NINE
A FIFTH WILL RISE
The Prophecy goes much, much deeper than I imagined. What I thought was a single mystery now feels like the surface of something vast and deliberate. The signs were always there. I just failed to see them. Now there is no ignoring it.
—VALEN’S JOURNAL
AMARA
We step into the hall, leaving Lord Eryndor’s quarters behind, and begin walking through the vast corridors of the stronghold.
Thane’s arms swing loosely at his sides, his pace unhurried.
Mine stay clasped in front of me, fingers curled lightly into the soft fabric of my dress, the material brushing against my legs as we move.
From the corner of my eye, I watch him. Not for words. Thane has never been a man who speaks simply to fill the air. Every sentence carries intention, which is precisely why people listen when he does.
I’m watching for something else.
And there it is.
A slight tension around his eyes. A faint pull between his brows. A look I’ve come to recognize.
He’s thinking.
I feel it through the bond. A quiet press of mixed emotions, not loud, but constant, brushing against my own.
I exhale softly, loosening my grip on the fabric.
“You have that look again.” I tilt my head, studying him. “The one that says you’re thinking too much and feeling even more.”
I nudge him lightly with my elbow, keeping my tone easy, teasing without pushing.
“Should I be worried, or is this just your usual broody-silence kind of thing?”
His expression doesn’t change right away, but something flickers through the bond. Amusement?
“Are you okay?” I ask, quieter this time.
The teasing lingers, but only just. Because I see it—the way his fingers flex at his sides, the way his smoke-gray eyes hold too much behind them.
The bond hums, confirming something he hasn’t said.
I don’t push. Not yet. I wait.
Thane exhales, his jaw shifting slightly before he answers.
“I don’t know.”
His voice is low, controlled. But there’s weight in it.
He keeps his gaze ahead, arms loose at his sides, but the bond gives him away. I feel it—the pull of his emotions, relief and love tangled with guilt and regret.
“It wasn’t what I expected,” he admits after a pause. “I told myself for years that he was gone. That whatever was left wasn’t really him anymore . . . ”
He trails off, shaking his head.
“Then he spoke.” A quiet breath of a laugh slips out, empty of humor. “And now I don’t know what’s worse. Thinking he was lost all this time . . . or realizing I’d been wrong for so long.”
His hand tightens once before easing again.
“Maybe he’s been fighting this thing the whole time. And I left him there to do it alone.”
The words hang between us.
I twist the fabric of my dress between my fingers, feeling everything he doesn’t say. Everything the bond carries anyway.
A sudden conviction rushes through me, so strong it nearly takes my breath. It isn’t just a thought—it’s an unshakable truth settling deep.
The bond answers, a sharp pulse between us. Thane feels it. I see it in the way he turns, something breaking through the weight of everything else.
“Amara?”
I meet his gaze, my heart pounding, something fierce rising in my chest.
“Then we fight with him.” My words come without hesitation. “And we bring him back.”
The air between us feels charged, my conviction settling into something real.
Thane holds my gaze, studying me as the weight of it sinks in. I see the moment it takes. He exhales, sharp. His hand flexes at his side before closing into a firm fist.
We walk in silence for a few steps, Lord Eryndor’s words still pressing in. My mind turns over them—fragments of meaning that don’t quite fit together.
Then I catch Thane looking at me, a flicker of something lighter in his eyes.
I narrow my eyes. “What?”
His lips twitch. “I’m not used to having someone at my side . . . my lady.”
Heat rises in my cheeks. Before I can answer, he offers his arm. I take it.
My lady.
The words linger, warm, impossible to ignore. And gods help me, it sets my pulse racing. But then his father’s words push back in, quelling any building desire for this man at my side.
As we walk, I lean closer so only he can hear.
“Thane, Valen told me about the prophecy, but he never mentioned anything called the Unmaking.” I hesitate, then press on. “Who are the four that will stand? Me and three others? Or the four elements?”
He listens, gaze fixed ahead.
“Your father said, ‘When four stand, a fifth will rise.’” My pulse quickens. “Who is the fifth?”
“I don’t know. I only know the same version of the prophecy you do. But it sounds like there’s more to it.”
He glances ahead as we walk, his brow drawing in slightly.
“The healers say my father has Sadness of the Heart. Maybe he does, maybe it’s something else. But his mind . . . ” He inhales sharply. “He’s still in there. I believe that now.”
I hear what he isn’t saying. That his father remembers something no one else does. That there is more to this than we realized.
“More questions to ask Valen.”
I nod, my thoughts already turning, trying to make sense of everything we’ve just learned.
The halls of the Fire Clan stronghold stretch ahead, dark stone walls lined with deep crimson banners bearing the Warlord’s sigil. Golden sconces cast a warm glow against the polished floors, their flames flickering in the drafts that flow through the corridors.
As we pass, staff pause to acknowledge us. They bow their heads respectfully toward Thane, offering murmured greetings of “My Lord.”
Their attention flicks to me, polite and curious.
Some glance at our linked arms, their expressions changing. A few try to hide their smiles. Others are more brazen, offering small nods of approval—silent acknowledgments of what they see. And then there are those who simply observe.
I shouldn’t care, but I do.
Their quiet recognition of Thane’s claim, of my presence beside him, makes something tighten in my chest.
Thane strides through the halls with the kind of effortless confidence that demands attention. Commanding. Wholly at ease in his own power. He moves with a warrior’s grace, his steps sure and unhurried, as if the stronghold itself bends to his presence.
And gods help me, it does something to me.
Our arms are still linked, and it’s impossible not to feel the raw strength coiled beneath his control. The fluid way he moves, the surety in each step—it’s infuriatingly intoxicating. How does someone make walking look like power and temptation all at once?
A warlord’s hold. A warrior’s steadiness.
I should be thinking about the Prophecy.
About Valen. About what his father said.
Instead, my pulse turns traitor, quickening for reasons that have nothing to do with any of it.
What is wrong with me?!
Two weeks.
That’s how long it’s been since we’ve had sex. Since the attack when I was flying with Calryx. That was the last time.
And after that?
Interrupted. Twice.
Too long.
And now, instead of untangling everything we just uncovered, instead of focusing on what actually matters, I’m thinking about him. The way his arm holds mine. The way his strength surrounds me. The way I feel when I’m close to him.
Distraction. A dangerous, consuming distraction.
Thane dips his head, his breath warm against my temple. “You’re quiet.”
I force myself to focus, to swallow down the heat rising in my chest. “Just thinking.”
His lips curve in the barest hint of amusement. He hums, low and knowing.
By all of the Elemental gods, he knows.
The bond.
That treacherous, infuriating, impossible thing that refuses to let me hide anything from him.
Heat climbs my neck. I keep my gaze forward, walking as if nothing’s wrong, as if my pulse isn’t pounding, as if my thoughts aren’t utterly unraveling at the feel of him beside me.
He doesn’t push, doesn’t pry, but I feel his amusement curling through the bond like a whisper of smoke. He knows exactly where my mind went. And he’s enjoying it.
Bastard.
But then, something else slips through, not just his amusement. Something primal and raw.
Wanting.
It settles low, winding through me, tightening somewhere deep in my core.
I let a small smile form, just enough for him to catch.
It goes both ways.
I slide my eyes toward him, catching the way his gaze darkens in return. Like we’re sharing something no one else can see.
We approach a grand stairway, wide and ornate, its dark stone steps worn smooth by centuries of passage. The balustrade curves beside us, carved with flame motifs that twist upward as if frozen mid-burn.
Just before we descend, Thane releases my arm and takes my hand instead. The change is seamless, natural. His fingers close around mine, guiding me as we start down.
I gather the fabric of my dress with my free hand, lifting it just enough to keep from catching the hem and tumbling down the steps in a thoroughly humiliating display.
Of everything I’ve done these past six months—this feels like the most likely way to meet my end. Flying with Calryx and fighting the Kethraki didn’t feel as perilous.
At least my slippers are flat. Small mercies.
Thane keeps pace with me. His thumb brushes once against my skin as he steadies me. There’s no urgency, no impatience, only care, as if his sole purpose in this moment is to ensure I make it down these steps without incident.
It is so different from anything I have ever known. The attention. The steadiness. The unspoken devotion in the way he guides me.
A memory surfaces of Ronan. Not love, but an old lover.
This is different.
Back then, I had never known what it meant to be cared for like this. Not out of expectation or obligation, but given freely.
I glance at Thane, at the ease in the way he steadies me, and the thought slips in before I can stop it.
When did I start trusting him like this? When did I let someone else care for me this way? Not just about me, but for me.
The answer doesn’t come all at once. It builds in pieces.