Chapter 22 #4
I lay on my back, staring up at the wooden beams of the ceiling, my arms folded beneath my head, my mind refusing to be silent. My body is exhausted—muscles aching from training, from pushing myself too hard, from the bruises I keep pretending don’t matter.
I close my eyes but my mind won’t stop. Because today, everything changed. Because today, Thane moved before I did. Because today, I finally understood what I’ve been running from.
A warmth flickers at the edges of my mind, steady, grounding. Then, a voice—low, wise, knowing.
“You finally understand.”
I suck in a sharp breath, my eyes snapping open. “Calryx.”
“I have known all along, Virelya.”
She sounds pleased. Amused. Like she has been waiting for me to get here.
I exhale slowly, pressing a hand against my chest, against the ache I don’t want to name. “Then why didn’t you tell me?”
Her voice hums through my thoughts, warm and ancient. “Because it was never my place to tell you. You had to see it for yourself.”
I shut my eyes again, swallowing hard. “I don’t want another weight I can’t carry.”
A soft rumble echoes through the bond, gentle but firm. “Resisting changes nothing.”
I let out a ragged breath, fingers curling into the blanket beneath me. “I don’t know how to hold this.”
Calryx is quiet for a long moment.
Then, “You already are.”
The next morning, I know what I have to do, even though I have a pit in my stomach.
The sun is just beginning to rise, casting the outpost in soft, golden light. The air is sharper than it should be for summer—cool against my skin. The ground gives slightly beneath my boots.
Most of the outpost is still quiet—soldiers just beginning to stir, the smell of brewing tea filling the air. I should be in the barracks, stretching out my muscles, preparing for the day’s training sessions.
But instead—I’m here. Looking for him.
Thane is always an early riser, usually up before the rest of the outpost even blinks awake. And I have a feeling I know exactly where he is.
I find him sitting beneath my oak tree, just beyond the edge of the training grounds.
Alone.
His back against the rough bark, one knee bent, his forearm resting lazily over it. His sword is beside him, the hilt tilted against his leg, always within reach. But for once—he isn’t tense. For once—he looks still.
Even from this distance, I see the way morning light catches in his storm-gray eyes, turning them to liquid silver. His dark hair is tousled from the wind, strands falling into his face. The sharp lines of his jaw are shadowed with stubble, his lips soft, pensive.
He looks . . . tired. Not physically. He never lets himself falter in that way. But it’s there—in the way his shoulders rest heavier than usual. In the way his fingers absently trace the hilt of his sword, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
And I realize, in this quiet moment, that I have been so focused on my own anger, my own fears, my own resistance, that I never stopped to think about what this has been like for him. He has never questioned it. Never denied it. Even when I tried to fight it, he stayed steady.
Thane never left. Even when I gave him every reason to.
And suddenly, guilt and shame wash over me.
I exhale, forcing myself forward, stepping closer.
His eyes flick to me immediately, sharp, assessing. But he doesn’t tense. He just watches, waiting.
I lower myself to sit beside him, the earth cool beneath my palms, my heart hammering against my ribs.
For a moment, neither of us speak.
Then—softly, barely above a whisper—”I’m sorry.”
His brow pinches, barely perceptible. “For what?”
I let out a breath, running my fingers over my knee, steadying myself.
“For—”
I hesitate. How do I even begin?
“For fighting this. For blaming you. For—” I shake my head.
“I was so angry that I never had a choice in any of this. I kept telling myself none of this was mine to choose. That everything was happening to me. And I think I . . . ” I swallow hard.
“I took it out on you. And I hated myself for it, even while I did it.”
His jaw tightens. He looks away—thinking. When he finally does, his voice is quieter than I expected.
“I understand.”
I blink. “You do?”
He nods once, slowly.
“I know what it’s like to have your entire life mapped out before you ever had a chance to choose. I know what it’s like to carry something you never asked for.” His gaze meets mine, steady, unshaken. “I know what it’s like to wish, just for a moment, that it wasn’t you.”
I watch him. This man who has carried more than the realm will ever see. Who has stood beside me, unwavering, even when I tried to push him away.
And something inside me . . . softens.
Thane.
The man who has never left.
For the first time since all of this bond business started, I truly stop resisting. I reach out, fingers brushing over the back of his hand.
A quiet touch. A thank you. A peace offering.
He stares at our hands for a long moment. Then—slowly, deliberately—he turns his palm, letting our fingers thread together. And it feels like something shifting into place. Like it belonged there all along—but I only just noticed.
We stay there, side by side, beneath the old oak tree, fingers intertwined, the silence stretching between us like something fragile. Something unspoken.
The morning air begins to warm. A breeze stirs the loose strands of my braid. From the training grounds, the scent of damp earth and smoldering embers drifts toward us.
Thane doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away. He just sits there, steady as ever, the warmth of his hand deeply reassuring.
For the first time since arriving at the outpost, I stop thinking about the war, the prophecy, the training, the weight of everything pressing down on me. For the first time, I let myself just exist. With him.
Then—it happens.
A faint, quiet pull in my chest. Not painful. Not overwhelming. Just—there. Undeniable. Like a second heartbeat—familiar, but not mine. A thread of warmth winding through my ribs, curling around something deep inside me.
I tense, inhaling sharply. Thane notices instantly. His grip on my hand tightens, because he felt it too.
I turn my head slowly, meeting his gaze. Smoke-gray eyes. Sharp. Watchful.
Thane tilts his head slightly, his voice low, rough. “You felt it too.”
Not a question—a statement.
I swallow hard.
“Is that . . . the bond?” My voice comes out quiet, unsteady. “Is that what you’ve been feeling these past few days?”
I search his eyes, something fragile rising in my chest.
“It felt like something pulling here—” I press my free hand to my chest. “And then . . . something beating next to my heart.”
Thane nods slowly, his eyes widening, but he doesn’t let go of my hand.
And after everything—after all the doubt, the tension, the rollercoaster of emotions I’ve been trapped in these past few days—the first thing that rises to the surface is . . . relief.
Relief.
Not joy. Not certainty. Just this deep, steady exhale I didn’t know I’d been holding. Because I can feel it, too. It’s not just him. It’s not just for Thane.
Me.
I feel it too. And I didn’t realize until this moment—how much I needed that. Not the bond itself. Not the magics. Not what it means for the prophecy.
But what it means for me. For us.
I didn’t realize how adrift I’ve felt since the attack. Since I lost my family. Since my world shattered and rebuilt itself without asking if I was ready.
But now . . . I’m truly not alone in this. And for the first time, that tether—the one that scared me so much—doesn’t feel like a chain. It feels like home.
But when I turn to Thane, smiling—expecting to find even a flicker of the relief I feel reflected back at me—I don’t. His face has gone ghostly pale. His jaw locked. Shoulders tense. Rigid.
Like someone just ripped the ground out from beneath him.
“Thane?” I ask, tentatively. “Everything okay?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares straight ahead, his features frozen, unreadable.
Then, his expression shifts. That mask of control slides back into place. And just like that, my heart drops.
Quietly, deliberately, Thane lets go of my hand.
The cold rushes in immediately, and I hate how much I notice it. He rises, stretching slightly, rolling his shoulders—the movement controlled, practiced, like nothing happened at all. Then, finally, he looks down at me.
“Come on.”
His voice is back to what it always is—steady, unreadable, just out of reach.
I blink up at him, confused by the sudden shift in the air. “Where?”
He tilts his head toward the mess hall. “You should go eat breakfast.”
I press my palms against the cool grass, inhaling deeply before pushing to my feet. Thane is already a few paces ahead, but he pauses just before entering the main outpost gates, glancing back at me.
For a moment, his gaze drops to my hand—like he’s considering taking it again. Then—he looks away.
I watch him walk off without another word. The warmth fading, the silence deafening. I stand there, hand still hanging by my side, like he might come back for it.
But he doesn’t.
And all I can think is: What the fuck just happened?
By the time breakfast ends, the outpost hums with routine.
The smell of fire-roasted bread and strong black tea lingers in the crisp air, mixing with the scent of damp earth and steel.
Soldiers move through the outpost in organized motions—some preparing for patrol, others sharpening weapons or checking gear.
Thane didn’t eat breakfast with me. He said something about meeting with Captain Elaris to go over a few things.
I hadn’t been in much of a mood to eat—or talk—when I sat with my friends.
Lyra eyed me warily, while Fenric, Taila, Nessa, and Darius spoke animatedly around us, laughing in bursts that felt too loud, too far away.