Chapter 20 #3
Everything hurts. My arms feel like lead, my legs weak from gripping too tightly, from bracing against every sharp turn, every desperate maneuver.
Then there’s the pain.
A sharp, searing agony rips through my ribs, pulsing in time with my heartbeat. Too much blood. I can feel it soaking into my tunic, sticky and hot, coating my skin beneath my leathers.
Calryx shifts beneath me, growling low, her great body tense—restless, urgent.
“Hold on, Virelya.” Her voice is steady but strained, as if she’s trying to keep me anchored. “He’s coming. I let Xaroth know.”
I try to dismount—to breathe through the dizziness. My hands slip against Calryx’s scales as I slide down her neck.
The ground tilts. And then, arms catch me. Strong. Unyielding. Crushing me against a chest I instantly recognize.
Thane.
I feel his breath hitch, the tremor in his hold, the way his grip tightens like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go. For several seconds, he doesn’t say anything—just holds me in his arms.
Then—his voice cuts through the haze. Raw. Rough.
“Gods, Amara.”
Not the voice of a warlord. Not the voice of a commander. Just Thane.
His arms tighten around me, his body rigid, his breath unsteady.
He’s shaking. Gods—did he feel it?
“What the fuck happened up there?” The words aren’t shouted. They’re ripped from him.
“Kethraki . . . surprise attack,” my voice low, hoarse.
I should say more, but my throat is dry, my lungs burning and heavy. Instead, I just let myself rest against him for a second longer. Because I feel it. The way his body is shaking. The way he clutches me, fiercely, like he thought he’d lost me. His heartbeat pounds against my cheek, fast, uneven.
Calryx huffs beside us, her wings half-unfurled, her tail lashing against the ground.
“Tell him to stop holding you like cracked glass and get you to a healer. You are the Spiritborn. And my rider!” she mutters, though her voice is more relieved than irritated. “If he delays any further, I will drag you there myself.”
I let out a weak breath—something between a laugh and a groan.
And finally, Thane pulls back. Not far. Just enough. His hands don’t leave me—they slide to my arms, my waist, my ribs.
His gaze sweeps over me, searching, cataloging every wound, every breath, every uneven heartbeat. And when his eyes land on the gaping tear in my tunic, the blood seeping through my fingers, his entire body goes still.
His jaw locks. I think I hear his teeth crack. His grip tightens, like he’s holding himself back from doing something reckless.
And then his voice drops—low, rough, barely controlled. “You’re bleeding out.” His breath shudders. His fingers twitch against my skin. “Fuck, Amara.”
I blink up at him, my lips parting—but nothing comes out. Because what can I say?
But I see it in his eyes.
Not frustration. Not anger. Not just the weight of responsibility he always carries.
This is something else. Something raw. Unchecked.
His jaw flexes, his fingers still pressed against my side, grounding himself as much as me.
I exhale, my voice quieter now, steadier than I feel. “You thought you were going to lose me.” I swallow hard, my throat tight, my pulse unsteady beneath his grip. “Thane . . . ”
He doesn’t answer—doesn’t even try to deny it. His expression hardens, into something that looks like fear.
And then—he just pulls me to him. Hard.
His arms wrap around me and I wince, the pain searing at my side. Thane loosens his grip a bit but doesn’t let go. I feel the sharp inhale against my hair, the way his hands press into my back, holding me together.
Calryx exhales a heavy breath directly onto us, her grumble vibrating through my bones. The sudden rush of warm air ruffles my hair.
I huff a weak laugh against his chest. “Calryx is starting to get impatient about me not going to healers.”
Thane pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes flashing. And then, scoops me up. No hesitation or warning. I gasp, startled, but he doesn’t say a damn word. Just turns on his heel and runs straight to infirmary.
THANE
I feel it—something shifts in my chest.
A pull. A drag. Like a cord twisting tighter, like some infernal thing lodged beneath my ribs starts thrumming.
What the fuck is that? Why does it feel like—
It’s not pain, not exactly. But it’s wrong. Foreign. Strange.
And then—her arms go slack around my neck.
I look down.
Amara. Unconscious.
Shit.
My grip tightens, and I tear through the halls like a storm.
That thrumming thing beneath my ribs won’t stop. Won’t let me forget she went still in my arms. Whatever the fuck it is, it knew—before I did.
Soldiers and staff step back just in time, faces blurring as I pass, their expressions twisting into alarm the moment they see her.
Blood. Pale skin. Her head slumped against me like she’s already half gone.
No. No, she’s not. She’s still breathing. Still warm.
And I’m not letting her go.
A lieutenant stumbles back against the wall as I barrel past. Someone yells. I don’t stop.
I slam through the infirmary doors, nearly tearing one off its hinges.
“Healers!”
My voice cracks. Breaks.
“Now!”
Heads snap up. Robes shift. A metal tray crashes to the floor as an apprentice stumbles back, eyes wide with panic.
“I need a bed—now!”
Two healers rush forward, dragging a cot into place. I lower her down—my arms refusing to let go. Even now. Even as her blood smears the front of my training leathers—dark, sticky. Hers. It clings to my fingers. Still warm.
“She’s losing too much,” I choke out. “She’s—” I can’t finish.
They’re already moving—pressing cloth to her side, speaking low spells, magics humming to life at their fingertips. Light spills across her skin, but it’s not enough.
But I can still feel it.
That thing in my chest. That fucking pull, clawing and burning like it doesn’t care if I understand it—it just is.
What the hell is happening to me?
What is happening to her?
My fists clench. I can’t breathe. I can’t do anything. I’ve fought wars. Held the line against things that should not exist. But this? Watching her go still, watching blood pool beneath her?
I am useless.
Then a scream rips through the room.
My chest cracks open with panic.
Amara’s eyes fly open—wide, wild—staring, but not seeing. They dart around the room, unfocused. Terrified. She’s fighting something I can’t see. Something I can’t reach.
And it’s tearing her apart.
“Hold her down!” one of the healers shouts.
Healer Marion.
She’s been saving lives in this capital since before I was born. Time has curled her spine and twisted the joints of her fingers, but none of it touches her strength. Or her heart.
She stands at Amara’s side, hands braced on her shoulders, holding her firm.
Two more healers rush to help, moving fast, stepping to either side of the cot. They press their hands to Amara’s arms and legs, keeping her still, keeping her from tearing herself open any further.
“Sleep, child,” Marion murmurs—soft, but with the weight of command behind it.
Amara’s eyes flutter. Then close. And she goes still.
I take a step back, then another, until my shoulders slam into the stone wall behind me. And I just stand there, breathing like I’ve been gutted.
Gods, don’t take her from me. Not her. Not now.
I feel a hand grip my shoulder—firm, grounding.
I whip my head around, teeth clenched, barely holding back the instinct to strike. My vision narrows, breath coming fast, wild.
Valen.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. Just holds my gaze.
His hand stays right where it is, steady as stone, eyes calm in a way that makes me want to scream.
“She’s in good hands,” he says quietly. “Let them work.”
I shake my head, jaw tight. “I felt her go under, Valen. Before she passed out—I felt it.” My voice breaks, low and raw. “What the hell is happening—to her? To me?”
The silence that follows is heavy. Not from lack of knowing. But because he does.
Valen doesn’t let go. His grip stays firm—a silent tether, anchoring me when I feel like I’m about to come apart at the seams.
I stare at him, breathing hard. “What is this?” My voice is barely more than a rasp. “What the fuck is happening to me?”
He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes drop to Amara, lying so still it makes my chest seize all over again.
Healer Marion now stands at her head, her palms pressed gently to either side of Amara’s face, eyes closed in concentration. Two other healers flank her body—one on either side—partially blocking my view.
But I can see her chest.
It rises. Falls. Shallow, but steady.
My hands unclench slightly—just enough to breathe again.
Then—quietly, Valen responds, “I don’t know for certain. Not yet.”
“Try.” The word comes out sharper than I intend. “Because I felt her, Valen. Not like some training bond or combat sync—I felt her pain. Like it was mine.”
His eyes meet mine again, and I see it—that flicker of concern, buried beneath the usual calm. It’s rare.
And it terrifies me.
“There are . . . old accounts—older than any clan record still standing,” he says finally.
“Scattered, mostly. References to connections formed in the earliest days of Elemental wielding. Powerful, dangerous, sacred. Some called them soul-threads. Others warned they weren’t bonds—they were fusions. Harder to control.”
I swallow hard. “That’s not possible. We’re not . . . ”
“Thane.” His voice cuts clean through me. “It might be.”
I stare at him.
He continues, low and careful. “If what you felt was real—if her pain passed into you like that—then this is more than proximity, more than instinct. This is something older. Something I thought lost.”
I shake my head. “You mean some old bloodline myth? A legend?”
“No,” he says, firm now. “I mean something real. Buried, yes. Erased, maybe. But not gone. I think . . . ” Valen’s gaze flicks back to Amara. “ . . . we’re seeing a bond that hasn’t stirred in centuries.”