EIGHT
SADNESS OF THE HEART
“How long must we wait for salvation? For another to discern whether our silence stems from peace or from the quiet violence of being unheard? The deeper tragedy is not silence itself, but the erasure of voice: the inability to speak truth, to warn, to protect those we hold dear. It is not merely the absence of words that wounds, but the absence of being recognized as someone who once had something to say.”
—VALEN’S JOURNAL
AMARA
When I wake, Thane is still beside me.
Dawn breaks beyond the thick stone walls of the Fire Clan’s stronghold. Golden light slips through the slatted windows, casting long shadows across the chamber. As the castle wakes I hear footsteps in the corridors, the faint clang of armor, and the murmurs of voices preparing for the day.
The night rushes back to me all at once; the way the bond pulled me to the balcony. Thane’s guilt and grief at what we discovered. The way the shadows moved even when Thane wasn’t wielding.
I turn, my breath catching when I find Thane watching me. He lies on his side, one arm tucked under his head, the other resting in front of him. He looks tired, the shadows beneath his eyes deeper than usual—but there’s a quiet resolve there too.
His gaze roves over my face, lingering. Then, voice raspy from sleep, he murmurs, “Morning.”
Warmth spreads through me and I smile as I reach for his hand. Thane’s skin is warm, his calloused fingertips rough against my own.
The realizations of last night settle in my chest, fragile now in the light of day; my theory, the pieces finally fitting together in a way I hadn’t let myself believe.
The curse is not what we thought.
And Thane’s father—he might be holding it at bay. Not because he’s immune, but because I can’t think of anything inside him for it to latch onto. Not grief. Not regret. Not the kind of wound the shadows seem to seek.
I blink the last traces of sleep from my eyes and study him. “How are you doing this morning?”
Thane exhales, the corners of his lips curving slightly. “Better.”
He reaches for me then, his arm wrapping around my waist as he pulls me against his chest. I settle into him, my head resting just beneath his collarbone, listening to the rhythm of his heartbeat. For a while, we simply breathe together.
Then, his voice, full of something raw, breaks the silence. “Thank you.”
I tilt my head up, questioning.
Thane’s fingers trail lightly down my spine. “Thank you for giving my father back to me.”
Doubt creeps in. In the quiet hush of night, my theory had felt like a revelation, a truth clicking into place. But in the light of day, uncertainty clouds my thoughts.
What if I’m wrong? I hesitate, my fingers curling slightly against his chest.
“I didn’t do anything. And we don’t know for sure if my theory is right.”
Thane exhales, his grip tightening slightly. “I’ve been up most of the night thinking about it.”
He shifts so that our eyes meet, his gaze unwavering.
“I feel it in my bones. You are right.” Thane continues, his voice thoughtful. “The way it all happened—the way the shadows moved, the way the bond reacted to everything I said, everything you said—it makes sense. It wasn’t just a coincidence. The timing was too precise.”
His fingers move in distracted patterns against my back. “We should talk to Valen. If anyone can help us make sense of this, it’s him.”
I nod against his chest, my hands curling against his bare skin. His heartbeat is steady beneath my temple, a grounding rhythm in the midst of my swirling thoughts.
Thane’s voice softens, but there is a significance to it. “But first, I want to introduce you to my father.”
I lift my head, blinking at him. “Are you sure? Is he well enough? You don’t have to do that because of last night.”
My thoughts jump ahead of me.
“What’s appropriate to wear? Gods—I need an entirely new wardrobe for this trip.”
Thane laughs softly, the sound rumbling against my cheek. He tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering for just a moment before his gaze meets mine.
“Yes, I’m sure. Yes, he can receive guests,” he says, a hint of a smile in his voice. “And you can wear whatever you want.”
His gaze doesn’t waver.
“I want him to meet you. Because you matter to me.”
I drop my head back to his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breath. His warmth anchors me.
His voice quiets. “Is that all right?”
“Very,” I murmur, smiling against his skin.
Thane threads his fingers through my hair, as if committing the feel of it to memory.
“When’s the last time you visited him?”
A heavy sigh leaves him. “Too long. Months.”
I lift my head to find him biting his lower lip, his gaze fixed on a bird perched beyond the window. I trace leisurely patterns across his chest, waiting.
“It’s been hard . . . to see him like that. To be around him with everything I was carrying.” His eyes shift to mine, the weight of it clear. “I avoided him. The times I visited him . . . Rowena pushed the issue. She was right to.”
I rest my chin on his chest, my fingers brushing lightly over his skin. “You’re going now.”
His hand stills in my hair for a beat.
“Yes. I’m going now.”
The halls of the Fire Clan’s stronghold stretch before me, vast and carved from dark stone that drinks in the morning light.
Banners hang from the vaulted ceilings, their crimson and black sigils shifting in the draft.
Our steps echo softly against the polished floors, the sound swallowed by the sheer scale of the corridor ahead.
Thane walks beside me in black and crimson, the colors of the Fire Clan stark against the stone. The sleeves bear the sigil of his house; an embroidered flame curling along his forearm, almost imperceptible unless the light catches it just right.
A heavy belt rests at his waist, holding the sword at his hip. His boots, polished but well-worn, move with command across the stone floor. Every piece of his attire is a reflection of who he is—practical, disciplined, unwilling to wear excess when steel and strength will always matter more.
And beneath it all, tension hums.
Although Thane has visited his father before at Rowena’s insistence, this is the first time in nine years he will see him not as the fading man he left behind, but as someone still fighting.
Fighting for his family. For the realm. For himself.
We’re almost there.
My dress moves with each step, soft blue like a clear sky. Light. Unrestricted.
A quiet contrast to the weight of where we’re going.
My hair is braided, golden threads woven through it—a quiet acknowledgment of my place at Thane’s side.
At my side, just a few paces behind, walks Elira.
Her presence is subtle but constant. She moves quietly, efficiently, her gaze taking in everything without lingering too long on any one thing. She has served the stronghold since Thane was a child, and now she is assigned to me.
She is more than a handmaid. She is a caretaker.
A guide. Someone who has watched the Fire Clan’s history unfold from the shadows of these great halls.
She ensures I have what I need, that I’m properly dressed for whatever the day demands, that I don’t stumble through the customs of a world still unfamiliar to me.
But in the way she watches me, I sense something deeper. An understanding. A quiet wisdom shaped by years of service.
As honored as I am to meet Thane’s father, the former Warlord of the realm, my nerves keep me on edge.
I would much rather be flying with Calryx beneath this bright, cloudless sky than walking these halls in this dress, my hair adorned and pinned into place.
The fabric feels too fitted. Too formal. Too unlike me.
I am used to dresses cut more loosely, with room to breathe. Most of the time, I was in pants and boots and a loose shirt, especially on the farm and at the outpost.
“Are you thinking of me?” a voice rumbles through my mind. “I am quite magnificent, so I understand the obsession.”
Calryx.
I suppress a smile.
“Are you always so nosy?” I tease.
“Your mind is open. You said my name, so I answered. I wouldn’t have to be so nosy if you weren’t calling me.”
“I didn’t call you. I just wish I was doing anything other than meeting Thane’s father right now,” I confess.
“And why is that? Do you not care for the Warlord?” my dragon asks, confusion threading her voice. “Isn’t that what humans do? Meet the loved ones of their mate?”
“By the gods, Calryx. Do you always have to be so literal?”
“I am a dragon. We speak what’s there.” She huffs. “Am I incorrect?”
I sigh, my smile lingering. “No. You’re not.”
A feeling of self-satisfaction purrs through my mind.
“Except for the mate part. I’m not his mate,” I quickly add.
“For now,” she counters.
I sneak a glance at Thane beside me, likely oblivious to the entire conversation unfolding in my mind.
“When will we fly again?” Calryx asks, her tone edged with impatience. “It’s been a few days.”
“I know. I’m itching to fly as well. I’m just trying to figure out everything going on with Thane, and the capital, and the council. And now I have to go to a ball.”
“Humans and their politics and traditions. So much wasted time. It is a sad thing that your discussions and ceremonies take up so much of your short lives.”
Calryx truly sounds sorry for us.
“I appreciate your concern.” I laugh, softly. “Let’s fly tomorrow.”
“Ah. Yes, that would be excellent.”
A sensation like a door gently closing follows, and the connection fades.
As we approach his father’s wing, something in Thane shifts. His posture straightens. His steps slow, his hand tightening in mine before easing again.
And with it, the bond quickens, uneven beneath my skin. I press my thumb lightly against his hand to try to steady him.
The corridor grows quieter here; the air heavier.
This matters.
Not because of who Thane is now—Warlord, commander, the man everyone answers to.
But because of who waits ahead. The man who raised him, who shaped him, who once ruled these halls before the weight of duty passed to his son.
His father.