Chapter 25 #4
Thane must feel my worry through the bond, because his hand tightens on my knee—grounding me—while Valen continues to speak. A promise: You’re not alone.
The same promise I had just given him. When he shattered and shared the weight of the curse carried in his blood. When I held him.
But still, fear rises in my throat. Thick with heat. With weight.
What if they look and don’t see a savior?
What if they see a mistake?
What if I fail them?
What if I fail him?
I swallow hard, forcing the thoughts down. Because this isn’t about my fears. This is about Thane. Protecting him. Finding the truth—before it’s too late.
And if stepping into the light is the price of that . . . then I’ll pay it.
Even if it terrifies me. Even if I have to set aside every piece of me that still longs to hide.
Needing something to steel my nerves, I reach for the glass sitting on the table. I lift it, the amber liquid catching the last slant of fading light, and finish the whiskey in one swallow. It burns on the way down. Unforgiving.
But it pulls my thoughts back into the present, anchoring me.
I set the glass back down with a firm clink.
Thane flicks his wrist, and the candles in the sconces around the room flare to life. Soft flames spring up, their light casting long, restless shadows across the stone walls.
The shifting shadows press like a hand against my chest. Makes me think of Thane and of what now stirs in his blood.
And with that thought, the flood of questions I’ve been holding back surges forward.
I rub his back gently, a signal. I need to get up.
He loosens his grip on my leg. His eyes search mine, asking a silent question: will you stay?
I give him a small, reassuring squeeze. Then shift off his lap and return to my chair. I lean forward, elbows resting on my knees, heart pounding against my ribs.
I need to look at him, head-on. I need to ask.
I can feel Valen’s eyes on me as I look at Thane. He watches in silence. But I see it in his face—wariness, exhaustion. All of it carved into the lines of his face, heavy in the slope of his shoulders. He’s worn thin from everything he’s shared tonight.
Gods, we all are.
The weight of it all—his mother, the curse, the bond, the dragons—hangs in the air like smoke.
Every instinct in me wants to give him time—to let him breathe, to let him rest. But there are things I need to know. Especially now that it looks like we’re leaving for the capital.
I steady my breath.
“Thane . . . who exactly knows about the curse? Do your brothers?”
He knows who I mean. Garrick. Jarek. Rian. The men he grew up with, trained alongside, fought beside in battle, bled with, led, trusted. The men who have given him their loyalty and taken his council in turn. That’s why they’re more than just friends—they’re brothers in every way that matters.
If they don’t know—if he’s hidden this from them—then I know how alone he’s truly been.
Thane’s gaze drops to the floor. He exhales slowly, the sound rough, frayed. Then he lifts his eyes to mine.
“No,” he says quietly. “They don’t know.”
Just those few words. But they land like a stone dropped into still water—rippling outward, deeper than the silence that follows.
The bond beats once, a solid knock against the inside of my ribs. Thane’s eyes cut to mine—he felt it too.
Tightness pulls across my chest, but I don’t let it reach my face.
“So they don’t know the real reason why your mother died?”
The question hangs—heavy with grief, and the silence of a boy who carried too much.
Thane doesn’t flinch.
“No.”
His voice is quiet. But something is unraveling behind it.
“They believe what everyone else does. That she died of an illness.”
His gaze shifts past me. Distant. Pulled somewhere far away.
“They didn’t see her in the last year of her life. They couldn’t. My father kept it contained . . . kept her hidden.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw.
“They never saw her decline. Never saw what the curse did to her mind.”
The bond between us thrums, low and steady. Heavy with all he’s not saying. And I feel it. How long he’s carried this—alone.
I glance at Valen. But his eyes aren’t on me. They’re locked on Thane—sharp, steady, assessing. Tracking every flicker of expression, every subtle shift in the way Thane holds himself. Every breath. Every hesitation.
Reading him the way only someone who’s known him for years could.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice it again—the shadows shifting along the stone walls, alive in the flickering firelight from the sconces. Moving. Breathing. A quiet reminder of everything he carries inside him.
My heart hammers in my ears. Still, I ask—my voice soft, but steady.
“Are you able to wield the Shadow element? Summon it? Or does it just appear?”
The question hangs in the space between us, heavier than anything I’ve asked so far.
Thane’s expression shifts—small, but unmistakable. His brows pull together, a faint crease forming between them. One corner of his mouth tugs downward.
Almost sad . . . resigned.
He glances down at his hands, still resting in his lap. Slowly, he turns them palm up.
For a moment, nothing happens. Then—shadows begin to rise. They unfurl from his fingertips in slow, curling ribbons. Smoke and silk and something darker. Silent. Ethereal. Moving like breath. Called with nothing more than a thought.
I watch, quiet. Awed.
It’s beautiful.
But it shouldn’t be.
I’ve only read about the Shadow element in the texts Valen has shared with me. Always imagined it as cold. Heavy. Like oil on water. Or ice on skin.
But this—this floats. It spirals and winds, weightless and slow. One curl drifts toward me. Brushes my cheek. But instead of cold—I feel warmth. Gentle. Steady. Like lying beneath the stars on a summer night. Soft. Safe.
And I’m . . . confused.
Because nothing about this feels the way I was taught it should. The stories said shadow magics was poison. Corruption. A creeping sickness that twisted and destroyed anything it touched.
But what curls around me now is soft. Gentle. Alive.
Instead of feeling afraid and recoiling from it, I find myself leaning closer. And for a moment, sitting here in the hush of firelight, with Thane’s shadows brushing past me like a whispered secret—I don’t know what to believe.
Then—a sharp twist through the bond.
Shame.
I lift my gaze. Thane is staring at the shadows drifting from his hands. Jaw clenched. Eyes tight with something he doesn’t say.
He looks like a god carved in shadow, gray eyes storm-dark. Magics winding around him like breath.
And yet he’s looking at the curls of shadow with repulsion. As if he can’t at all see what I see.
The bond tightens, jagged, like it’s echoing the self-loathing Thane is feeling. I reach out and grab his hands, closing my fingers firmly around his. The shadows vanish—cut off like a breath. Thane’s eyes flick up to mine, startled. I hold his gaze. Fierce. Steady.
And through the bond, I push forward the truth.
You are good.
You are light.
Not the darkness he fears or the curse that lives inside him.
I don’t know if he can feel what I am trying to convey, but I send it anyway. And something shifts.
The bond between us softens and steadies. I see it in his eyes, too. The hardness eases, and those golden flecks—the ones that flare brightest when he’s letting himself feel—spark again. His hands tighten around mine for a moment, holding on.
Then he exhales, low and rough, and pulls back. Drags both hands through his hair in a restless sweep before leaning back heavily into the chair.
“I can wield,” he says, his voice stripped bare.
His eyes flick to the space where the shadows had been.
“But I’ve seen what the Commanders of the Shadow Forces wield. And this . . . ”—Thane shakes his head—”this isn’t the same.”
He gestures toward Valen without looking away from me for long.
“You have too. What do you make of this, Valen?”
Valen leans forward slowly, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands loosely clasped. His silver-blue eyes narrow slightly, studying Thane like he’s a puzzle he’s only just beginning to solve. He’s quiet for a long moment.
Then, finally, his voice comes—measured. Careful.
“It’s not what I expected,” Valen admits. “The Shadow Forces—their magics are violent. Twisting. Chaotic. Corrupting everything it touches.”
He shifts, thoughtful.
“But what I just saw . . . it wasn’t violent. It wasn’t invasive. It didn’t feel cold.” His gaze flicks to me, briefly, like he knows I felt it too. “It was . . . controlled. Intentional.”
Valen exhales, tapping a finger absently against his wrist—a habit I’ve seen a dozen times when he’s thinking deeply.
“It doesn’t mean the curse isn’t real,” he says cautiously. “But it might mean we’ve misunderstood it entirely. Or maybe . . . everything we were taught about the Shadow Element was a lie.”
His eyes return to Thane. Steady. Grounded.
“It’s not madness, Thane. Not yet.”
There’s something else in his voice now. Something I didn’t expect.
Hope.
But I also hear the edge in his voice because not yet doesn’t mean never.
Valen tilts his head, studying Thane with that quiet, dissecting calm of his. “How does it feel in your body when you wield it?”
Thane shrugs—casual on the surface, but there’s a slight frown pulling at his mouth, like he’s still trying to make sense of it himself.
“It comes as easily as wielding fire,” he says after a moment. “But . . . smoother. Quieter.”
He glances at me, almost sheepish. “If that makes sense.”
It does.
I nod—because I understand it in my bones.
I can wield fire too. And fire is never quiet.
It’s loud. Wild. A scream tearing from the soul—raw and consuming.
It doesn’t hurt when I wield it. But I can feel what it’s capable of the moment it leaves my body—the raw, devastating power of it, rushing out into the world without mercy.
But shadow—what brushed past me—was something else entirely. Not the absence of power. But power without destruction.
Suddenly, my stomach growls again—louder this time, filling the quiet room with an unmistakable sound.
I press a hand to it, wincing.
“Sorry.”
Thane startles, then laughs—”Oh gods! I’ve kept you from dinner!”
He runs a hand through his hair, looking genuinely appalled with himself.
“I’m sorry, Amara. Valen. I’ve been so caught up in all of this, I didn’t realize how late it is. Hang on. I’ll have someone bring food to the study.”
He rises, moving quickly. As he passes me, he reaches out—almost without thinking—and places a hand on my shoulder. A brief touch. Solid. Warm. As if he needs every excuse to ground himself in me.
Then he crosses the room in a few long strides and pulls the door open, calling for someone to bring food.
I turn back—and find Valen already watching me. His gaze lingers on me for a moment longer.
Then, in a voice low enough that it barely disturbs the heavy hush of the room, he says, “You feel it too, don’t you?”
I blink, startled by the straightforwardness of his question. But I don’t pretend not to understand. Because I do. Not just the magics. Not just the bond.
Thane.
Valen’s hands are loosely folded in front of him, his silver-blue eyes steady, kind.
“It’s not just power that ties you together,” he says quietly. “It’s choice.”
He leans back slightly, giving me space to breathe, space to think.
“Power can be given, or taken. It’s something you’re born with. Something that can be forced on you, even corrupted. But choice?” He meets my gaze, steady and sure. “That’s different. That’s yours. Always.”
He lets the silence stretch for a beat, then adds, softer still, “And choice . . . choice is stronger than any curse. Even his.”
I flinch. Just barely. But he sees it.
“You think you were bound by fate. That the prophecy, the bond, the power—you didn’t ask for any of it.”
His voice stays gentle, but there’s weight behind it.
“But the reason it matters . . . the reason it’s real . . . is because you stay. Because he does. Because you keep choosing each other. Over and over.”
His words fall like quiet truths, settling into the space between us.
“That bond may have started with magics. But what keeps it alive? What makes it sacred? That’s human. That’s you. Both of you.”
He says it like truth.
My throat tightens. And before I can bury the question, it escapes.
“Do you really believe that, Valen?”
My voice cracks at the edges. Because some part of me—quiet and desperate—needs the answer to be yes.
Valen doesn’t answer right away. He studies me, something almost unbearably kind in his expression. And when he speaks, his voice is low and certain.
“I do.”
He leans forward slightly, his gaze steady. He lets the words hang there, simple and true, like a lantern in the dark.
I shake my head, barely. And then, quieter still—
“But none of this feels like a choice, Valen.”
My voice is low, rougher than I mean it to be. It cracks something open in the silence between us.
Because how can this be a choice when the bond chose me? When the magics chose me? When the prophecies named me before I even had a say?
Valen’s face softens. He doesn’t rush to answer. He just watches me with those steady silver-blue eyes—the way you might watch someone drowning, waiting for the right moment to reach for them.
“Sometimes,” he says quietly, “the choice isn’t in what happens to us. It’s in how we carry it.”
He lets the words settle between us, a soft, unshakable truth. And even though part of me rails against it—wants to scream that it’s not fair, that I never asked for any of this—a deeper part of me knows he’s right.
The door swings open suddenly, breaking the quiet. Both Valen and I turn.
Thane strides back into the room, his expression lighter. Steadier. Two members of the outpost staff follow behind, each carrying large trays laden with food.
The rich, savory smell of roasted chicken fills the air, mingling with the earthy scents of late-summer vegetables—carrots, squash, green beans, all seasoned and steaming.
My stomach growls again. Loudly.
Valen glances sideways at me with the ghost of a smile. Thane hears it too. His lips twitch—half-smirk, half-relief—as he returns to the table.
“Figured we could all use something a little more substantial than whiskey,” he says, voice dry but warm.
The trays are set down, and just like that, the room feels a little less heavy.