Chapter 11
UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTERS
ELEVEN
“Word of the Spiritborn has spread across the realm. Whispers ripple through the clans—speculation. Most questions circle her parentage, her lineage, and whether she truly is the one named in the Prophecy. Can she be the foretold savior? The one destined to stand against the Shadow Forces? Hope appears to be taking root. But it faces doubt, just as certainly.”
—VALEN’S JOURNAL
AMARA
Lyra and I are meeting Taila, Darius, and Fenric at the pub for lunch. It’s rare we all get a chance to unwind together and I’m looking forward to it.
There’s something about the village—its energy, its warmth—that feels like a small escape from everything back at the outpost. After lunch, we plan to walk around, maybe browse the market.
The pub is warm and loud, filled with the low hum of voices and the clatter of plates. We’re gathered around one of the bigger tables near the hearth, plates full, glasses of ale catching the golden light filtering through the windows.
The men are dressed down in shirts and pants, their usual leathers and weapons traded for comfort. Lyra, Taila, and I are in leggings and light sweaters, soft fabrics we rarely get to wear. There’s still a chill in the spring air, but here, it’s cozy.
Darius leans back in his chair, dark braids falling over his shoulder, already halfway through his second glass.
“This,” he says, lifting it in a toast to no one in particular, “is what I fight for.”
Fenric chuckles, biting into a thick slice of bread slathered in butter. “You fight for ale?”
“I fight for peace. Ale is peace.”
“Ah yes, that’s what we’re training for. Ale!” Fenric grins and raises his glass to the ceiling before taking a sip.
Lyra leans forward, resting her elbows on the table, her glass of ale sloshing slightly in her hand.
“So, Mara,” she says, drawing out my name like she’s about to cause trouble. “Still getting the exclusive training package from Lord Caelum himself?”
I roll my eyes, trying not to smile. “And Valen.”
“Right, right,” Taila smirks. “The wise, robe-wearing mage who could talk a dragon into a nap. But we’re all very curious about the other one.”
Darius arches one brow. “Is it true that Thane only trains you because no one else is worthy of the task?”
Fenric snorts, his blue eyes dancing. “Or because he wants to make sure no one else gets too close.”
I nearly choke on my drink. “He trains me because I’m a walking Elemental hazard—he and Valen are the only ones patient enough not to throw me off a cliff.”
“That’s not a denial,” Lyra sings.
“I’m serious,” I say, laughing despite myself. “Have you seen what happens when I lose control?”
“Yes,” Taila says, stabbing a piece of roast on her fork. “We all remember the Fireball Incident. Rest in peace, training shed number three.”
I cringe at the memory—Valen had me launching multiple fireballs simultaneously at a line of targets.
One got away from me—it exploded against a nearby training shed and lit the roof like kindling.
Lyra still calls it my ‘scorched earth’ phase, joking ‘it was the end of an era, but the start of an age.’
“Exactly!” I throw my hands up. “That’s what I’m saying!”
Fenric grins. “Honestly, though, I’d still take Valen’s method over Rian’s. He had me trying to guide a breeze around a target yesterday—no instructions, just that quiet look like, figure it out.”
Lyra lifts her glass. “It means he’s trying to kill you with subtlety. I swear the man hardly speaks. He just looks at you and you’re supposed to know what that means.”
We all laugh again—the kind of laughter that comes when you’re bone-tired and still choose to show up for each other. I glance around the table, warmth blooming in my chest that has nothing to do with the ale.
Fenric points his chin at me, mischief written all over his face. “Speaking of being trained exclusively by the Warlord himself,” he says, dragging out the title like it’s some kind of forbidden joke, “I saw you two the other day in the training hall.”
I freeze mid-bite, knowing where this is probably going.
Fenric grins wider. “Are you sure training is all that’s going on there?” He wiggles his eyebrows for effect, and Lyra nearly spits out her drink laughing.
“Oh gods,” I groan, dropping my fork. “Seriously?”
Taila leans in, blue eyes sparkling. “Don’t look so scandalized, Amara. Fenric’s just asking what we’re all wondering.”
“I was holding a sword,” I say defensively. “Thane was correcting my stance.”
“Mmm,” Fenric says. “Is that what they’re calling it now?”
Lyra fans herself dramatically. “Correct my stance, Warlord.”
Everyone bursts into laughter, and I bury my face in my hands.
Taila hums, unconvinced. “You looked pretty flustered for someone just practicing sword forms.”
“Because I kept messing up my footwork,” I say, exasperated. “Thane’s terrifying when he’s disappointed.”
Fenric gives a dramatic sigh. “So all business, then? No stolen glances? No lingering touches? No slow burn of forbidden tension?”
Darius snorts. “She just said he’s terrifying, Fenric.”
Fenric shrugs. “Terror and tension are basically cousins.”
Then he turns toward Darius and grins. “Darius, you can correct my stance any time,” and leans in to kiss his cheek.
Darius rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth. “Only if you stop leading with your face during drills.”
Lyra laughs. She grabs my hand across the table, squeezes, then raises her glass. “To leading with your face.”
I grin, shaking my head. “There’s nothing going on. He trains me. That’s it.”
But I know I’m not telling the whole truth.
Yes, I’m drawn to him—how could I not be? He’s gorgeous. But whatever’s there, if there’s even anything, it’s buried beneath layers of discipline, duty, and distance.
He’s my trainer. That’s all.
Fenric takes a slow sip of his ale, eyes sparkling. I know that look.
“I saw his hand linger a bit longer than necessary,” he says casually. He shrugs, blonde locks falling into his eyes. “Observations of a humble bystander.”
My mouth opens in protest, but before I can get a word in, Darius wraps an arm around Fenric’s shoulder, playing along. “I did notice Thane looking at you in the mess hall the other day, Amara.”
I frown. “Thane doesn’t even eat in the mess hall.”
“Exactly,” Darius says, smirking. “Which is why it stood out. He was there. And he was definitely looking at you.”
Taila sets her cup down and leans in. “He was there,” she confirms. “I saw him too. Walked in, scanned the room, and then—boom—eyes locked right on you. Whatever reason he had for showing up, he definitely took the opportunity to sneak a peek.”
I roll my eyes. “I couldn’t have been doing anything interesting. Sitting?! Eating?!”
“Exactly,” Darius says, giving me a look. “You weren’t doing anything—and he was definitely doing something. Like staring.”
Fenric lifts his glass again. “It’s the quiet ones you have to watch.”
I shake my head, but they’re all looking at me with the same amused, knowing expressions. “You’re all reading way too much into this. He’s my trainer. He’s serious. He barely even looks at anyone.”
Fenric smirks. “Except you, apparently.”
“Speaking of Thane,” Taila says suddenly, her voice low but sharp with interest.
All of us follow her gaze to the entrance of the pub. The door swings open with a creak, letting in a gust of cool spring air—and in walk Garrick, Jarek, Rian . . . and Thane.
My heart does something unhelpful in my chest.
They’re all dressed down, like the rest of us—simple button-down shirts, boots, no leathers in sight—but somehow Thane still manages to look like a warlord who could silence a room with a glance.
His eyes scan the pub once before he starts moving toward an open table across the room, his brothers flanking him.
“I didn’t know he did pubs,” Lyra mutters, straightening in her chair.
I don’t say anything, but I’m thinking the same thing. Thane always seemed like the kind of person who prefers quiet strategy rooms or private training halls—not crowded, noisy places like this.
Fenric nudges me under the table. “Still think we’re reading too much into things?”
“He’s just here to unwind,” I say quickly. “With his friends. Like us and everyone else.”
“Mhm,” Taila hums. “And yet, out of every table in this place, I swear he glanced this way first.”
I keep my gaze locked on my plate, refusing to check if he’s looking. Part of me wants to check. But that same part is afraid he’ll catch me looking back.
“Can we please change the subject?” I plead, heat creeping up the back of my neck.
Lyra laughs, holding up her hands. “Fine, fine! No more Warlord talk—at least for now.” She leans back in her chair and takes a sip of her ale. “So, where do you guys want to go after this?”
“Ooh, that little bookshop on the corner,” Taila says immediately. “The one with the spiral staircase and the grumpy old cat. I want to see if they’ve gotten anything new in.”
“You just want to pet the cat,” Fenric teases.
Taila gasps, hands to her cheeks. “Have you seen him? He’s a little orange fluff-demon of perfection!”
“I wouldn’t mind stopping by the blacksmith,” Darius adds. “The owner mentioned getting in some new dagger styles. I want to check them out.”
“What about you, Mara? Anywhere you want to go?” Lyra asks.
I shrug, grateful for the change in topic. “Honestly? I’m good with wherever. Maybe the apothecary? I’m running low on salves.”
“Ooh, the one with the herbal candies?” Taila perks up. “I like the mint ones—like biting into a snowflake.”
Fenric groans. “Please tell me we’re not doing the ‘let’s sniff everything in the apothecary’ trip again.”
“We’re absolutely doing that,” I say with a grin.
Darius drops his arm from Fenric’s shoulders and turns to look at him, one brow raised. “The woman who runs the apothecary wants a roll in bed with you, my dearest Fenric.”