Chapter 20 #5
I shift slightly, testing my body, trying to assess how much strength I have left. The pain is there, but it’s dull now. Manageable.
“Thane—”
“You screamed.”
The words strike like a blade, sharp and unyielding. I go still.
Thane’s expression doesn’t change—stone-cold, unreadable. But his fingers tighten where they rest against his biceps, a fleeting crack in his control.
“You screamed,” he says again, quieter this time. “During the healing.”
I don’t remember that. But I don’t doubt it. I try to shrug, but the movement pulls at my ribs. “Healing isn’t exactly pleasant.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “It wasn’t just pain.”
I hesitate. Because he’s right. I didn’t just feel the wound—I felt the battle again.
The cold sting of the Kethraki’s claws. The heat of my own blood spilling down my skin.
The desperation of those last few moments in the air, the sheer force of will it took to hold on, to not let the darkness pull me under.
But what good does it do to say that? Telling him won’t help. It’ll only make him more upset.
“It’s over,” I say again. “I’m fine now.”
Thane’s jaw flexes again, a silent warning. The tension in the room thickens, pressing in like a storm about to break.
He doesn’t believe me. He doesn’t say it. Doesn’t argue. But the way he stands—rigid, unyielding—the way his hands drop to his sides, fingers curling into fists like he’s battling something unseen—tells me everything.
Silence stretches between us. Thane is the first to break it. And when he speaks, his voice is low, edged with steel.
“You don’t fly alone again.”
I freeze.
I was expecting anger, maybe even a reprimand, but not a command. Not this stripped-down demand that makes my stomach twist.
I push myself up onto my elbows, wincing sharply as the movement pulls at my ribs. “Thane—”
“No.” His voice cuts through the space between us. “You don’t fly alone. Not now. Not ever.”
I clench my teeth, forcing myself to sit up fully. The effort leaves me breathless, my limbs sluggish, the ache spreading deeper.
Calryx shifts in the back of my mind, her voice rumbles through me, sharp and indignant.
“The Warlord does not tell dragons what they can and cannot do. If I choose to fly with my rider alone, I will.” Her irritation flares, curling around my thoughts like smoke. “He may command armies, but he does not command me.”
I press a hand to my side, steadying myself before I speak. “That’s not your decision to make—for either of us.”
His eyes flash, darkening. “The hell it isn’t.”
His words are sharp, biting.
“You don’t control me, Thane.”
“I control what keeps this realm from falling apart,” he snaps. “If you fall, the rest follows. Don’t you get that? If you die—if they take you—I will not be able to stop what comes next.
My breath hitches, but I square my shoulders, pushing past the deep, throbbing ache, past the exhaustion weighing me down like iron. I force my voice to stay steady.
“I’m still here, Thane.”
Thane’s expression darkens, his fingers tensing at his sides, flexing like he’s barely holding something back. “You think you didn’t almost die?”
The sharpness of his voice knocks the breath from my lungs. I hesitate, thrown by the rawness of it.
“You weren’t there.” The words slip out before I can stop them.
I shouldn’t have said it. But it’s already in the air, and I can’t take it back.
His entire body goes rigid. For a moment—just a moment—I think I’ve won. Then, he moves.
His hand grips my arm—not painfully, but firm enough that I feel the heat of his skin through the blanket covering me.
“I wasn’t there,” he says, voice dangerously quiet. “But I felt it.”
I stop breathing. Felt what? Felt the fight? The magics? The moment the winged creatures surrounded me?
What in the gods’ name?!
Thane’s jaw clenches, his grip loosening, like he realizes he’s too close—losing this fight; losing himself.
He exhales sharply, dropping my arm and stepping back.
The outpost buzzes with movement outside—soldiers moving, steel clashing, voices barking orders.
But the only war that matters right now is the one happening between Thane and me.
His jaw is tight, his stance rigid, his smoke-gray eyes burning with barely restrained fury.
“You don’t fly alone.”
The words hang between us, heavy, final, settling over me like a chain I refuse to wear.
I press my hands against the blanket. Gather what little strength I have left and force myself upright even as my body protests.
“You don’t get to decide where I go, when I fight, when I fly! You don’t get to tell me what to do!”
His gaze sharpens, his hands flexing at his sides like he’s physically holding himself back. “That’s not what I am doing.”
“No?!” I throw my arms out. Frustration rips through me like a wound reopening.
I wince as the pain bites down.
“Then what exactly is it about?! Because all I’m hearing is that you think I need permission to move, to fight, to breathe—”
“You think this is about you being the Spiritborn?!” he snaps, his voice suddenly sharp, like flint striking steel.
My breath catches, thrown off by the force of it.
“Yes,” I spit. “It is about me! I’m the Spiritborn! I’m the one meant to stop the Shadow Forces, the one meant to end this war, and you—” I push forward as much as I can, glaring up at him. “You just want to keep me under your control like I’m some kind of weapon you can wield!”
His breathing is steady, too steady, like he’s trying to keep something locked down. His smoke-gray eyes don’t waver, don’t soften, don’t give me anything. But I see the way his fingers flex at his sides. Like he wants to grab and shake me.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, his voice drops lower. Steadier. Dangerous in its restraint.
“You don’t fly alone.”
The words are quieter this time, but they sink deeper, threading through my ribs like something cold.
“You don’t get to decide that,” I spit out.
“I do.” His voice hardens. “I’m the commander. If they attack you again, there won’t be a realm left to save.”
I barely hear him—I’m too caught up in my own frustration, my own anger, my own need to be seen as something more than this prophecy, more than the expectations they’ve all forced onto me. I shake my head, pushing myself not to let exhaustion take over.
“You think this war stops if something happens to me?” I scoff. “You think the world just crumbles if I fall?”
His eyes flash, something dark passing through them so fast I almost miss it.
“Yes.”
The answer hits me like a blow. Because he says it with the kind of certainty that terrifies me.
His jaw clenches, his grip tightening at his sides.
I expect him to keep fighting me on this, to argue, to demand compliance, but instead, he exhales sharply, turns on his heel, and strides toward the door.
Over his shoulder, his voice is tight and controlled, he says, “Get some rest.”
I glare at his retreating back.
The room feels too quiet after Thane leaves, the air thick with everything he didn’t say.
I exhale, pressing my palms against the blanket, forcing myself to sit up more even though my body protests.
The exhaustion is deep. Not just from the fight, not just from the healing. From him. From the way he looked at me. From the certainty in his voice when he said the world would fall if I did.
The absolute. Infuriating. Thick-headed. Bastard.
The door swings open and Lyra strides in, arms crossed, an amused smirk tugging at her lips.
“I was trying to give you two some time once you woke up,” she says. “But I figured I should step in before you two actually killed each other.”
I sigh at her. “You heard the yelling.”
She shrugs. “The whole damn outpost heard the yelling.”
I let out a frustrated breath, dragging a hand down my face. “Then you already know why I’m upset.”
Lyra raises an eyebrow and drops into the chair Thane vacated like she owns it.
“I do.” Lyra sighs, glancing toward the door. “The others wanted to come. But . . . ” Her lips quirk, a little wry, a little fond. “Most people don’t just stroll into the Warlord’s quarters unless they want to lose a limb. Or dignity.” She shrugs. “Figured I’d take my chances.”
Then, quieter: “They were scared, Amara. We all were.” She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her gaze level, unwavering. “And by the way, you’re a godsdamned idiot.”
I blink at her. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
Lyra watches me for a long moment, all smirking gone. “You think he’s trying to control you, but you’re wrong.” Her voice isn’t teasing anymore. “Thane isn’t afraid of losing the realm, Amara. He’s afraid of losing you, dumbass.”
She doesn’t yell, but her words cut, quiet and clean, right between the ribs.
I open my mouth—then close it. Because—because I know he cares. I’ve always known that. But I was so focused on proving myself, on proving that I could handle this, that I didn’t stop to see it for what it really was. The realization knocks the breath from my lungs.
I press my lips together, staring at the lantern light flickering across the ceiling, chasing shadows along the wooden beams. I don’t know what to say. And for once—Lyra lets me sit in the silence. For all her teasing, all her sharp edges, she doesn’t push me this time.
She sees something in my face—something fragile. And she softens.
Her eyes hold mine, unwavering. “Stop trying to prove it.”
I frown. “Prove what?”
Her voice stays calm, but there’s an edge to it now. “That you deserve to be here. That you’re strong enough, capable enough, worthy enough. We know, Amara. We’ve always known.”
At some point, sleep pulls me under. I wake to the soft scrape of a chair against the floor. The lantern is burning lower, the shadows in the room deeper. I shift, blinking through the haze of sleep. My body aches, but it’s a dull ache now, not the sharp fire from before.
Lyra is gone, and in her place, Valen sits at my bedside, watching me with that knowing expression of his. “Good,” he says simply. “You’re awake.”