Chapter 15
A WARLORD’S WEIGHT
FIFTEEN
My realm map is growing crowded with marks—Shadow Force attacks are spreading like rot.
The Fire Scout team returned, and not unscathed, bringing word of yet another strike on a border town.
It’s unclear what their intent truly is.
Are they still hunting the Spiritborn? Trying to break our morale?
Or are these simply opportunistic strikes—low-hanging fruit meant to stretch us thin?
Either way, the pattern is shifting, and not in our favor.
—VALEN’S JOURNAL
AMARA
The nobles are still here, and Thane’s been buried in meetings—with them, with Captain Elaris. He hasn’t been around. Hasn’t spoken to me. Hardly looks at me when I pass.
I know he’s been busy—strategizing patrols, dispatching soldiers, hosting endless meetings.
And after what I saw . . . maybe that’s for the best.
So I train. Harder than usual.
Jarek doesn’t pry. Doesn’t study me like Valen does, like he’s waiting for me to crack. He just blocks, dodges, and counters as I throw everything I have at him, my movements fueled by frustration and anger.
For the next two days, Jarek trains me alone.
I lunge, blade swinging—Jarek catches my wrist mid-strike. “You’re getting sloppy,” he says, voice flat. “Again.”
I yank free, biting back the retort rising in my throat. I don’t need a lecture. I need to hit something.
So I do. Again and again.
But Jarek doesn’t give. He knocks me down—again and again. Every time I rise, he sweeps my legs out or sends me sprawling with a brutal strike.
My frustration grows, but so does my determination. I push off the ground, my muscles burning, sweat dripping down my spine, and lunge at him again.
Another mistake. Another hit. Another fall.
The sparring mats do little to soften the impact. Each fall rattles through my bones. My breath punches out as I hit the mat, frustration flaring hot in my chest. I grit my teeth, swipe the sweat-soaked hair from my face, and shove myself upright.
Jarek stands over me with a furrowed brow as I lay on my back yet again.
I’m not focused. And I hate that I know it.
“Do you need a day off?” Jarek asks, adjusting the loose strands from his top knot.
“No,” I grit out. I push up, stand, and look him in the eye.
“Your head isn’t on this mat, Amara,” Jarek says, stating the obvious.
I shake out my hands, muttering under my breath, trying to beat back the noise in my head.
And yet here I am—letting one man take up more space in my mind than the coming war.
“Let’s go again,” I insist.
He shrugs and repositions across the mat from me.
When I’m not sparring, I’m training with Valen. Precision matters.
I work on wielding one element after another in quick succession—Fire into air.
Air into earth. Earth into water. Over and over, I force my magics to shift without hesitation.
It’s harder than it sounds. Each missed step coils frustration in my gut.
The shift should be effortless. But emotion keeps knocking me off rhythm.
I launch fire, cut it clean, switch to air—too fast. The gust is sharp, uncontrolled.
I clench my teeth. Try again.
Earth. Water. Air. The cycle spins faster, cleaner—still not smooth enough.
Valen watches in silence, arms crossed, waiting for me to catch my own mistake.
When I stumble between water and air, a hiss of steam fills the air. Finally, Valen speaks.
“You’re rushing.”
I exhale hard, trying to shake the tension from my limbs. “I’m trying to be fast.”
“No,” he says, calm as ever. “You’re letting emotion drive you. Again. That’s not control—it’s desperation.”
He steps forward, infuriatingly calm. “Your magics listen to your breath, Amara. If your heart races, if your thoughts scatter, so will your power. Whatever’s happening—in the realm, in your life, in your head—you set it aside. Align yourself first, then your magics will follow.”
I inhale. Release slow. But the frustration clings like heat beneath my skin. “That’s easier said than done.”
He steps closer. “Again. But this time, forget speed and think about intent. Each Element has purpose. Feel the shift—don’t force it.”
I drag my fingers through my hair and close my eyes.
Breathe in. Center. Breathe out. Focus.
The chaos doesn’t vanish—but I shove it into a room in my mind and slam the door. I know I’ll have to deal with that mess later, but for now, my magics stir—not wild, not reckless, but waiting. I reach again, slower this time, more deliberate.
Fire into air. Air into earth. Earth into water. My magics follows—focused now. Controlled. I keep going. Faster this time, but steady.
Valen nods. “Better. Now, hold it. Feel it. Be present. You control your magics. Not the other way around.”
Two days.
Two days of festering. Of avoiding Thane. Of feeling him nearby but refusing to acknowledge it.
Jarek instructed me to meet on the training field today—combat and magics drills. I turn when I hear boots crunching on gravel, expecting Jarek. But it isn’t him.
It’s Thane.
And everything I’ve been trying to bury—anger, resentment, shame—rises all at once.
I brace for impact.
But then he smiles—warm, genuine. Like he’s happy to see me. It only stokes the heat already burning in my chest.
I cross my arms, voice sharp. “The nobles must have left.”
Thane’s smile falters. He studies me, searching for something in my expression—trying to gauge why I’m cold.
As if he doesn’t know.
“Not yet,” he says evenly. “But I thought I’d make time for you. They’re nearly gone—Elaris is seeing them off.”
His words strike something in me—something I don’t want to name. Bitterness churns with it.
Of course he can stand there like nothing ever happened.
I roll my shoulders, forcing the tension out. “Then let’s get started.”
Thane inclines his head, eyes locked on mine. “Swords and magics. Ready?”
The protective enchantments are already in place. This isn’t just sparring—it’s a battle of wills.
Thane doesn’t give me the calculated distance Jarek did. He pushes.
The air crackles—tension thick, suffocating. Neither of us speaks, but it’s there, woven into every movement.
I don’t back down and neither does he.
Our swords clash, ringing through the training field. Sparks burst from the metal, but the fire rising between us has nothing to do with magics.
Thane moves with precise control, his blade striking hard, forcing me to meet him blow for blow.
I parry and step into him, testing his footing, but he doesn’t budge.
Instead, he pushes forward, forcing me to pivot.
I barely avoid the tip of his sword as it sweeps past my ribs.
Magics hums in the air between us, the protective enchantments responding to the close hit.
He hurls fire—I slice through it with wind, twisting it back toward him. Thane sidesteps effortlessly, expression etched with focus. But I catch the flicker of approval in his eyes before he strikes again.
We move in a brutal rhythm. The moment I lunge, he counters. The instant he advances, I weave through his defenses. Every move demands full focus. Every strike lands hard—with everything we haven’t said.
Fire meeting fire. Neither of us yields. Neither of us relents.
Then, in a flash, we’re too close, blades locked and breath mingling. Magics crackle in the narrow space between our bodies. I feel the warmth of him, his breath uneven against my cheek—and for a moment, neither of us moves.
His eyes search mine with that same intensity that night after the dinner with the nobles. I should shove him back. Should say something, anything, to cut through the silence—like I did that night.
But my pulse betrays me—thudding in time with the magics humming between us.
Thane’s lips tilt in a half-smile. “You’re holding back.” His voice curls like smoke—warm, dangerous, close.
I grit my teeth and press against him, forcing distance as I swing again.
“So are you.”
I spin away, seizing the moment to gather my magics. The earth rumbles beneath my feet, rising at my command. In one fluid motion, I thrust my hands outward. Stone erupts—jagged and fast—rising into a tight ring around Thane.
From within, I hear his amused chuckle. Then his voice, light with challenge. “Clever.”
A second later, fire erupts from inside the enclosure, blasting outward in a searing explosion. The stone shatters, pieces flying in every direction. I summon a shield of water to protect my face against the heat and shards of stone. Smoke curls from the wreckage.
Thane steps through the wreckage, fire still dancing in his palm. His smirk is pure, infuriating confidence. “But not clever enough.”
Before I can react, he flicks his fingers—light and heat burst outward, searing into my vision. Instinctively, I raise an arm to shield my eyes, blinking rapidly against the sudden brightness.
Too late.
Thane rushes me, closing the distance in an instant. I barely register the shift in the air before he’s on me—blade slicing in a tight arc, forcing me to move or be caught.
Our swords clash, the brutal rhythm like war drums pounding through the training grounds.
Dust rises around us, kicked up by sharp pivots and fast footwork.
His blade comes at me like a force of nature, unyielding and lethal.
I counter, but he’s already adjusting, pressing in, reading my movements with unnerving precision.
His blade cuts through the air in efficient arcs—ruthless, exact. There is no excess, no unnecessary flair—only the brutal necessity of combat. I meet him strike for strike, but he is relentless, pressing forward, giving me no space to recover.
I pivot low, blade slicing for his ribs. But he twists away—parrying with the barest flick of his wrist. His counterattack comes instantly—his sword angling for my throat. I barely duck in time, the rush of air against my skin sharp enough to sting.