EIGHT #3
But I see it; the way his hand tightens against his knee, the way something in him locks into place. He doesn’t let it show, but I know what this moment means.
Lord Eryndor’s hazel-gold eyes remain on me, dull but working to focus. He blinks, as if pulling the words through layers of distance. His lips part.
Then, in that same rough, worn voice, he murmurs, “Spiritborn . . . ?”
The word is barely more than a hoarse whisper, but it lands, like something distant and half-forgotten stirring in the depths of his mind.
He exhales, the effort visible in the rise and fall of his chest. His brow pulls tight, grasping for something just out of reach.
I glance at Thane. He hasn’t moved.
Lord Eryndor’s mouth tightens. “Impossible . . . ”
He blinks again, his expression changing. There is something in his eyes now, a flicker of recognition. Not of me, but of what I am.
Thane leans forward. “What do you remember?”
Lord Eryndor does not answer right away. The effort of speaking is evident in the tension that gathers in his face, in the way his breath becomes labored before it can settle.
His fingers twitch against the grooves in the wood.
Then, with great effort, he rasps, “A child . . . born of all elements . . . yet belonging to none.”
His breath shudders. His eyelids flutter, as if the words themselves take something from him.
“It warns . . . something returns. Banished . . . not destroyed.”
His fingers twitch again, curling into a soft fist, holding there.
“The Unmaking . . . not stopped. Delayed.”
The bond jolts once, and I look at Thane. He still faces his father, but his attention cuts to me, a crease forming between his brows.
My pulse quickens. I barely breathe.
His gaze lifts to the ceiling, hazel-gold eyes dim but aware.
“When four stand . . . a fifth will rise.” His voice thins, fading. “And the forgotten . . . awaken.”
Then his attention turns toward Thane.
He stares for several long moments, as though seeing him for the first time. His gaze moves over Thane’s face, his shoulders, the warrior he has become.
His breathing catches. And then, with visible effort, his hand lifts. Unsteady and shaking, it reach toward his son.
Thane freezes.
For a heartbeat, he doesn’t move. I see it in him—the hesitation, the raw, unguarded moment where he wants to reach back, but doesn’t know if he should.
Then, he does.
Slowly, carefully, he lifts his hand, bridging the small space between them. Their fingers brush.
His father’s strength falters, his hand slipping, but Thane catches it before it falls. He takes it fully this time, guiding it back to rest in his father’s lap.
He doesn’t let go. He keeps his fingers wrapped around his father’s frail hand, holding it in a way that feels both foreign and familiar all at once.
Such a different hand from the one that once wielded a blade beside him in battle. Once, these hands had been strong. Once, they had guided Thane through his first lessons in swordplay, and had struck against his own in sparring sessions so fierce they left bruises.
Now, that strength is gone. The weight of years, of sorrow, of silence, has stripped it away. And yet, Thane holds him as if his father’s past self still lingers somewhere beneath the sickness.
Lord Eryndor’s eyes close, his breathing shallow but stable. Speaking again would be too much. Silence settles between them, full and alive.
Thane watches him for a long moment, then speaks, quiet and sure. “You should rest, Father.”
Lord Eryndor does not answer, but something in his father’s posture eases, as if the words have reached him anyway.
After a moment, he exhales, then lifts his head slightly. “Maris.”
The attendant steps forward immediately. “Yes, my Lord?”
He does not look away from his father. He continues to grip the frail hand still resting in his own.
“Help him back to bed. He needs to rest . . . please.”
The last word is softer. Barely there. But it lingers.
Maris kneels beside Lord Eryndor and gently places a hand beneath his arm.
“Come, my Lord,” she murmurs, her voice soft, familiar. “Let’s get you comfortable.”
At the sound of her voice, his eyes flicker open. His lips part as if to say something, but only one syllable comes out, hoarse and barely audible. “Ma—.”
She nods, a quiet, understanding smile touching her lips. “I’m here.”
Lord Eryndor exhales, that small effort draining. He doesn’t resist as Maris helps him to his feet.
Through it all, Thane doesn’t let go of his father’s hand.
Only when Maris has fully taken his father’s weight, guiding him toward the bed, does Thane finally release him. His fingers linger for a moment longer than necessary before he pulls back.
Maris settles him, her movements efficient yet gentle. As she adjusts the blankets, she murmurs something too soft for me to hear, but the way she does it tells me she has done this many times before.
Lord Eryndor sinks into the bed, his breathing labored.
Thane watches him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. His fingers twitch once, then curl in on themselves.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Father,” he says softly, but his father’s eyes are already closed.
Thane exhales, then turns to me. “Shall we go speak with Valen?”
I nod, rising to follow him out.
Elira stands near the doors. As we approach, she straightens, ready to follow. But I know we need privacy when we speak to Valen.
I turn to her, offering a small, appreciative smile.
“Thank you for your help with my hair this morning. There’s no way I could make it look this civilized without your help,” I pause, gods, I realize how grateful I am for everything she’s helped me navigate in such a short time. “ . . . with all of it, my hair, that wardrobe!”
Elira dips her head, but I catch the faintest trace of satisfaction in her expression.
“Please,” I continue, keeping my tone warm but firm, “feel free to take the rest of the day for yourself. I’ll call for you when I need your help again. Tomorrow I’m really going to need you—unless you can go to the ball for me?”
I half tease, secretly hoping she could go for me.
Elira lifts a single brow, clearly amused. “Don’t worry, my lady. I’ll make sure you look the part.”
Her confidence does nothing to ease my uncertainty, but I nod anyway. “I’ll hold you to that. And thank you.”
She hesitates, just for a moment, before nodding. “Of course, my lady.”
The words still feel strange, as does the entire concept of having someone care for me, assist me in ways I never needed before. My whole life, I took care of myself. My parents encouraged it. Farm life is like that. And now, I am meant to allow others to do it for me.
Even as she steps back, I feel the weight of what this life is becoming. A life where I no longer walk alone and there are always many pairs of eyes on me.
I inhale, steadying myself, and turn back to Thane. “Let’s go.”