FIVE
HELPLESS
On Stillness and Silence. There is a duplicity in silence and stillness—often mistaken for passivity.
But a student must learn both. The one who remains silent in the face of tyranny stands in stark contrast to the voice that rises with prophetic clarity.
And yet, there is equal power in the quiet of a warrior, poised and holding back, as there is futility in the clamor of those who speak only to fill the void.
True mastery of power lies with the one who knows when to be silent, when to act, and when to simply be still.
—VALEN’S JOURNAL
AMARA
We arrived at the capital only a few hours ago, and Valen immediately insisted on a study session. So here we are, seated in his chambers with books spread across the table between us.
The nap helped, but Garrick’s interruption left me distracted in all the wrong ways. Every attempt to focus on the text in front of me ends with my thoughts wandering back to Thane and everything we didn’t finish.
Now I’m supposed to be concentrating on ancient magics.
Valen raps his knuckles against the table, jolting me back to the present. His expression is one of weary patience stretched dangerously thin.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I scrub a hand over my face. “I’m still exhausted from bringing Lyra back from the dead.”
The words leave my mouth before I truly hear them. Bringing Lyra back from the dead. My stomach sinks.
Lyra . . . was dead.
Valen’s expression softens.
“I know, my girl. I truly do.” He lets the silence linger for a heartbeat before his gaze hardens once more. “But this is war. It won’t wait for your grief, your exhaustion, or your fear.”
He folds his hands on the table.
“There may come another day when someone you love stands at death’s door.”
My eyes widen to impossible proportions, but Valen continues as though he hasn’t just suggested I’ll be resurrecting people with alarming regularity.
“And you need to be ready for all of it.” His voice remains maddeningly calm. “That’s my duty. To prepare you.”
He lowers his gaze to the book before him and turns it so I can see.
The pages are filled with meticulous sketches of channelers caught in motion.
Each pose gives rise to a different manifestation of the Elements.
One figure sweeps both arms overhead, drawing water into a spiraling cyclone.
Another plants their feet wide, one fist driving toward the ground as jagged stone erupts beneath them.
A third extends both hands outward, ribbons of fire curling from their fingertips.
Valen taps the image of the water channeler.
“Wielding requires little more than thought,” he says. “Perhaps a flick of the wrist or the curl of a finger. Channeling is different.”
His finger traces the figure’s sweeping arms.
“The greater the magics, the more of the body it demands. Thought gives the magics direction. Intention gives it purpose. Movement gives it form.”
He turns the page, revealing dozens more illustrations—earth, air, fire, and water, each expressed through different stances, gestures, and flowing movements.
I linger over the drawings, recognizing some of the motions I’ve seen Thane and the other channelers use in battle. A few are movements I’ve made myself, guided only by instinct. Many more are entirely unfamiliar.
“The challenge for us is discovering movements that allow you to channel all four Elements at once.” Valen rests a hand on the page. “There are no records of anyone ever doing it. We can study what came before, borrow what works, and create everything else ourselves.”
I look up from the book, a thought occurring to me.
“Valen, why haven’t you shown me this before? Why am I only learning it now?”
He smiles, a hint of pride softening his features.
“You always ask the right questions.” He folds his hands together.
“Because, my girl, until now we’ve barely had time to survive.
Every lesson has been dictated by whatever crisis was trying to kill us next.
” A quiet chuckle escapes him. “There is still so much for me to teach you . . . and just as much for us to discover together.”
His silver-blue eyes crinkle at the corners, and a deep fondness for my mentor washes over me. I smile in return, grateful to have him helping me navigate so much of the unknown.
We spend the next hour discussing the various movements and how I might apply them. Page after page is filled with illustrations of channelers combining sweeping motions, shifting stances, and deliberate gestures to shape increasingly complex manifestations of Elemental magics.
Before I realize it, we’ve turned into a new section of the book.
The illustrations change. Instead of channelers, the pages are filled with weapons—swords, daggers, bows, and spears—each etched with intricate runes. Beside every illustration is a careful list of symbols and their meanings.
“Ah, yes.” Valen taps the page with a knowing smile. “I wanted to show you this as well.”
My gaze lingers on the markings carved into the blade.
“Runes can imbue objects with magics.”
I raise my eyes, my brows arching. “So swords and armor can hold magics?”
Valen nods. “They can. Though not every rune can be etched into every material, and not every channeler possesses the skill to forge them.”
His finger traces the illustration of a gauntlet engraved with delicate symbols.
“Most warriors carry enchanted weapons. But armor . . . ” He smiles faintly. “Armor is where each Clan expresses its philosophy.”
I glance down at the sketches.
“The Fire Clan favors gauntlets and greaves that amplify force. Every strike lands harder. Every step is meant to overwhelm.”
He turns the page.
“The Air Clan values speed above all else. Their runes lighten movement, sharpen acceleration, and allow them to change direction with remarkable precision.”
Another page.
“The Water Clan prefers adaptability. Their enchantments aid balance, fluid movement, and the ability to redirect force rather than simply meet it.”
His finger comes to rest on the final illustration.
“And the Earth Clan?” I ask.
Valen smiles.
“They believe the greatest strength is to remain unmovable. Their runes reinforce stability, resilience, and raw power. Once an Earth warrior plants their feet, moving them becomes nearly impossible.”
We spend another hour reviewing the names, balance, and purpose of the different weapons before finally bringing the lesson to a close.
Valen closes the book in front of him, then lifts the larger volume and offers it to me.
“Take it with you,” he says. “The movements will become easier to understand the more you study them.”
I tuck the hefty tome beneath my arm.
“We’ll begin practicing them after the ball.”
I roll my eyes at the mention of the celebration being held in my honor.
“Not a fan of balls?” he asks, the corners of his mouth twitching with barely concealed amusement.
“I think you know me better than that.”
His chuckle follows me as I rise from my chair.
We ate dinner together that evening. The table was lively—Rowena holding court with stories of their childhood—but I kept glancing at Lyra across from me.
She was quieter than usual, softer, as if someone had turned the volume down on my typically boisterous friend.
Garrick leaned in often, murmuring into her ear, his hand resting at the small of her back.
The worry on his face never quite faded.
Lyra and I went to bed earlier than the others, both still feeling the lingering effects of the healing.
She died. And came back.
The thought makes my body shudder as I drift toward sleep.
I barely remember Thane slipping into bed beside me, only the faint sensation of heat and strength anchored behind me. Exhaustion presses down again, in spite of my earlier nap, as the past few days continue to weigh on my mind and body.
Thane wraps an arm around me, his body radiating heat. I lean into him, sinking into his warmth. The constant rise and fall of his breathing lulls me deeper, a grounding rhythm that melts into my exhaustion.
I let it pull me under.
And then I dream.
A voice calls to me.
Soft at first, barely more than a breath on the wind. But it grows stronger, threading through the darkness, reaching for me.
A woman’s voice, gentle, calming.
It feels familiar in my bones, like something I’ve always known.
And yet the sound is foreign—a voice I’ve never heard before.
How can both things be true?
A warmth glows around it, flickering like the first light of dawn. It pulses in the darkness, spreading outward, golden and soft, wrapping around me in a way that feels like . . . home.
The more I listen, the brighter it grows, until it becomes everything. Sight. Sound. Sensation.
It draws me closer.
I don’t question or resist it. There is no fear here. Only a pull, deep and undeniable, as if something long lost is finally within reach.
The light swells, cresting like the sun breaking the horizon, chasing away the dark. It’s warm. Golden. Alive.
It fills the hollow places inside me.
The voice calls again.
You are home.
The words sink deep in my chest, in a place I didn’t realize was empty.
The warmth pulses, wrapping around me like a second skin.
You are safe.
I want to believe it. Every part of me wants to sink into the light, to let it carry me, to surrender to the comfort that radiates from it.
You are the balance.
The words reverberate through me, deeper than before—like a stone dropped into still water. A shift, a stirring, something waking within me.
The light pulses flares, surrounding me, filling me—then, in an instant—darkness.
My eyes snap open.
The space where Thane had been is empty. My fingers curl against the sheets, searching for warmth that isn’t there.
How long has he been gone?
But it’s not just his absence that pulled me from sleep. It’s the bond.
A weight deep in my chest, heavy and aching. Sadness.
Not mine.