Chapter 11 #3
She hesitates, hands still resting lightly on the wrapped bundle between us. “No, no,” she says softly. “Words hold power. You are the Spiritborn, so that’s what I would like to call you—if that’s alright.”
But this is new. She’s never said that before. Never looked at me with such direct conviction.
Before I can respond, Fenric nudges me in the back, voice far too smooth. “Yes, Spiritborn. That’s who you are, so that’s what we’ll call you.”
I shoot him a sharp look over my shoulder, and he grins like the menace he is. When I turn back, the shopkeeper’s expression softens, but there’s steel in her eyes.
“My brother just joined the outpost for training,” she says. “He believes in the Spiritborn. So I place my faith in you too. So that my brother will remain safe.”
The shop seems to hold its breath for a moment. Even Fenric stills, his expression more solemn. Behind me, Darius exhales slowly.
I don’t know what to say. Because I’m still learning what it means to be this person—the Spiritborn they see. Still waking up every day hoping I can be enough.
But the shopkeeper doesn’t see the uncertainty. She sees someone to believe in.
Darius steps forward to stand beside me. He places a hand on my shoulder, his voice full of quiet reassurance.
“What’s your brother’s name?” he asks. “We’ll look out for him.”
The shopkeeper’s face brightens with immediate relief. “Oh—thank you!” She clasps her hands together for a moment, like she’s afraid her gratitude might spill out too fast. “His name is Tarek Rennar. He’s only seventeen. We’re both Fire Clan.”
Tarek. So young. He’s just a boy.
My chest tightens. I picture him—eager-eyed, wiry, swinging his sword too wide. Barely more than a child. Most of them are. And yet they’re here, stepping into a war because they believe and refuse to run.
Because they believe in me.
I swallow, nodding slowly. “And what’s your name?” I ask gently, my voice soft.
The shopkeeper smiles, her fingers brushing the edge of the counter. “Rhosyn. Rhosyn Rennar.”
I nod, committing it to memory. “Thank you, Rhosyn.”
Her smile falters, turning wistful. “Our parents and I—we all still live here in the village. We’re proud of him.
But . . . it’s hard letting him go. Even though the legal age to begin warrior training is sixteen,” she continues, her voice quieter now.
“Our parents made him wait, hoping he’d change his mind. But he didn’t.”
There’s pride in her eyes. And worry. A blend I know far too well.
“He’s stubborn,” she adds with a small smile. “But his heart’s in the right place. He wants to protect people.”
Something aches deep in my chest. “He reminds me of my best friend, Lyra. She said almost the exact same thing when she chose to train at the outpost.” I rest my hand over hers on the counter. “I’ll remember his name,” I say softly. “And we’ll make sure he’s not alone.”
Rhosyn smiles, her eyes shining. “Thank you, Spiritborn.”
And this time, when she calls me Spiritborn, I don’t correct her.
The sun hangs lower as we step out of the apothecary, casting long, honeyed streaks over the cobblestones. But it’s Rhosyn I’m still thinking about—the strain in her voice, the weight behind her words. What it costs to become someone others believe in.
I’m not watching where I’m going, nearly walking straight into someone. Broad shoulders. Tall frame. A presence that hits before the face even registers.
Of course.
Thane.
I halt, mid-step, nearly dropping the carefully wrapped bundle in my hands. He catches me by the elbow without missing a beat, steadying me as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. His smoke-gray eyes meet mine, something flickering there. Amusement, maybe. Or curiosity. Or something else.
“Easy,” he says, his voice low and smooth. “You alright?”
Because I stopped short—just in time—for half a heartbeat, I think I’ve recovered.
Unfortunately, Darius and Fenric are right behind me and don’t notice that I’ve stopped. They slam into me like a pair of human battering rams, sending me flying forward with a yelp.
I stumble—and land face-first into Thane’s chest.
Solid. Unyielding. Glorious.
My hands press flat to his chest, one still awkwardly clutching the bundle of salves caught between us—but that barely registers. I’m plastered against him, every inch of me aligned to his. I can feel everything—the hard lines beneath his shirt, the carved strength of his torso.
My breasts, my stomach, my hips—all of me flush against all of him.
It’s like the moment is suspended in air. I can feel the slow, steady beat of his heart beneath my cheek.
Steady.
Like him.
And gods, he’s warm—heat radiating off him like a second sun. He smells like cedar and leather and something faintly smoky. It wraps around my skin and curls into my lungs like it wants to stay.
I should pull back.
I have to pull back.
But his hand is still holding my elbow, his fingers firmly keeping me there.
And he’s not pulling away either.
Is he breathing like I am—shallow, fast, unsure? Or is he just as composed and unreadable as ever?
I can’t tell.
I want to look up. Gods, I need to see his face—to know if this moment is real for him too, or if I’m the only one standing here, heart pounding, skin burning, mind unraveling.
But I can’t move.
Neither of us does.
The world falls away—the village noise, the street, the sunlight—until only this remains: the heartbeats between us, stretched tight and electric.
And then—“You’re welcome for the assist,” Fenric mutters behind me.
The spell is broken and reality crashes back in.
For all the Elemental gods and back!
I recoil so fast I nearly lose my footing, gripping the salves like it might shield me from the sheer, overwhelming mortification now blooming in every part of my body.
I can’t even look at Thane. Not when I just melted against him like a lovesick idiot. Not when I’m still burning from the way he didn’t move, didn’t pull away, and didn’t let go.
And not when some foolish, traitorous part of me didn’t want him to.
I stumble backwards, words tumbling from my mouth in a panicked rush—“Sorry, I—sorry—gods, I didn’t—”
My boot catches on something—a foot—and suddenly the ground isn’t beneath me anymore.
I’m falling.
Time seems to slow.
My bundle flies from my hands, flipping over my head in a graceful arc, jars cartwheeling like exclamation points to my humiliation. I watch them sail over me like I’m outside my own body, helpless to do anything but witness the unfolding disaster.
No, no, no—
And then—
Splat.
I land hard on my backside. In something soft. Mushy.
There’s a beat of stunned silence.
Then the smell hits me.
“Oh no,” I whisper, wide-eyed.
Horse manure. Horse manure!
For all the Elements and every last forsaken god above and below, I landed in a giant pile of horse shit!
A muffled gasp comes from somewhere to my left. Fenric lets out a strangled noise. Darius isn’t even pretending—he’s wheezing, doubled over in restrained laughter. I hear someone mutter, “By the gods . . . ”
And I just sit there.
Frozen.
In the middle of the street.
In horse shit.
And of course it’s warm.
Stunned—barely breathing—the stench hits me full force.
Slowly—so slowly—I turn my head and glance over my shoulder.
An older man is leading a horse down the road.
It lifts its tail and expels more shit. Another steaming pile lands with a wet, echoing plop.
They continue down the road without pause or shame.
Fenric wheezes, “Is it still warm?” before collapsing against Darius, who is shaking with laughter, tears in the corners of his eyes.
I lift my hands from where they landed on the cobblestones and whisper, “Because, fucking, of course.”
“Oh, Amara, dear,” Darius says between guffaws, managing to pull himself together just enough to step forward. He reaches a hand down to me, eyes still shining with amusement but laced with sympathy now.
I grip his arm like a lifeline. “Thank you,” I mutter, letting him haul me to my feet.
And then—“By the gods,” Fenric chokes out, stumbling back a step and waving a hand in front of his nose. “You smell. Like a cursed battlefield latrine. No—worse.”
I glare at him as I try, desperately, to shake some of the mess off the back of my leggings.
“I’m aware, Fenric,” I hiss through clenched teeth.
Darius tries not to laugh, but fails spectacularly.
Thane stands just a few feet away—every inch the Warlord he always is. But his eyes . . . they’re too bright. And his lips are twitching, the corners threatening to lift.
He’s trying not to smile.
I narrow my eyes, hopelessly brushing the back of my leggings with a stick I found on the ground. It only smears the mess further.
“Don’t you dare,” I mutter.
His brows lift, but he doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t need to. He just stands there, perfectly composed, while I look—and smell—like I lost a fight with a barnyard.
I decided at this moment I no longer need to live here. I will, immediately, start a new life in a distant land. Possibly underground.
That’s when I notice who’s standing with Thane.
Garrick. Rian. Jarek.
No.
Garrick stands with his arms crossed, his entire body trembling from the effort of holding back a laugh. His mouth is clamped in a tight line, but his eyes are wild with delight—like this is the best thing he’s seen all month.
Jarek is smirking outright, one brow arched, eyes flicking between me and the offending horse.
And Rian . . . oh gods, Rian. His lips are pressed tightly together, shoulders twitching like he’s in actual physical pain. His arms are crossed, posture stiff, but the gleam in his eyes is unmistakable.
They saw everything. From the body slam into their Warlord to the manure-splattered exit.
I close my eyes for half a second and whisper, “Let the ground open and take me now.”
Fenric, unhelpfully, fans the air near me. “Too late, Spiritborn. You’re famous—and fragrant.”