Chapter 10 #4
Within seconds, the skies open. A full downpour crashes over us—soaking the earth, flooding the field. Water is everywhere. I’m drenched, strands of wet hair plastered to my face. Mud already clinging to my boots. But I keep running.
The Gorganthe still moves—slow, but relentless. Each step a tremor.
Water.
It’s all around me.
I stop and reach for it—pulling, drawing, commanding. The rain answers.
I shape the torrent into spears—long, sharp, glistening blades of deadly liquid. Twenty of them hover in the air around me, spinning, aimed, waiting.
And just as the Gorganthe is a few feet away—I release them.
The spears fly, slicing through the rain like lightning, piercing deep into the Gorganthe’s shoulders, chest, legs, and throat. It lets out a roar that splits the sky—no longer just its voice, but the cries of every soul trapped inside.
But instead of flinching, I stand my ground.
I raise both hands to the sky, fingers splayed wide as I call to the storm. The clouds answer. The lightning listens.
I am the storm.
A single bolt strikes—blinding, violent—and slams into the Gorganthe.
The force rocks the field. Light floods everything for a split second—then Gorganthe explodes into black mist—ripped apart by the power of the lightning.
It’s over. I lower my hands, soaked to the bone, heart thundering in my chest.
My legs give out beneath me, and I drop to my knees, chest heaving.
I swallow down the bile rising in my throat, the aftereffects of such powerful magics.
Rain pours down around me, washing the battlefield clean.
Adrenaline still pumps through my veins, my hands trembling from the surge of magics, of fear, of everything that just happened.
But I did it. Gods, I did it!
Hands reach for me, steady, firm.
Thane’s hands close around my elbows, lifting me with a strength that’s both gentle and firm. Valen hovers at my side, his gaze sharp, assessing, but there’s something else there too—relief. And pride.
My legs are unsteady, the world spinning slightly, but their presence anchors me. Valen steps closer, and with one hand, gently lifts my chin. His eyes meet mine.
“Well done, girl,” he says. “Very well done.”
Simple words. But from him, they carry weight. Enough to make my heart swell.
I’m splattered with mud, sore all over, claw marks burning across my back. My limbs ache. And yet—I feel powerful.
A grin pulls at my lips.
As I steady myself, Thane lets his hands drop from my elbows. “How about we get out of this rain?” he says, that same glint returning to his eye.
I nod, still grinning, my hair plastered to my forehead. “Yeah,” I breathe. “Let’s.”
The three of us walk back toward the barracks in silence, the rain still falling in steady sheets.
Valen glances at me as we reach the steps. “You’re dismissed for the rest of the day,” he says.
“Good,” I mutter. “I’m going to take the longest, hottest bath of my life.”
Before I can step away, Thane says, “Make sure to stop by the infirmary first. Let the healers take a look at those wounds.”
I glance back at him. And there it is again—that flicker of guilt in his eyes. As if my blood is on his hands. I want to tell him it’s not. That I’m fine. That I’m stronger than I was this morning.
But instead I nod and walk away.
The healers work quickly. They close the wounds across my back with careful hands and a quiet efficiency. They apply a cooling balm that seeps deep into the ache.
It still stings, but the pain is dull now. They hand me a small jar of the balm, instruct me to reapply it tonight, and then send me on my way.
I head straight for the bathing chambers.
The second the hot water hits my skin, I exhale—long and slow—like I’ve been holding my breath since the moment the Gorganthe appeared.
Steam rises around me, thick and heavy, curling along the walls as the water covers my shoulders, washing away the dirt, the blood, the adrenaline.
I let myself feel all that happened today.
Beneath the exhaustion, the soreness, and claw marks—I feel something else. Something new.
Power. Control.
I wielded earth like it was an extension of me. I turned rain into spears. I summoned lightning from the sky. And I stood my ground against something that should’ve broken me.
I’ve spent so long feeling like I was the mistake in the story. Today, I didn’t just survive. I fought. And won.
I’m not the same girl who walked onto that field this morning.
I sleep hard that night. Dreamless. The kind of sleep that pulls you under and doesn’t let go. When I wake in the morning, the world feels heavier. My limbs ache. My back throbs. I’m sore in places I didn’t even use.
But I’m awake. Alive.
And part of me is still humming with the memory of power.
Today is a rest day.
Once a week, it’s required that we let our bodies and minds breathe.
Some of the warriors stay at the outpost enjoying the quiet, but most of us head into the village for a change of scenery.
I am meeting Valen for more studying after breakfast, then Lyra and I are going into the nearby village to meet up with the others.
Later that morning, I sit in Valen’s quarters.
It’s a comfortable size, but it feels much smaller because every inch of wall space is taken up by shelves overflowing with books.
Some are crammed in sideways, others stacked on top of each other, like they’ve outgrown the space long ago.
The scent of old parchment and spiced tea lingers in the air.
A fire crackles softly in the hearth, casting golden light over the worn rug.
I cradle a warm cup of tea between my hands, its steam curling lazily toward the ceiling.
Across from me, Valen scribbles something into a leather-bound journal, lips pursed in thought. The only sounds are the scratch of his quill and the faint crackle of firewood. It’s quiet. Safe. And yet, my mind is anything but still.
Today, we’re diving deeper into dragon history and lore, and I struggle to contain my excitement.
Being stationed at the outpost has brought me closer to dragons in a way I never imagined.
Back in the village, we would catch glimpses of them in the sky, majestic silhouettes against the clouds, often with a rider on their back, soaring in formation with others.
They were distant, almost mythical. But here at the outpost, they’re tangible.
I can hear the thunder of wings when they land in the clearing, feel the shift in the air when one of them exhales a plume of fire or smoke. I’ve stood close enough to see the intricate pattern of scales, to hear the deep rumble of a dragon communicating with another.
I learned from Thane when I came to the outpost that fewer dragons are choosing to call riders. Valen suspects it has to do with the shifting balance of magics.
There are bonded riders here at the outpost—not just Thane. Garrick, Jarek, Rian. Several of the other warriors I’ve come to know are riders, too. Each bond is different, each dragon distinct. There’s an energy here, a kind of unspoken reverence between warrior and beast.
Valen looks up from the journal he’s been writing in, the corner of his mouth lifting ever so slightly. “Have you heard about the Guardian Dragons of Mythren Valley?”
I shake my head.
He nods, as if he expected that. “Most in the realm have not. Many warriors know of them—some nobles, too. All of the Lords of the Elemental Clans know. And every rider learns of them.”
I don’t interrupt. I keep my eyes on him, posture steady, hands wrapped around the warm mug in my lap. I want him to know I’m listening. That I’m ready.
The weight of it presses in—something old and sacred.
Valen leans back, folding his hands in his lap, like he’s easing into a story he’s only told a handful of times.
“Long before the Shadow Wars there were the Guardians of Mythren Valley.” He glances toward the shelves, eyes briefly resting on a worn, dragon-hide book.
“They are not the dragons you see at the outpost or on the battlefield. These are ancient beings—timeless, powerful, and bound to the very balance of the elements themselves.” He pauses. “There are five known to us.”
He holds up a hand and counts each off with quiet reverence.
“Aurelith, the First Flame—said to be the oldest living dragon. The one who began it all. If she ever leaves the valley, it will mean the world is about to change. Zephryon, the Sky’s Roar.
A thunderstorm in dragon form. Some say he watches over the valley from the highest peaks.
Sylara, the Ember Sage. A dragon of visions and riddles.
She sees what others cannot—past, future, fate.
Rathorn, the Warden of Ash. The protector of the young.
And Vaelara,” his voice softens, almost wistful, “the Celestial Flame. She carries the memory of the stars and the secrets buried in the valley’s deepest heart. ”
Valen looks at me, his gaze steady.
“They are not myths, Amara. They are watching. Waiting. And if they stir . . . then something far older than this war is coming.”
Valen reaches for a large book already sitting on the table, its spine cracked with age. He sets it down between us with surprising care. The cover is worn leather, the title etched by hand in fading gold ink:
Dragon History and Lore: The Guardians.
It’s not a printed book. The pages are uneven, parchment-thick, and every word is handwritten. The ink and style of script varies. Along the margins are detailed sketches—of dragons, wings outstretched or folded in sleep.
One page holds the image of a towering dragon with scales like polished gold, flames curling from her maw in delicate arcs. Aurelith, scrawled beneath in tiny script.
Another—Zephryon—his wings spread wide, lightning crackling in the sky behind him.
But what catches my breath isn’t just the dragons.