Chapter 23 #3
I can’t tell them. If I do, everyone’s at risk.
I rake a hand through my hair. At least Garrick’s at the stables. He’d side with Jarek—I’ve seen it in his silence these past days.
“We don’t have time for this,” I say, but my voice lacks bite.
Jarek laughs bitterly. I don’t blame him. This is what I respect most about Jarek—his sense of right and wrong. He doesn’t waver. Doesn’t bullshit. When things get messy, he dives in and fixes it.
Rian exhales slowly. “Amara’s magics have been all over the place the last few days. Everything she’s worked for these past months—gone.”
Shit.
The last thing I wanted was for Amara to unravel like this.
Guilt presses against my ribs. All it did was leave her unraveling—and doubting herself because of me. I close my eyes, just for a breath. I see her under the oak tree. The moment she smiled—when I should’ve told her everything. The moment she felt this bloody bond.
Rian places a firm hand on my shoulder—the weight of it grounding. He always knows how to cut through the noise.
I meet his gaze—deep blue, vast as the ocean.
“I’ll speak to her,” I promise.
Jarek exhales, shoulders sagging—but the tension in his face says he’s not done with me. Rian nods once, then guides him away before he can bite my head off again.
AMARA
The tavern is packed that evening—shoulder to shoulder with soldiers and villagers, the air thick with heat, smoke, and too many voices trying to be louder than the others.
Tankards clash. Someone yells. Laughter cuts through a half-formed brawl in the corner. The scent of roasted meat and stale ale clings to everything.
Sconces flicker along the stone walls, casting uneven gold across the floorboards and the scuffed edges of the table where my friends and I are currently sitting, elbows deep in our third—or maybe fourth—round.
Darius is arguing with Taila about something he’ll forget by morning. Nessa and Fenric are already deep into a drinking game; neither of them will win.
I’ve stopped keeping track. Of the drinks. Of the noise. Of the reasons I shouldn’t be here.
Because tonight, I’m not the Spiritborn. Tonight, I’m just Amara. A girl with a drink in her hand and her friends surrounding her, trying to outrun the sound of everything she’s afraid to admit.
And gods, I needed this.
Lyra raises her tankard, grinning wide. “This was the best idea I’ve had in weeks!”
I snort, swirling the amber liquid in my cup. “I don’t even remember agreeing to this.”
She clinks her drink against mine. “That’s because you didn’t. I dragged you here.”
I arch a brow. “So this was a kidnapping?”
Fenric nearly spits out his beer. Darius stares at him, wide-eyed, with concern.
Lyra takes a long, satisfied sip, then slams her tankard down on the table. “A rescue.”
Taila and Nessa lift their glasses without missing a beat. “To the rescue!”
We all clink together. The sound is uneven, loud, too much—exactly what I needed.
I laugh. A real laugh.
Loud, unfiltered. The kind that cracks something open. I don’t care if it’s the drinks. Or the exhaustion. Or the fact that for the first time in weeks, I feel like someone other than the Spiritborn.
I smirk, angling my head toward Lyra. “And what exactly were you rescuing me from?”
Lyra leans back against the chair, eyeing me with that too-knowing stare. “Oh, I don’t know. The weight of the entire fucking realm on your shoulders? The fact that you’ve been training like a woman possessed?”
She pauses—smirking. Her glittering eyes go sharp. And then she lands it.
“Or maybe . . . because you miss him. Bond or no bond.”
I still.
She says it casually. Quiet. But it splits me open.
The tavern doesn’t go quiet. I just stop hearing it. I force a smirk. Tip my drink back like I didn’t just flinch.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Lyra clicks her tongue, shaking her head. “Oh, sweet, delusional Mara. You are so full of shit.”
Fenric props his chin on the table, grinning. “Okay. This I want to hear.”
And then it happens—they all go still. Taila. Nessa. Darius. Watching me. Waiting.
My chest tightens. I slam my cup down. The sound cracks across the table.
“Fine.” My voice is louder than I mean it to be. “You want to talk about it?”
I meet Lyra’s eyes, jaw clenched. “Let’s fucking talk about it.”
Lyra’s grin is slow and triumphant. “Please, let’s.”
I rake a hand through my hair. And then—the words are just there.
“I’ve spent most of life being told what I am. Who I’m supposed to be. Before the prophecies, I was supposed to be a farmer’s wife.”
I laugh once—dry and sharp.
“Marry some boy from the village. Have babies. Grow old in the same house my parents did. Then someone calls me the Spiritborn. Says this is my destiny. And suddenly I belong to the realm.”
I pause. The heat rises in my throat.
“And now—” I shake my head, exhale hard. “Now I finally have something. Someone. That felt like mine. Because I wanted it. I chose . . . or at least I thought so.”
I glance up. All of them watching. No one says a word.
“So how am I supposed to trust it? How am I supposed to believe he wasn’t chosen for me like everything else in this godsdamned life? I’ve lost so much. And I’m stuck in it.”
The words scrape out of me. Sharp. Bare. Raw.
“My parents. My home.”
I swallow. Hard. And it burns.
“And now—after all the training. All the fighting. All the running . . . I’m supposed to let myself care about someone like him?” I look up, eyes burning. “Not just care, but feel everything—because of this bond? Someone who could—”
The rest catches in my throat. To sharp to finish.
Lyra doesn’t look away. “Someone who could die.”
Taila reaches across the table and places her hand over mine. Nessa’s eyes shine—but she doesn’t speak. She just listens.
My voice cracks. “Another person who could be taken from me. And I don’t know if I’d survive that. Not again.”
The words scrape out, too soft and too sharp. My chest aches with the memory of the last time I saw my parents and didn’t get to say goodbye.
Darius reaches across, fingers curling around my wrist. His hand anchors me. “You’re allowed to be afraid, Amara.”
I let out a breath. Ragged. Unsteady. “I don’t know how to carry this.”
Nessa tilts her head, watching me. “But Amara . . . you already are.”
I let out a rough breath, rubbing my fingers over my temple. “Gods. First Calryx, now all of you?”
Lyra snickers. “Your dragon is wise. You should listen to her.”
“She’s also a smug pain in my ass.”
Lyra raises a brow. “Sounds familiar.”
Fenric snorts. Darius elbows him in the ribs and Fenric yelps.
I glare at Lyra. She smirks. Taps her glass. Takes another drink.
The noise around us swells again. But I just sit there. The weight pushing in behind my eyes, behind my ribs.
“I’m so tired,” I whisper.
The words hang in the air.
No one laughs this time. Then—Fenric, softly: “Then stop fighting it, sweetheart.”
I blink. Because it’s so simple. And somehow—it’s exactly what I needed to hear.
I stare down at the table, fingers trailing the rim of my cup. No one pushes. No one fills the silence. They just wait.
And gods, it’s such a relief—to not have to pretend anymore.
“I’ve been holding everything so tightly,” I say, voice low. “Like if I let go for even a second, I’ll fall apart.”
My eyes sting, but I don’t look up.
“I’m tired of pretending I don’t care. I’m tired of pretending it doesn’t hurt. And I’m tired of being the only one trying to carry it all.”
A breath I didn’t know I was holding slips out of me. A release. A surrender.
I glance at Lyra. She doesn’t smirk this time, only nods. Like she’s been waiting for me to say it. Lyra sets her cup down, the motion slow.
“You keep acting like if you let yourself feel this—if you let yourself have this—it’ll make you weak.” Her eyes shine, never leaving mine. “But what if it makes you stronger?”
They all nod, not one of them surprised. Like they’ve all known long before I let myself see it.
I exhale, shaking my head. “I don’t think anything about Thane and me is simple, guys.”
Lyra grins. “Oh, we know. That’s what makes it fun.”
I groan, rubbing my hands over my face. “I hate you.”
Lyra raises her cup. “You love me.”
I grumble, but don’t argue. Because she’s right. Again.
I raise my drink, clinking it against hers. “Fine. To . . . whatever this is.”
Lyra smirks. “To admitting things you don’t want to admit.”
“To admitting things you don’t want to admit!” Everyone echoes.
Fenric leans in, grinning. “So many innuendos in that toast. Gods bless you, Lyra.”
We all burst out laughing. Ale sprays across the table from at least two of my friends’ mouths. One mug hits the ground and shatters.
I down the rest of my drink in one swig. It burns.
But it’s the first thing all day that doesn’t feel heavy.
The night air is cool, biting against my overheated skin as Lyra and I stumble our way back toward the barracks. She insisted I needed to sleep it off.
I didn’t argue.
The cobblestones tilt under my feet. Or maybe that’s just me.
Lyra’s arm is looped through mine. How she’s still upright after everything we drank is a mystery I’m too drunk to solve.
We’re giggling about something, but I have no idea what.
The world blurs at the edges. My limbs are heavy. My brain is foggy. And for once, I don’t care. Because tonight—I wasn’t the Spiritborn. I was just Amara.
Then Lyra stops short.
I blink. Look up.
She’s staring at something. Someone.
Thane.
Torchlight flickers across his face. He stands in the shadows—arms crossed, eyes fixed on me, with that typical unreadable expression on his face.
I freeze.
Shit.
Of course he’s back. Right now. Right when I’m drunk off my ass.
Lyra hums low in her throat. “Well, well.” She releases my arm. “Look who decided to show up. Thought we’d lost you to politics and paperwork.”
Thane’s gaze flicks to her. “And look who decided to drink half the tavern dry.”
“It wasn’t half.” I snort.