside me.
“Come with me,” he says—low and sharp. It almost sounds like a growl.
Ah. Back to moody Warlord, I see.
I don’t argue. But gods, I want to. My muscles ache. My brain is mush. Valen’s training. Combat drills. And now—evening strategy sessions?
I’m afraid to ask what fresh hell tomorrow will bring.
True to his word, Thane starts hammering through teachings on history, warfare, politics, and philosophy. Layer after layer, he builds it into me. Not just what to fight—but why. Not just what power is—but what it costs.
It’s grueling. Exhausting. But—after a couple of weeks—something changes. The lessons start to wander. We drift off course, sometimes for minutes, sometimes for hours. We start talking about other things. Silly things. Real things. Things that have nothing to do with war or tactics or duty.
And in those moments, in that quiet between dusk and moonlight—I see him.
Not the warlord. Not the weapon. Just . . . Thane.
But by morning, it’s gone. His walls are back, voice clipped, posture all command and distance.
And I’m left with a head full of battle plans . . . and a heart I no longer recognize.