Chapter 12
THE ART OF SPARRING
TWELVE
There’s an old folk song, barely more than a hum these days—passed between elders and children as a game.
One verse keeps echoing in my mind: ‘Fierce blows the fire, Strong flows the water, Sturdy holds the earth, Free rides the air. Rest in the spirit—Here, we unite.’ Rest in spirit .
. . we unite? I believe there is more to this.
I’ve been looking for connections, patterns from not just our ancient texts, but traditions, folk songs.
Someone had to have left breadcrumbs for us to learn.
Rarely is great knowledge—especially—of impending doom completely buried.
Our ancestors were far too clever, and powerful to not leave us clues. I must find them soon.
— VALEN’S JOURNAL
AMARA
Time blurs into routine and weeks pass. Early mornings belong to Valen.
The first rays of light barely crest over the horizon before I’m seated in his study, surrounded by books and scrolls, the quiet punctuated by Valen’s instruction.
He teaches me the histories, the cultures, and the traditions of the Elemental Clans.
Fire isn’t just destruction, but renewal. Water doesn’t just bend, but remembers. Earth endures. Air never bows to anything.
When my head is spinning with too many facts and theories, we take to the training fields where I practice wielding what’s inside me.
Some days, the elements come easily. Other days, I feel like a child fumbling in the dark. Fire burns too hot, water slips through my fingers, air refuses to be caught, and earth remains silent beneath my feet when summoned.
And Valen?
He watches. He is scant with his praise and never seems to over criticize. Just nods, and tells me to do it again.
Always again.
By midday, I barely have time to breathe before Thane takes over. Combat training is relentless. No room for hesitation, no time for self-doubt. If Valen’s lessons are about understanding, Thane’s are about survival. Every day, I am knocked to the ground. Every day, I get back up.
Bracers. Footwork. Blocking.
“Too slow.”
“Again.”
“Kill shot.”
“Faster.”
I’m starting to see the changes. I’m getting stronger. Fall less. Block more. Read his movements just a fraction of a second sooner.
Evenings are the only time I see my friends. We sit together at meals, but are often too tired to talk about much. We exchange weary glances over plates of food, sometimes trade sarcastic remarks about how our instructors are trying to kill us, but no one really complains.
By the time we reach the barracks at night, we barely make it to our bunks before collapsing into sleep.
The next morning, it all begins again.
In the weeks since our arrival, I’ve begun to learn the rhythms of the outpost—the way the warriors train, how they move together, how they fight.
I’ve also noticed the way most of them keep their distance from me.
It’s not open hostility, but something quieter, more cautious. They don’t know what to make of me.
I’m still figuring it out myself so I understand.
I hear the way they say Spiritborn, in hushed tones when they think I can’t hear.
Spiritborn.
Not just another warrior in training, but something else entirely. Something mythical, not ‘real.’
But my friends don’t let their wariness stop them.
Lyra wedges herself into my orbit, pulling others in with her, making it impossible for them to ignore me completely. Fenric teases, he prods, he laughs in the face of their hesitation. Taila and Darius often ask me to join them in sparring sessions.
And little by little, the other soldiers ease into conversation with me.
Through them, I begin to understand what it means to be a warrior here.
Strength is not about who you are—it’s about what you choose to do.
Men and women train together, fight side by side, push each other with the same relentless intensity.
I watch as women knock their opponents flat on their backs in sparring matches, as men take their hits without protest.
Skill, not size or gender, determines the victor.
There’s no hesitation in their movements, no second-guessing their place. They fight with an understanding that has been shaped by years of war, by battles won and lost, by the knowledge that, when the time comes, the only thing that matters is survival.
I wonder if, one day, they will see me as one of them.
I’m grateful to have found a few friends—real ones.
Taila, Darius, and Fenric didn’t flinch at the mention of prophecies, or who I’m supposed to be.
They treat me like anyone else. They joke, they give me hell, they don’t hold back—and I appreciate that more than they know.
Because with them, I feel human, almost normal. Not some magical . . . thing.
Early mornings with Valen are my favorite time of day.
Not just because of the quiet at dawn, when the world is still waking, when the only sounds are the birds singing their songs and the wind whispering through the trees.
But because of the history. For a little while, I’m not just a warrior-in-training, or a girl struggling to control powers. I’m a student of the world.
Learning about the realm, the Clans—who we were, who we became, what was lost and what remains.
The world is so much bigger than I ever imagined.
Before coming to the outpost, my life never stretched beyond the quiet rhythm of farm work and small-town worries.
I never thought about the cities, the kingdoms, the histories that shaped them.
Now, I look forward to Valen handing me that cup of strong, bitter tea before we begin—before we dive into another piece of the past.
For weeks now, Valen’s lessons have pushed me deeper into the heart of elemental magics. Not just how to wield it—but how to understand it. To feel it. To let it become a part of me instead of something I simply command.
I used to think of magics as fire—wild and consuming, impossible to control unless you were born to it. But fire is only one piece of the world’s balance.
Fire is rage, but also warmth. Destruction, but also life. It can burn everything down, or it can be the light that keeps the darkness at bay. It’s no wonder the Fire Clan values control above all else. Without it, fire is chaos. But with it? It’s power.
Water is relentless while also patient. It carves through mountains over centuries, just as easily as it can sweep away entire villages in a single storm. It can be gentle, healing—but it can also drown. Water is never still. Even in a frozen lake, the currents move beneath the surface.
Air is safety; freedom to move. It’s lightness. I never before knew the joy of wind whipping around me, bending to my will. It carries the storms. Whisper or howl. Lift me higher, make me faster, give me breath. In a fight, a well-placed gust can throw an enemy off balance long before they strike.
Earth is steady, strong, unmoving—until it isn’t.
The ground beneath my feet is a force that cannot be rushed or bent to will.
It listens. It waits. It is patient in a way I have never been and struggle to be.
But when I let myself sink into it, when I let it anchor me, I understand why earth wielders are unshakable.
It is incredible—terrifying, almost—that I can not just wield, but channel them all. Most people go their whole lives mastering only one element, and here I stand, holding all four in my hands. It should be impossible.
Valen says magics are more than just power. They are a language. And I’m finally learning to listen.
The Fire Clan is first into battle, the last to fall. The warriors who have led every major war in history, who claim their place not by birthright alone, but by proving they are strong enough to hold it.
Strength is everything in the Fire Clan. It is their currency, their law, their right to rule. Their Warlord isn’t just a leader; they’re a warrior, a strategist, a commander who must fight for their place. If they are weak, they will be challenged.
I don’t know if I admire that or if I fear it. Maybe both.
It was the Warlord who led the final charge in the Shadow Wars.
He was the one who rallied the clans, forcing them to stand together when the realm was falling apart.
And when the Shadow Forces were finally sealed away, it was the Fire Clan who remained on the front lines ensuring the darkness did not rise again.
They don’t just fight for themselves. They fight for the realm. For survival. They have the drive, resources, and organization to bring together the best fighters of all the Clans.
That kind of responsibility, that weight—it’s staggering. Because of this new knowledge, I start to see Thane differently. His discipline, his unwavering focus, the way he carries himself like he has no choice but to be unshakable—it all makes sense now. It isn’t just who he is.
It’s what he has to be.
The thought unsettles me. Because what kind of life is that? To carry so much, to bear the expectations of an entire realm, to have no room to be anything else—anyone else. It isn’t just a duty. It’s a cage.
And for the first time, I feel something close to sorrow for him.
There are no second chances in war. And that’s what the Fire Clan has always been preparing for. The next fight. The next war. The next time the realm needs them to burn so that others may survive. The Warlord holds absolute command over their warriors, armies, and people.
And when bonded with a dragon? That is something else entirely.
Fire Wielders are already feared, already powerful.
They can summon sparks, call embers to their hands, sense heat lingering in the air long after a fire has died.
But it is nothing compared to what they become once they bond with a dragon.
Fire at that level is not just an element—it’s alive.
It’s rage and hunger—a power that cannot be controlled by physical strength alone.