Chapter 21
UNSPOKEN
TWENTY-ONE
A good magics trainer does more than just instruct—they must discern the balance between what a student truly needs and what has become a crutch.
Support is essential, that much is undeniable.
But support takes many forms: sometimes it means ignoring a behavior, sometimes validating a trauma, and other times offering cold, hard truths.
Often, it’s all of the above, offered with intention.
—VALEN’S JOURNAL
AMARA
Iwake slowly the next day. Not to pain—not the sharp, searing kind that haunted my sleep the night before. Just a deep ache, dull and lingering, pulsing faintly through my ribs with every breath.
The air is thick with warmth—the kind that clings on summer nights. The faint scent of embers and steel clings to the air, mixing with the faintest traces of pine from outside.
It’s still dark, the kind that softens everything—edges, shadows, thought—right before sunrise. The kind that holds the world in quiet stillness, where everything is waiting to wake but hasn’t yet.
Summer is still holding strong. Even this early, warmth seeps through the open window, the rustling of leaves barely breaking the stillness.
I shift slightly, and pause.
There’s a weight beside me. A presence. I turn my head, my breath catching.
Thane.
He’s here. In bed next to me.
The dim light of morning filters through the wooden slats of the window, casting a soft glow against his bare shoulders, the long lines of his back. He’s half-turned toward me, one arm resting loosely between us, his breathing deep and even.
I exhale slowly, my body relaxing, the tension I didn’t even realize I’d been holding slipping away. I hadn’t expected him to come back. Not after our fight. Not after the way he’d left, his voice tight, controlled, as if he had been one breath away from breaking something.
But he’s here.
And I am relieved. More than I should be.
I let my eyes trace over him, taking in the new lines of exhaustion beneath his eyes. He hadn’t just come back. He’d stayed beside me.
I shift, careful not to jostle the bed, my ribs still protesting. I watch the way his breathing remains steady. The flicker of light catches on an old scar. Then on the quiet strength of him—the tension that doesn’t quite release, even in sleep.
I think to wake him—but pause. For the first time in days, he looks at peace. And gods help me—I don’t want to take that from him.
Thane shifts beside me, exhaling a slow, steady breath as he turns over, now facing me. For a brief moment, I think he’s waking—his brow furrows slightly, his breathing shifts—but then, just as quickly, he settles back into sleep.
Closer now.
The space between us is small, barely a hand’s width apart. Close enough that I can see the way his lashes fan against his cheekbones, the way his lips part slightly with each steady breath.
I don’t move. I just watch him. He’s always so severe when he’s awake—his jaw locked, his posture rigid, his presence filling any room he steps into like a storm rolling in. But here, like this, he’s just Thane. The sharp edges of him are softer in sleep, his expression unguarded.
The soft light of the approaching dawn casts long shadows across his face, highlighting the strong angles of his cheekbones, the sharp cut of his jaw.
He’s beautiful.
The thought hits me before I can stop it. I exhale softly, letting my gaze linger for just a moment longer. Because when morning comes, when he wakes, when reality settles between us again, this quiet will disappear.
And I’m not ready to let it go yet.
But then something shifts—his body tenses. His breath catches, sharp and sudden, like something pulled him out of sleep without warning. Then, his eyes fly open, sharp, locking onto mine like I startled him.
I still.
He blinks once, his breathing suddenly uneven, his body rigid.
Something flickers across his face—shock, confusion.
His fingers twitch slightly against the sheets, like his body was reacting to something before his mind caught up—something unseen, something I can’t feel.
He shifts, his chest rising and falling too fast now, his eyes scanning over me as if to reassure himself that I’m really here.
I see it then. The conflict. The way his jaw tightens, his expression closing off like he’s already trying to bury whatever just happened.
But then, relief.
His gaze sweeps over me, taking in my face, the steadiness of my breath, the fact that I’m awake and alert.
I open my mouth to ask what’s wrong, but Thane shifts back before I can. He exhales sharply, dragging a hand over his face, and when he looks at me again, the moment is gone.
His expression is back to what it always is—composed, unreadable, like a door closing between us. Whatever just happened, he’s already locking it away, burying it beneath that unshakable mask.
And that unsettles me more than anything else because I thought we were past this. I thought I’d finally start seeing the man beneath the Warlord. But now, staring at him, I realize—he’s still holding back.
Too much has happened and I don’t have the energy for another fight—maybe not even the will. So instead, I just let it go. For now.
Because despite everything—he’s here.
I exhale softly, then smile at him. Small, tired, but real.
I reach for him, fingers brushing against his wrist before sliding into his palm. His hand closes around mine, warm and steady. Then, he lifts it, pressing a soft kiss against my palm.
A breath escapes me, relief settling deep in my chest. His warmth seeps into me, chasing away the remnants of pain, of exhaustion, of everything I don’t have the strength to face right now.
His lips linger just a second longer before he finally lowers our hands back to the bed.
“How are you feeling?” His voice is quiet, rough at the edges.
I let out a slow breath, my fingers still curled around his. “Better.”
Thane gives a small nod, his fingers still wrapped around mine. “That’s good.”
His voice is low, warm, edged with something softer than I’m used to. Then, he smiles—and gods, it does something to me.
Before I can even process it, he exhales, his grip on my hand loosening as he closes his eyes, completely at ease.
I should let him rest—I should be resting.
But I’m not thinking about sleep anymore, because suddenly, all I can think about is him.
The way his bare shoulders shift under the dim light, the way his breathing slows, deep and steady.
The way his hair is slightly tousled. It’s like seeing a rare private side of him.
Need flares through me, low and unrelenting.
Gods. Not now.
Not when I’m still recovering, not when he’s finally letting himself relax, not when—I swallow hard, pressing my lips together. But I need this—I need him—not because I’m healed, but because I need to feel connected to him. To remind myself I’m still here. Still his.
The dull ache in my side flares as I push up, but I ignore it. I know I shouldn’t be moving like this. Shouldn’t be tempting fate. But suddenly, I don’t care.
I shift carefully, bracing myself with one hand against the mattress as I lean over him, careful not to put any weight on him.
He’s still lying there, bare-chested, his skin bathed in the faint, silvery light of early dawn.
Outside, the world is just beginning to wake, the deep blue of night slowly fading into the first traces of sunrise.
A soft, cool glow filters in through the window, casting gentle shadows across his face.
I hover there, breathing him in like oxygen I forgot I needed. Then, I lower myself closer.
My lips graze his collarbone, soft, lingering. Once. Then again. Lower this time. I kiss the spot just above his heart, feeling the slow, steady rhythm beneath my lips. Then lower, across his chest. Down the firm ridges of his stomach, heat sparking through me with every kiss.
He doesn’t move; doesn’t open his eyes. But I feel it—the shift in his breath. The way his muscles coil beneath my mouth, like he’s holding something back.
Then, a groan rumbles out of him—rough, guttural, unmistakable—as his hand seizes my wrist. His thumb presses at the frantic beat of my pulse, tracing once, hesitating . . . as if caught between pulling me back and pulling me closer.
“Amara,” he mutters, voice thick with sleep, strained with something else entirely.
I hum against his skin, kissing just below his navel. His stomach tenses again.
“You’re supposed to be healing,” he rasps, his grip tightening slightly on my wrist. “You need to rest.”
His tone is firm, commanding. But his body tells an entirely different story.
I don’t stop. I won’t. His words barely register, lost beneath the heat curling through me, the way his body responds despite his protests.
I kiss him again. Lower.
And lower still.
I want to feel him unravel. Just a little. Just enough to know I can.
My lips trace over the hard lines of his stomach, the ridges of muscle tensing beneath my touch.
He inhales sharply, his grip on my wrist tightening for a second before loosening, like he’s already losing this battle.
The soft golden light of the creeping sunrise spills streaks across his bare skin. I keep moving down his body. Until I reach the waistband. I pause, my breath warm against his skin.
Thane goes completely still.
I bite the waistband of his drawstring pants, pull, then let the band drop back onto him. Thane gasps, his breath stuttering, his entire body tensing beneath me.
His eyes fly open—burning. Pupils blown wide. For a moment, he just stares at me, his chest rising and falling too fast, too uneven.
Then, his hand is in my hair, gripping just enough to still me.
“Amara.” His voice is rough, nearly wrecked. “You need to rest.”
I meet his gaze, unrelenting.
“I’m fine—feeling pretty good, actually.”
His fingers tighten slightly against my scalp, like he’s trying to keep control of himself.