Chapter 21 #4
He nods slowly, thoughtful. “It bothers you.”
“Of course it bothers me, Valen!”
The words snap out of me before I can stop them.
“Because . . . ” I inhale sharply, pulse edging toward panic. “It’s not fair.”
The word lands wrong. Too soft. Too small. But it’s the truth, and it’s lodged in my chest like a stone.
“If it’s real—if it’s only him—what does that make me?” I shake my head, voice trembling. “I don’t want to be connected to him because of some magics neither of us understand. I want it to be because of—”
I stop. Because I don’t know how to finish that sentence.
Valen doesn’t push. He just watches me, waiting, giving me space to wrestle with something I don’t want to admit.
Finally, my voice comes softer, edged with something raw, unsteady. “And what if I never feel it, Valen?”
His gaze sharpens.
I swallow hard, my fingers curling into the fabric of my pants. “What if this is just him?”
What if he’s feeling something I never will? What if he’s already bound to me in some way—and I will never be able to return it? I shake my head, my pulse too fast, my stomach twisting.
“What if the bond is the only reason he wants me?”
Valen doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. Because the words are already out there, cutting through the air between us like a blade.
I inhale sharply, pressing my palm against my chest, trying to settle something that won’t quiet.
“What if . . . ”
But the words catch. Because I know what I’m about to say. And I know Valen will hear it.
And gods, I don’t want it to be true.
I swallow hard.
“What if, without the bond . . . he wouldn’t have chosen me?”
What if none of this is real?
Valen’s voice is quieter this time. “That’s what’s scaring you?”
I look away, jaw tight. Because yes. That’s exactly it. Because I need to know that what’s between us is real.
My life today is unrecognizable. Sometimes things move so fast I can’t keep up. There’s no time to think. No time to process. I’m still grieving for my parents. But there’s no space for that.
Not with the war coming. Not with the Shadeheart. Not with everything I have to become to stop her.
And gods—I just need one thing that’s real.
Just one.
Valen watches me. Then exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw.
“I don’t know, Amara.”
The honesty in his voice unnerves me. I expected him to have an answer. I expected him to unravel this for me, the way he always does.
I inhale, my pulse unsteady as I press my fingers against my temple.
“So what am I supposed to do with that?”
Valen is quiet for a long moment before he leans forward, bracing himself on his staff—like the weight of my worries is pressing into him too.
“Bonds are strange things.” His voice is even, thoughtful. “Magics might bind your souls, but it doesn’t bind your will.”
I swallow hard, my hands clenching in my lap. “Then explain this. Explain why he feels it and I don’t.”
Valen rubs his thumb against his fingertips—thoughtful, but not comforting. “Maybe it’s something that takes time.”
I shake my head, my throat tightening. “And if I never feel it?”
He exhales through his nose, not quite meeting my eyes. “We’ll have to wait and see.”
The words sink. Heavy. Cold. Final. I bite down on my lower lip, hard—looking away, unwilling to let him see the crack forming. My teeth catch too deep. I taste blood.
Metallic. Sharp. Real.
Valen doesn’t push me to say anything else. He straightens, brushing off his hands.
“We’re done for today. Get some rest.”
I try to push Valen’s words out of my head. I try to pretend they didn’t sink in, didn’t plant something deep inside me that I can’t seem to shake.
Over the next few days, no matter how hard I train; how far I fly; how much I punish myself trying to outrun it—the doubt stays. The seed of uncertainty has already been planted.
And it grows.
Even at night, when I’m with Thane. In his bed, wrapped in his warmth, his scent, the steady rise and fall of his breathing in the dark.
But there’s distance now. Not from him.
From me.
I’m the one who put it there.
And Thane doesn’t question it.
He doesn’t press, doesn’t push, doesn’t demand to know why I keep a fraction more space between us. I don’t know why—maybe it’s because of what he’s still holding back, maybe he sees I’m not ready. Either way, I’m glad for the space.
He just lets me be. He still holds me. Still rests his hand against my back, still runs slow fingers over my arm, still breathes against my skin like he needs the contact.
Is it the bond or him?
I don’t know.
And part of me also doesn’t want to know.
The bond lingers between us like a ghost, unspoken but ever-present. I don’t know if he’s waiting for me to bring it up. Or if he’s waiting for me to feel it.
So we just keep pretending. Pretending this silence doesn’t speak louder than either of us ever could. Again.
“You’re staring.”
I blink, dragged out of my thoughts. Lyra stands beside me, arms crossed, smirking like she knows something I don’t.
I frown. “What?”
“You. Are. Staring.”
I follow her gaze—right to Thane, who stands across the training field, speaking with Garrick.
My shoulders stiffen. “I’m not—”
“You are,” she cuts in smoothly, her grin spreading.
I scowl, crossing my arms. “I was just . . . thinking.”
Lyra tilts her head, studying me with that too-perceptive gaze I’ve never been able to shake.
“About what?”
I shrug, forcing nonchalance.
“Nothing important.”
She hums, unconvinced.
“Hmm. Could’ve fooled me. You’ve got that look.”
I frown. “What look?”
“Like you’re trying to untangle a knot and every time you pull, it just gets tighter.” Lyra lifts a brow, curious. But she’s watching me now—not him. “Everything okay in lovers-ville?”
I bristle instantly. “What?”
She gestures lazily toward Thane. “You guys are being weird. Like you’re together but not together.”
I shake my head, exhaling sharply. “You’re reading too much into it.”
Lyra hums, eyes narrowing as she watches me.
“I don’t think I am.” Her gaze flicks back to me. “The others think you’re just broody because training’s brutal. I know better.”
She sighs. “I’m here when you’re done lying to yourself.”
A beat. Then, softer—real.
“I’ve got you when you’re ready.”
The next day, I still feel the weight of it all.
The outpost training grounds stretch wide, the dirt compacted beneath boots, the scent of fire and sweat thick in the morning air. The sun is still low, casting long shadows against the stone walls.
And today, those shadows are moving.
Valen stands at the edge of the circle, his staff pressed into the dirt, his deep voice steady as he begins the summoning. Today, we’re fighting as a team, practicing how to move together, how to cover each other’s weaknesses.
The air warps, dark tendrils coiling outward, twisting, shifting. The temperature plummets, an unnatural cold seeping into my skin. Then, the first training wraiths take shape. Fellborns.
They flicker, half-formed, slipping between shadow and substance, their bodies twisting unnaturally as they solidify before me. Wraiths. Still only shadows of the real thing.
“You know what to do,” Valen says simply.
I roll my shoulders, exhaling.
I can do this. This is why I train. This is why I push myself. To be ready.
I lunge, fire roaring to life in my palm as I strike first.
The wraiths move fast, twisting, slipping through the flames. But I don’t hesitate. Water follows fire, sharp and cutting. Wind howls, forcing the creatures back. Earth steadies me as I dodge, twisting, maneuvering.
I land a solid blow—a spear of ice straight through one of the Fellborn’s chest. The wraith lets out a distorted screech before dissolving.
I exhale, pushing sweaty hair from my face.
Other Fellborn wraiths move forward. This time, Lyra moves beside me, then Garrick, Jarek, Rian—we move together, fluid, learning each other’s strengths, weaknesses, how to cover gaps, how to trust.
It is grueling. Fast.
And just as I’m finding my rhythm—his presence cuts through everything.
Thane steps in.
We spar together against the wraiths, him beside me, not behind, not leading, just there. Our movements sync incredibly easily. His flames burn hotter than mine. His blade moves like an extension of his will.
I should be watching the wraiths. I should be focused. But for a brief second, I see something else I maybe didn’t notice before.
Something in the way he moves. The way his steps shift slightly toward me, covering my blind spot without thinking. The way his blade angles—not just to kill, but to protect. The way his fire never strays too close to me, but instead surrounds me, shielding.
I feel it then. The weight of his protection. Of something unspoken threading between us.
The thought hits me hard—too hard.
I’m distracted, and I falter.
One of the wraiths lunge towards me. Thane moves first.
His arm catches my waist, yanking me back, his blade slicing clean through the creature before it can reach me. The wraith vanishes.
And for a moment, I am pressed against his chest, breathless. His hand lingers. Just for a second. Just long enough that I feel the tension in his grip. The restraint. The fire simmering just beneath the surface.
Just long enough that I remember the way he looked at me after the Kethraki attacked Calryx and me. After I returned. After he told me I wasn’t allowed to fly alone.
Is that the bond? Is this what he’s been feeling? I felt something, but I am just not sure what that was.
But then—his jaw tightens. His fingers flex—then he lets go. Steps back. Composes himself. Like nothing happened.
“Focus,” he says, his voice rougher than before.
And just like that—the moment is gone.
A few days later, we take our training to the skies.
Xaroth and Calryx fly side by side, Kethraki wraiths forming in the clouds, summoned by Valen.
We dive. We twist. We fight.
But this time, I notice.
Every time a wraith lunges at me, Xaroth is already moving—before Calryx can react. Every time I break formation, Thane shifts—seamless and certain. Every time I take a risk, he curses under his breath—adjusting, covering, shielding.
At first, it seems like instinct.
But then I realize—it’s not.
He’s reading me—but not just in the way a warrior reads a partner in battle. And we’ve only just started training like this together. I may be new to this world of war and infantry formations, but even I know—this isn’t normal.
We haven’t had the time. No years of practice. No long, shared history of moving in sync. And yet . . . he’s there.
Every time.
Deeper. Quieter. More precise.
Like he knows what I’m going to do before I do. The way he watches me. The way he moves around me. The way his fire is never reckless, only protective—always curling just short of me. Never touching. Only guarding.
That night, I sit by a lone fire with Calryx. My friends are giving me space. They know something’s off—but I don’t have the words yet. Not for them. Not even for myself.
So I am here, with my dragon.
Calryx shifts beside me, the heat of her body grounding, steady. Her mind brushes gently against mine.
“You saw it today,” she says simply.
I exhale, rubbing a hand over my face.
“I saw something. I just don’t know what it meant.”
She huffs. “It was significant. I have been around for more than a century. I know.”
I say nothing. Because when a dragon says they know, they know.
She lowers her head beside me, her breath stirring the loose strands of hair framing my face. “You do not see it clearly yet. But it is already there.”
I press my lips into a thin line, staring into the flames. Because part of me already knows. And that knowing—that silent, creeping truth—scares me more than I want to admit.