Chapter 15 #3
Taila leans forward, her dark hair framing her bronze face. She rests her chin on her palm.
“You didn’t exactly give us many details about that dinner. Just that it was ‘fine’ and that the nobles were insufferable.”
Lyra nudges my arm. “Well, at least you finally told us what actually happened. We were starting to think you’d taken a vow of silence.”
“Or maybe she was planning her next reckless act of revenge,” Fenric says, the usual mischief glinting in his eyes.
I groan loudly, dropping my forehead against the table.
Laughter ripples from my friends, light and easy. A hand presses gently to my back, tracing slow, familiar circles. I lift my head—and there’s Lyra, her green eyes full of the fifteen years we’ve shared as friends. She knows me too well.
Something in my chest loosens. I don’t say thank you. I don’t need to. She already knows. Despite myself, I laugh—just a little.
For the first time in days, the weight in my chest feels a little lighter.
As the conversation fades into casual chatter around me, I stare into the empty hearth of the pub. It’s too warm for a fire, but it doesn’t matter. It wouldn’t reach the cold lingering deep inside me anyway.
I should feel relieved because it turned out to be nothing. Or foolish for how I let this consume me.
But it’s more than embarrassment. It’s not that I misread him.
It’s that I wanted it to be true.
The idea that he looked at me the way I looked at him. That maybe, for once, it wasn’t about duty or obligation. That maybe, just maybe, it was real.
I take another sip of ale, the bitterness settling on my tongue, but it does nothing to quiet the hollow ache growing in my chest.
Taila glances toward the entrance, then back at us. “Looks like the Phoenix Ring is back.”
I follow her gaze just as Garrick, Rian, and Jarek step inside—expressions grim. Warm light flickers across their worn leathers, the scent of the road clinging to them: dust, sweat, and something sharper beneath.
Dragon fire. The smoky tang curls under the stale bite of ale.
They move toward the bar, exchanging quiet words with the innkeeper—shoulders heavy with exhaustion.
But even before I count their faces, I know. Thane isn’t with them.
A sharp knot forms beneath my ribs.
I don’t know why I expected him to walk through that door—or why I even care. But his absence is a weight I can’t ignore. I try to shake it, but the urge lingers, growing stronger with every passing second.
Shame or no shame, I need to know he’s okay.
I push my chair back, take one last swig of my drink, and set it down. “I’m tired. Think I’ll head back to the barracks.”
Lyra doesn’t even try to hide her skepticism. She tilts her head, unimpressed, and drawls, “Yeah, right. Off to bed you go.” Sarcasm drips from every word.
They all know where I’m headed.
I don’t respond. Just rise, turn, and step out into the night.
Even though it is early summer, the air feels cool, crisp against my skin after the warmth of the pub. The village is quiet at this hour—lanterns flickering in shuttered windows, the last murmurs of conversation fading behind me. The packed dirt road stretches ahead, familiar beneath my boots.
The outpost is half a mile away, but with every step, the tension in my chest tightens. I tell myself this isn’t about Thane. That I’m just walking off the ale. That I need air.
The lie is thin—even in my own mind.
The outpost rises in the distance, its stone walls bathed in silver moonlight. I slip through the gates, the sentries nodding in silent acknowledgment. The courtyard is mostly empty, except for the occasional flicker of movement along the ramparts.
And then I see him.
Thane strides across the courtyard ahead, his frame unmistakable—even in the dark. He moves toward a tower door, steps purposeful, but missing their usual edge.
I slow, watching him. Not just where he’s going, but how he moves. His shoulders are heavier than usual, weighed down by something.
And in this moment, nothing else matters—only that he’s okay.
Thane disappears through the tower door. The stairs beyond lead only one way—up. The door swings shut behind him, sealing him in. Closing him off.
I hesitate.
There’s no pretense this time. No training lesson. No dinner invitation. No excuse wrapped in duty or obligation. Nothing to hide behind. Just the truth: I want to see him.
I push open the heavy wooden door, slipping inside before I can second-guess myself.
The scent of stone and aged wood greets me—cool, undisturbed.
The stairway winds upward, steep and narrow. Thin window slits let in just enough moonlight—silver slashes across the stone.
I lift a hand, summoning a small orb of fire. It flickers to life, hovering before me, casting a warm glow along the worn steps.
And I climb.
My breath is steady, quiet in the narrow stairwell. The climb isn’t labored like it was when I first came to the outpost—every step felt like a battle, my body still recovering from the village attack.
Now, my legs are strong. They carry me effortlessly up the winding flights, each step sure, each movement steady. The fire orb drifts ahead, its glow flickering against the stone walls, guiding my way.
As I near the top, the weight in my chest has nothing to do with the climb.
At the top, I stop—my hand on the door. My heart pounds. Too fast. Too loud. I feel it in my throat—each beat sharp and unsteady. I breathe. Then again.
Then—I push the door open.
Warm air greets me, the sky vast and endless overhead. With the Solstice nearing, the nights are growing balmy.
The top of the tower stretches wide, an open stone platform ringed by a low wall. From here, the world feels limitless. Below, the outpost lies in neat, structured lines—barracks, training grounds, watchtowers lit by scattered torches.
Beyond it, the village flickers with golden lantern light, nestled against the vast sweep of fields and forests. My friends are probably still at the pub.
Further in the distance, the mountains stand tall, their jagged peaks cutting against the star-flecked sky. A river winds through the valley, a silver ribbon beneath the moon, its lazy curves leading west—toward the Forsaken Lands.
Even from here, I can feel the presence of those lands, a shadow on the horizon, untouched by light.
A breeze stirs, carrying the low, distant call of a dragon, a sound both ancient and familiar. My fire orb flickers beside me, casting its soft glow against the stone.
I’ve never seen the outpost from this perspective. In all my months here, I never climbed this high—never stood at the top of the tower and looked down at the place that has, somehow, become my home.
I’ve never been this high in the sky before either. The wind curls around me, warm but restless, carrying the scent of distant rain. Strands of hair dance around my face.
The outpost feels different from up here—smaller, quieter, its rigid lines and worn stone softened by the glow of torchlight. From the ground, it always felt vast, an unshakable fortress of warriors and duty. But from here, it is just another place in a world so much larger than I realized.
A flicker of movement pulls my gaze—to the figure near the half-wall lining the edge of the tower.
Thane.
I flick my fingers, extinguishing the fire orb. Darkness settles in around me, but the moonlight is enough. More than enough.
Thane turns at the motion, his gaze finding mine almost instantly. For a moment, he says nothing. Then, a tired smile tugs at his lips, small, fleeting, but real.
The silver light catches on his face, carving sharp lines into his features, casting deep shadows beneath his eyes. He looks exhausted, like the weight of the day—or maybe something heavier—still lingers on his shoulders.
And yet, standing here in the quiet, in the warmth of the approaching Solstice—he is breathtaking.
I swallow hard, then take a step closer.
Thane watches me. Then he sighs—low and thoughtful.
“You found me.”
His voice carries a quiet weight and my heart squeezes.
I smile automatically, the sight of that small smile warming my cheeks. But suddenly, I feel shy, uncertain in a way I hadn’t expected. Up here, with no excuses, no distractions. Just the two of us beneath the open sky . . . it feels different.
I step closer, moving to stand beside him at the wall. The stone is cool beneath my palms as I rest my hands against it, my gaze sweeping out over the valley below. The silence stretches, not uncomfortable, but charged. Waiting.
After a beat, Thane’s gaze shifts to the horizon.
“This is my spot.” His voice softens. Thoughtful. “This is where I come to think. To reflect. It’s quiet.”
He lifts a hand toward the horizon. “And from here, I can see all the way to the capital.”
I follow the line of his finger to a cluster of faint lights in the far distance, flickering against the darkness, nestled beyond the rolling hills to the north.
The capital. Volcaris.
I didn’t know it was visible from here.
Standing beside him, I take in the view with fresh eyes. The outpost, the village, the vast stretch of land beyond—all of it feels different from up here, smaller and yet somehow grander, part of something far greater than what I’ve known.
I glance at Thane, watching the way the moonlight touches his face, the way his gaze lingers on the distant city. “Do you miss it?” I ask softly.
Thane doesn’t look away from the capital’s distant lights. “No.”
His voice is steady, but there’s something in it—something distant, like the thought has already drifted past him.
“It doesn’t feel like home. Nowhere really does.”
His fingers tap idly against the stone. A restless motion—like even standing still costs him something.
“I’m always on the move anyway.”
Something about the way he says it tugs at me—an unspoken truth beneath the words.
It’s not just that he keeps moving. It’s that he doesn’t know where he’s meant to stop.