Chapter 13 #5
“Lord Hale and his sister seem eager to meet the Spiritborn.”
There it is again—that name. From his lips this time. A quiet heat coils in my chest, but I school my face into stillness.
Taila wisely stays silent, but she sees it; she sees the shift in my breath and the way Thane stands just close enough to make a point. Over Thane’s shoulder, I catch her raised brows, lips pressed tight to hide her smile.
From the next sparring mat, Lyra’s cut towards me, sharp-eyed and knowing. She and Darius slow their sparring match, watching me with way too much eagerness.
When I finally speak, my voice is even. Controlled. “Is that an order, Warlord?”
Thane exhales a quiet huff of amusement. Then, without moving his hand from my elbow—without pulling away just yet—he tilts his head, leaning in once more. And murmurs, just for me:
“No. But I’d like it if you came.”
Then, finally, he lets go and steps back. His face is composed—like he didn’t just make my heart beat faster than it did during the sparring match.
Thane turns away, heading back toward the nobles, his strides unhurried. Voices pick up again as they exit the training hall, their presence leaving the room lighter in their wake.
The moment the doors close behind them, Taila exhales slowly, shaking her head.
“Well, that was interesting.” Her tone is amused, but there’s something knowing in her gaze. “Should I be worried about getting caught in the crossfire?”
I blink, realizing my grip is tight on the blade. My stance still coiled—like I’m waiting for another strike. Heat creeps up my neck.
“Sorry,” I mutter, shifting back, loosening my grip. “Guess I got a little carried away.”
Taila smirks, rolling out her shoulder. “A little?”
I rub the back of my neck, feeling sheepish. “I’ll make it up to you next round.”
She snorts. “You can make it up to me by not imagining someone else’s face while you’re fighting me.”
I groan, rolling my eyes. “Not my fault noble people are so insufferable.” I jerk my chin toward the door. “All that assessing, all those carefully chosen words. Just say what you mean, godsdammit.”
Taila raises her brows, a playful glint in her eyes. “And miss out on the subtle art of manipulation?”
“Yes, actually,” I scowl.
She laughs, shaking her head. “You’re in for a long few days, Spiritborn.”
I roll out my wrists, forcing focus—even as my skin still tingles where he touched me.
From across the mats, Lyra’s voice carries. “Did the Warlord just flirt? I think he did. Someone please confirm.”
Darius snorts. “No, I think he just gave an order in the most unnecessarily attractive way possible.”
I ignore them. Or try to. But I’ve already made up my mind. I’ll be at dinner.
The sun dips low, golden light streaming through the high-set windows, stretching shadows across the barracks floor.
Lyra and Taila tear through my things like determined scavengers, rifling through the trunks and shelves, pulling out battle-worn tunics and sweat-stained shirts with increasing frustration.
The problem? We’re warriors. We don’t own elegant evening wear.
And yet—the Hales are nobles, and this is a formal dinner. Or at least formal enough to require something better than bloodstained leathers and singed tunics.
Lyra plops down beside me, holding up a deep red tunic, inspecting it with the concentration of a war strategist. “Okay, but this one could work. It’s—” she flips it around, frowning at a burn mark near the hem, “—slightly singed, but in a fashionable way.”
Taila pulls out a deep navy long-sleeved shirt from her own things, less damaged but entirely uninspiring. “Here. Take this. It’s the best I’ve got.”
I eye it, exhaling slowly. “Fine. But if Thane or any of his men make a comment about this, I’m setting something on fire.”
“Excellent.” Lyra spreads her arms like a victorious general. “We are officially underwhelmingly prepared for dinner.”
Taila snorts.
Before I can respond, a voice interrupts the chaos. “You know, if you’re going to suffer through a noble dinner, you might as well do it properly.”
I glance toward the doorway, finding Nessa, a soldier from Air Clan, leaning against the frame, watching us with mild amusement.
Lyra spins, hands on her hips. “Oh? And you have some grand alternative to our battle-worn couture?”
Nessa raises a brow, then lifts something draped over her arm. A dress. We go silent.
It’s simple—elegant in its restraint. A deep, stormy blue, with subtle silver stitching along the cuffs and neckline, fitted at the waist and flowing to the ankles. Not extravagant, but unmistakably feminine.
Lyra blinks. Taila lifts her brows. I just stare.
Nessa steps forward, holding out the dress.
Lyra claps her hands together, grinning. “Oh, I love this.”
Taila nudges me. “Problem solved—you don’t have to wear a burnt tunic, and we get to watch Thane forget how words work for at least three seconds.”
I roll my eyes, but it doesn’t stop the warmth creeping up my neck.
Lately, they’ve all been saying things like this—how Thane watches me. How he’s been . . . friendlier these past few weeks.
Lyra had mentioned it first, offhandedly after a sparring match.
“He doesn’t look at anyone else like that.
” I’d laughed it off, calling her delusional.
Then Taila had brought it up after a long training session.
“He’s not this patient with anyone else, you know.
” And Darius, ever amused, had added, “Maybe he just likes watching you.” And of course Fenric had to escalate it—after one particularly tense moment between Thane and me: “You two either need to fight or kiss. Preferably before someone catches fire.”
Each time, I’d given them the same response. “He has to watch me. I’m the Spiritborn. It’s his duty to make sure I can do what I was born to do.” And I believe that. I have to.
Because anything else? Anything more than duty?
That would be dangerous.
Lyra smirks. “No, no. This is fate.”
Nessa shrugs, tilting her head. “Looks like you’re about my size.” Her gaze flicks over me, considering, before adding lightly, “It might even fit better on you.”
I hesitate. “Are you sure you’re okay with lending me this dress?”
Nessa waves a hand dismissively. “Absolutely. Us warriors have to look out for one another, right?”
I exhale, then smile, small but genuine. “Right.” I take the dress, fingers brushing over the fabric. It’s softer than I expected, light and easy to move in—practical, but undeniably different from what I’m used to.
The dress fits. Perfectly. It hugs my frame just right—not restrictive, but emphasizing my shape in a way that feels . . . unfamiliar. I stand in front of the small mirror, adjusting the sleeves, turning slightly.
Lyra whistles. “Spiritborn or not, you’re about to turn some heads.”
I shake my head, trying to ignore the heat rising in my neck.
Nessa hands me the matching slippers. They fit . . . almost. A tiny bit too snug, but I can make do. I step around, testing them. “Tight. But I won’t die.”
Taila smirks. “Try not to let it show on your face when you walk. Wouldn’t want anyone to think you’re suffering.”
Lyra, mock solemn, places a hand over her heart. “Or do. Could add to the whole ‘brooding warrior with a tragic past’ thing you’ve got going.”
I glare at them. “Glad my suffering adds to the aesthetic.”
Lyra grabs me and pulls me into a bone-crushing hug. “Oh stop whining! You’re so dramatic! Just enjoy this!”
Lyra’s fiery-red hair covers my face as she continues to squeeze me tighter. Her grip is iron now, months of training turning her playful hug into a stranglehold.
Before I can push her off and catch a breath, two more sets of arms wrap around us—Taila and Nessa piling on, giggling. And before I know it, I’m laughing too, their glee infectious.