Chapter 22
THE SPACE BETWEEN
TWENTY-TWO
We are out of time. The tension across the realm is palpable. We must get our soldiers battle ready, even if that means cutting some corners in our training regime.”
—VALEN’S JOURNAL
AMARA
The morning sun hangs low, burning orange against the horizon, casting long shadows over the training grounds. The air is thick with the scent of sweat, dirt, and steel, the clash of weapons ringing sharp against the stone walls of the outpost.
This is war preparation. The outpost has changed. The shift is impossible to ignore these last few days. There have been more Shadow Force attacks around the realm. What was once a place to train and regroup now feels like a battlefield. There are no more safe spaces.
The barracks aren’t for sleeping anymore.
They’re barricaded. Armored. Transformed.
Repurposed to include strategy halls, weapons storage.
The medical wing has expanded to allow for more beds for the wounded.
We’ve been informed that the enchantments will only protect against major injuries and death now that we are training for war.
Even the landscape has been reshaped. The once flat, open training field is unrecognizable—now a maze of trenches and ditches, forcing us to fight on uneven ground.
Elevated stone ridges have been built—not just for dragon landings, but for strategic positioning.
Some areas are intentionally flooded after rain, forcing us to learn to fight in wet, slippery terrain.
And there is no such thing as an idle moment.
At dawn, the outpost is already alive with the clash of steel, the crackling of fire magics, the rush of wind against stone. Even at night, patrols run drills, keeping watch, as if the enemy could arrive at any moment. Because we know they will, at any moment.
Sparring circles are gone. Now, the entire outpost is our battlefield.
One day, we fight in the forests, weaving between trees, maneuvering through shadows. The next, we fight on rocky terrain, where loose gravel shifts beneath our boots, where footing is as dangerous as the opponent in front of us.
The enemy is no longer just summoned wraiths.
Valen, with the help of the other sages, calls forth entire training armies, shadow versions of the real thing.
Some days, it’s one-on-one duels—brutal, unrelenting.
Other days, it’s team battles, forcing us to fight in pairs, to cover each other’s weaknesses. And sometimes—it’s full skirmishes.
Chaos. No sides, no structure, just survival.
The sages don’t let us settle. If we get comfortable, they change the rules. If we start to anticipate, they shift the battlefield. They do not hold back. Because the Shadow Forces won’t.
Our endurance is tested while wielding our magics.
Fire wielders learn to control flames in the wind, in rain, on soaked ground.
Wind wielders learn to use the air to evade, to conceal movement, to strike at unexpected angles.
Earth wielders reinforce, stabilize, turn the terrain itself into a weapon, under every condition.
Water wielders must fight without water, must learn to adapt, to call moisture from the very air.
To survive when their greatest strength is taken from them. Adapt not just to survive, but to win.
Training no longer follows a schedule.
No warnings are given for when the next mock fight will begin—we could be in the middle of sleeping or eating. Some battles last minutes. Others stretch for hours. We are thrown into them without preparation.
We fight with magics, weapons, and our bodies.
If a blade breaks, we pick up another. If we fall, we get back up. Bruised ribs don’t matter. Vomiting mid-fight doesn’t matter.
You keep going.
The only way to succeed is together. We trust each other; adapt together, fight as one.
During one of the mock fighting sessions, I stand to take a break, sword in hand, sweat dripping down my back. I roll my shoulders, regripping the hilt of my blade.
The end of Valen’s staff beats into the ground, his voice steady. Controlled.
“Again.”
The shadows rise. Fellborn wraiths emerge, twisting into shape, their hollow eyes locking onto me. I flick my wrist—fire arcs toward the nearest one. The flames strike, but the creature shifts, dodging effortlessly.
Another lunges, fast and vicious. I twist, counter, my blade slicing through its form as Lyra moves in beside me. We fight like we’ve done this a hundred times, knowing each other’s moves before they happen.
But something’s off. Different.
I shift my weight—just beginning to move—but Thane reacts first. He’s meant to be training with the others. But he’s already moving.
The wraith lunges, and my blade swings wide. Thane doesn’t even think. His fire—faster, instinctive—hits before I even react. His blade cuts through the wraith before I can even lift my hand.
I stumble back, breathless, heart hammering. And when I turn—I see the look on Lyra’s face.
“Huh,” she says.
Eyes narrowed. Voice light. Too light. Her gaze flicks between me and Thane.
“Interesting.”
I wipe sweat from my brow. “What?”
Lyra grins. “Oh, nothing. Just pretty sure he moved like he felt you about to get your ass handed to you.”
I open my mouth, then close it. Because . . . I noticed it too. But I try to brush it off. Maybe we both imagined it. We reset, returning to our positions.
The next round, it’s just Thane and me. One-on-one.
Which means I have nowhere to hide. Nowhere to pretend I don’t feel the way his movements shift around me, the way he keeps adjusting—not just fighting me, but protecting me.
I grit my teeth, shoving the thought away.
The fight begins.
He lunges first—fast—his blade sparking against mine. I block, sidestep, swing wide—but he sees it coming. Lately, he always sees it coming.
Fuck!
I barely deflect his next strike, fire flickering in my palms as I twist out of the way. I think I have him. I think I’m fast enough. I think—
But he moves faster. The next thing I know, I’m on my back, my sword out of reach, his forearm pressed against my collarbone, pinning me down.
“You’re reckless.” His voice is sharp, his breath uneven.
I shove against him, scowling. “You’re being dramatic.”
His jaw clenches. “Do you think the Shadow Forces care about your arrogance?” His voice is sharp, biting. “You almost died in the sky, and now you want to act like you don’t need to adjust? That you don’t need to be smarter?”
What the fuck?! He’s coming at me like I haven’t bled for this!
This is a training session. I’m training. It’s only been months—months—since I stepped into this world. Since I took on the weight of the Spiritborn.
I’ve been carrying this for months. Fighting every godsdamn day just to keep up. And he wants more?
But I don’t say this to him. Instead, I glare up at him, breath coming fast, heart pounding beneath his weight.
“I don’t need you to save me every damn time, Thane.”
His eyes flash. “Then stop making me have to.”
Thane yanks back suddenly as if he just touched a hot stove, jaw tight, hands clenched at his sides. He doesn’t say another word—just turns and walks away, stalking toward Garrick and the others waiting at the edge of the field.
“Thane!” I shout after him, furious.
But he doesn’t even break his stride.
My lips press together—tight, trembling—because he is still the Warlord. And the men and women around us? They’re still his soldiers.
But by all the Elemental Gods—I want to tell him to fuck off.
I close my eyes. Breathe in the grit. The heat. The insult.
Then open them again, jaw clenched so tight it aches.
Valen steps forward, staff in hand, eyes on me. That too-knowing look on his face. The one that sees too much. He doesn’t speak for a long moment. Then, simply—
“Again.”
I barely have time to catch my breath before he lifts his staff, summoning more wraiths. Too many to track. Too fast to think.
I stumble back, blinking.
“Valen—”
His voice is calm. Unshaken.
“You want to ignore the fact that when you hesitate, he moves before you even think to? That when you get injured, he feels it? That when you get reckless, he comes undone?”
I suck in a breath. The wraiths advance.
Valen lifts his chin. “Then prove me wrong.”
I throw myself into the fight. Furious. Desperate. I strike, I weave, I wield. And then, one of them gets through. Not bad. Not deep. But it happens.
And across the field, Thane flinches.
He actually flinches.
He’s sparring with Garrick, their blades locked. But for half a second—he hesitates. His body reacts before his mind does. Before he even sees the wound.
And that’s when I know. When I finally—truly—see it.
I can’t pretend this bond isn’t real, that it doesn’t connect us in ways I can’t possibly understand or define. Because Thane isn’t seeing my movements before they happen.
He’s feeling them. Through the bond.
Holy hell.
The training session ends.
The wraiths vanish.
The dust settles.
The bruises begin to bloom.
And I pretend.
I pretend Thane didn’t flinch the moment my blade arm was hit. Pretend he didn’t move like he felt it—not saw it. Pretend Valen wasn’t watching him like he always knew this moment was coming. Pretend Lyra wasn’t watching—her sharp green eyes narrowed, committing every second to memory.
Because even though I’ve seen it with my own eyes, I still can’t accept it. I can’t accept that there’s one more force dictating how my life is going to go. One more thing stolen from my choosing.
I can’t accept that the one person I’ve fallen for—the one person in this new world who truly sees me—is now bound to me not because he chose to, but because the gods decided he should.
I ignore Thane’s stare as I push damp hair from my face, refusing to acknowledge the sting of my wound. Refusing to acknowledge him. Even though I can feel his eyes burning into my back.