Chapter 25 #3
The silence that follows is thick with everything he hasn’t said—his guilt, his sadness, his resignation. It’s all there, in the way his shoulders slope, in the tremor behind his words. His confession isn’t a plea. It’s a surrender.
Then—
“By all the gods . . . I’m so sorry. This curse—this fucking life—I never wanted it to touch you.”
The words hang between us. Brittle. Trembling. Not just an apology but an admission of failure. Of fear. As if caring for me—bonding with me—wasn’t just dangerous . . . but unforgivable.
He still holds my gaze, even as shame and sorrow flicker in his eyes, still hoping I won’t run.
I inhale.
Then stand.
I cross the space between us in two quiet steps. His eyes track me with wariness.
I sink to my knees before him. The light falls across the lower half of his face, late afternoon sun pouring gold across everything he’s tried to bury in shadow. I reach for his hands and take them in mine.
And that’s all it takes.
He lets go.
Everything he’s carried—the family secret, Kastiel’s death, his mother’s unraveling, his father’s decline, the impossible weight of the realm, the war, the fear of what he might do to me, of what he might become—it crashes through him.
His head bows, forehead pressed to our joined hands. And his shoulders begin to shake.
At first—silent. Then deeper. Ragged. Unstoppable.
Tears begin to fall. I feel the wet drops on our hands and I hold tighter. Because he will never carry this alone again. Not while I have a breath left in me.
I rise slowly, never letting go of his hands. I ease into his lap, sideways, my legs draped across his. My body curves gently against his.
His arms come around me instantly. Tight. Desperate. His face buries in my chest, and the sobs tear loose—harder now. Shuddering through him like aftershocks from a quake too long held back.
I don’t say anything. Because there’s nothing I could say that would matter more than this. I just hold him.
One arm wrapped around his shoulders, the other cradling the back of his head. My throat burns. My hands shake as I thread them through his hair, steadying us both. Gods, if I let myself, I’d break right here with him.
He trembles beneath me. years of weight finally breaking loose. All that he’s been holding in—his mother, his brother, his father, the realm, me.
All of it—falling.
And I hold him through it. Not as the Spiritborn. Not as a warrior. Just me. Just his.
I press my cheek to the top of his head, my fingers still threading gently through his hair. The bond pulses—warm now. Solid. Like a blanket settling around my shoulders. A quiet promise, woven through the pulse: I’ve got you.
And I know Thane feels it too. His breathing is slowing. His grip loosens—not letting go, but no longer clinging like he might fall apart.
I press one more kiss to the crown of his head, then glance up.
Valen is watching us. His eyes shine with tears, though none fall. His jaw is tight, working through something too big for words.
And then it hits me—he’s never seen Thane like this. The Warlord stripped bare, weeping in someone’s arms. In mine.
And it’s wrecking him.
I see it in the way he blinks too slowly, in the way his jaw tenses again. Like the weight of this moment is pressing into him, too.
But there’s something else, too. A quiet approval in his expression. A softening beneath the grief. Like he’s been waiting for this—for Thane to let himself feel, to let himself be held—for a very long time.
Then Valen’s mouth drops open. I stare at him, stunned, because I have never seen my mentor look surprised by anything. He doesn’t say anything, just points above me with wide eyes.
I look up and above my head are droplets of water floating and sparkling, scattering the sunlight into shards of color across the bookshelves—like the room itself is weeping light.
And all I can think as I stare at them in wonder is they are like tears waiting to fall.
My magics again have responded to my emotions.
The bond thrums, steady and low, as if it too recognizes the release. The droplets shiver in the air at the same rhythm, suspended between us like proof.
Thane’s eyes flick upward, catching the glow of droplets suspended over us. His breath hitches—just once—like the sight of it undoes him all over again. I brush my fingers across his cheek, wiping the tears away. With a thought, I disappear the droplets.
Thane’s eyes lower to meet my gaze as his breathing begins to settle. The tremors ease. His arms loosen not in retreat, but in relief. He pulls back slightly. Just enough to lift his head and swipe a hand across his face.
The gesture is clumsy. Almost boyish. And it breaks something open in my chest—something gentle and full of ache.
“Shit,” he breathes out, half-laugh, half-sigh.
His voice is raw. Like he’s still trying to find it again.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, glancing up at me. “I didn’t realize all of that was . . . wound so tight. Like a giant knot.”
I still don’t have the words. Not for all that he’s said. Not for all he’s let fall from his shoulders. So I just smile—softly, gently—and let my fingers drift through his hair again. Slow and steady.
I’m here, it says. I’m not leaving.
Thane shifts, reaching across my lap to lift the glass from the table. He tilts his head and drains it in one long swallow. Then exhales hard through his mouth—a breath that sounds like it’s been waiting years to escape. He sets the empty glass back down with a soft clink.
I shift, starting to rise. But his arms tighten around me. I look down at him. And his eyes—unguarded, raw—silently ask me to stay.
So I do.
The bond hums between us. Steady now. Like a second heartbeat, pulsing just beneath my ribs.
Thane rests one hand on my knee. The other stays at my back, anchoring me as I lean into him. Everything in me feels rearranged now—I take comfort in his touch just as he takes comfort in mine.
Then—clink. I glance left. Across the table, Valen sets his glass down—also empty. He exhales, long and low, the sound more thoughtful than surprised.
“Well,” he says, voice dry but measured, “that was quite unexpected.”
He brings his hands together beneath his chin, fingers steepled, elbows resting lightly on the arms of the chair. But his eyes—those silver-blue eyes—aren’t looking at Thane or me.
His gaze doesn’t land on either of us. It fixes just beyond—on the wall behind us, or maybe something past it. Like he’s seeing through the room. Through time.
Valen says nothing at first. And I don’t press. I can feel it in the air—he’s already turning over every story he’s ever read, every lost record, every whispered rumor. Looking for what to do next.
Thane’s thumb moves absently across the fabric of my pants, just by my knee. A small motion. Steady. Soothing. But still—I catch myself holding my breath.
I watch Valen’s face. The way his silver-blue eyes narrow—not with confusion, but focus. He’s following some invisible thread. One only he can see.
Maybe he’s seen something in the old texts. Some way to undo the curse. To stop it before it takes more than it already has.
I cling to that.
After what feels like an eternity, Valen speaks. His voice cuts through the quiet like the first ripple on still water.
“We have to return to the capital.”
The words land with quiet finality. Like something clicked into place while he was lost in thought, and now the path forward is clear.
I sit a little straighter in Thane’s lap. My heart beats faster, harder, against the fragile calm.
The sun is starting to set. Long shadows stretch across the floor, painting the worn stone and battered table in fading gold. My stomach rumbles quietly, breaking the stillness. I flush a little, but no one comments.
It hits me then—it’s past dinner time at the mess hall. We’ve been sitting here for a long time, the weight of everything we shared stretching time thin and taut. The world outside has kept turning.
And yet, everything inside this room feels irrevocably changed.
“The archives,” Valen continues, his voice steadier now, the weight of decision behind it. “There must be answers there. I have some early theories of what the curse truly is . . . what the Shadow Clan was really guarding—”
He exhales hard. Runs a hand over his face, weariness dragging at the edges of him.
“That’s where we’ll find it. And we need to leave. Immediately.”
Thane shakes his head, jaw tight.
“It’s too dangerous, Valen. There’s a reason generations of my family kept this hidden. We don’t know who we can trust. Even researching it could tip someone off. If anyone finds out . . . it could mean the death of my family.”
A pause.
“Of me.”
His voice roughens at the edges.
“No one trusts the Shadow Clan. Not even today. It won’t matter that I’m tied to the Prophecies; that I’m bonded to the Spiritborn. The prejudice runs deeper than that. And what if I am dangerous? What if this curse takes me some other way?”
Valen nods. Once. Slow. Measured. “Which is why we don’t tell anyone why we’re really going.”
He leans forward, his silver-blue eyes flickering between us, sharp with intent. “We tell them we’re going because the capital needs to see Amara. The Spiritborn. We tell them it’s time she was known to the realm.”
He lets that settle. Then—
“And any research we do . . . will be under that guise. This stays between the three of us. We go in quiet. We get what we need. We leave.”
A beat.
The bond between Thane and me stays steady—warm, certain. But something twists in my chest. Because I understand. I do.
But I also know what this means. Not for the Spiritborn. For me.
For the girl who grew up in an unknown village, living a small, quiet life. Now the capital, the realm, wants to see me. Not just by a few. By everyone.
A symbol. A rallying point. A reminder that the old powers are waking again.
That the Spiritborn has come.