TWELVE
A LOT TO HOLD
Things are seldom what they seem. And sometimes, what’s right in front of us is the easiest thing to miss. Often I have to stop and push myself to gain a new perspective. How would the Shadow Clan have written history before the Shadow Wars?
—VALEN’S JOURNAL
AMARA
The morning of the ball, I wake to an empty bed.
Instinctively, I reach for Thane, my eyes still closed, but my fingers find only cool sheets. He’s been gone for a while. I frown, blinking against the soft morning light filtering through the curtains. The space beside me is empty, but it still holds the faint trace of him.
Then I remember.
At some point in the night, I felt him come to bed—the mattress dipping as he slid in next to me, the familiar weight of him settling close.
A soft press of lips to my temple. The warmth of his breath against my hair as he nuzzled against me.
His arm curled around my waist, pulling me into him, his touch firm but careful, as if he wasn’t sure whether I was awake.
Half-asleep, I sighed, sinking into him. “Mmm. You’re back.”
His voice was low, rough with exhaustion. “I am. Sorry I woke you.”
I barely had the energy to respond, already drifting again, but I had felt it—the way he exhaled, the tension easing from him. Like he’d been holding himself together all day.
As if here in this bed was the only place he let go.
Now, in the morning light, the bed feels too large.
I press my hand against the sheets where he’d been, wishing I’d held onto him just a little longer.
We still haven’t had time together—just us, uninterrupted, without duty pulling him away. There’s always something. A meeting, a crisis, a responsibility that demands his attention.
I rub sleep from my eyes. I suppose this is what it means to be with the Warlord.
But when I look over at his pillow, I see something.
A note.
And a flower.
A single Evening Primrose rests there, its pale yellow petals unfurling at the edges, catching the low morning light. The centers burn gold, just as I remember—delicate, but so sure.
They grow wild in the fields beyond my village.
I used to watch them in the evenings, swaying in the breeze like tiny lanterns in the grass.
I haven’t seen them in months.
A lump rises in my throat as I take it in, the sight pulling me back—to dusk-lit hills, to the cool brush of petals against my fingertips as I wove them into braids. My mother once told me they were a symbol of resilience and quiet strength, blooming in the dark when others had already closed.
Thane brought this flower here.
When could he have possibly returned to my village to find it?
I pick up the note, unfolding it carefully.
Good morning, Amara, darling.
I’m sorry I couldn’t stay.
Duty called me to the outpost for a few hours, but I’ll see you tonight at the ball.
His handwriting is bold and sure, but I trace the ink as if I could pull more from the words . . . more of him. All that he didn’t say in the note.
The flower says it for him.
If he left for only a few hours and still plans to return before the ball, then he flew on Xaroth.
Setting aside the flicker of disappointment still lingering beneath everything else, I reach for Calryx.
“Feel like flying together?”
Her response is immediate. “Always.”
“I’ll be there shortly—I just want to check on Lyra.”
“Your Warlord secured the saddle before he left with Xaroth.”
A small smile pulls at my lips.
After getting ready, I stop by Lyra’s room. I push the door open without knocking and lean against the frame as she blinks up at me, still half-asleep.
“I’ll be back in a few hours—we’re getting ready for the ball together, remember?”
She groans dramatically, rolling onto her stomach. “If I’m awake by then.”
“Don’t forget to take those herbs,” I add, pointing to the nightstand where a small sachet sits beside a glass of water. “They’ll help with the hangover.”
“Just fucking die,” she mutters, pulling the pillow over her head.
I laugh, shaking my head as I pull the door closed behind me, then head downstairs.
The castle is already alive with movement.
Members of the court linger in the dining hall, speaking in hushed tones over tea and morning bread, their clothes finer than usual, as if preparing for the night ahead. A noblewoman idly twirls a jeweled bracelet around her wrist, while another thumbs through a parchment, too distracted to eat.
Beyond the dining hall, the corridors are a flurry of activity.
Staff bustle through the halls, arms laden with swaths of deep crimson and gold for the evening’s decorations.
A pair of servants carry a towering arrangement of night-blooming lilies and golden laurels toward the great hall, their fragrance thick in the air.
From the kitchens comes the rich smell of roasted meats and spiced honey, the clatter of pots and knives rising and falling beneath it.
Excitement simmers underneath it all.
The ball will be grand. A night of celebration, yes—but also politics and power.
The thought of it turns my stomach.
Flying with Calryx will help me shake off those nerves.
I swipe a warm pastry from the table—flaky, buttery, filled with something sweet—and take a bite as I weave through the commotion, slipping past a steward barking orders about the placement of banners.
Outside, the morning air is crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and the distant crackle of forge-fire from the training grounds.
Before bed, I updated Calryx on everything—the revelation about Thane’s father, the Unmaking, the way the Shadow Element seemed to move on its own when Thane lost control of his emotions.
Even thinking about it now makes unease crawl beneath my skin.
I desperately need a respite from all of it.
Just for a little while.
After a long walk, the dragon field opens before me. The ground is carved with deep grooves from massive claws, the grass flattened where they’ve rested.
Dragons shift and stretch, their scales glinting in the early light as they rumble low greetings to one another. Some perch along the hillside, wings half-spread to catch the sun.
Riders move between them, checking straps, adjusting gear, speaking in quiet tones as they prepare for flight.
At the edge of it all stands Calryx.
She stands in the morning light, still and radiant.
Breathtaking.
Her scales are a radiant silvery-white and shimmer with an opalescent sheen, catching the sun and scattering soft hues of blue, green, and pink across her sleek frame. The effect is almost hypnotic, like light rippling across water, shifting with every movement.
Her head creates both elegance and power.
It is all smooth, flowing lines that enhance her regal presence.
A pair of delicately curved horns rise from her temples, pearlescent and branching like a stag’s antlers, lending her an otherworldly grace.
Her talons are finely tapered and sharp like well-honed daggers.
Then there are her eyes.
Emerald green.
Luminous and piercing. Like cut gemstones set into the face of something ancient and knowing. They find mine with quiet amusement, as if she can already tell what I’m thinking.
“Are you going to keep staring, or are we flying?”
I huff a laugh, stepping forward. “Flying.”
Calryx lowers her head, offering her foreleg as a ramp.
I climb up, my fingers brushing over the smooth, cool armor of her scales as I settle onto her neck, into the saddle.
The moment I find my seat, I feel the familiar pull of magics settle in—the enchanted straps tightening around my thighs and torso, secure without constricting, while the shield over my eyes hums faintly to life.
Calryx exhales. Muscles coil beneath me.
She spreads her wings, sunlight catching on the translucent membranes, casting shifting light across the ground below. Nearby dragons stir, tails flicking, acknowledging her.
Then, with a powerful push, she launches into the sky.
The ground drops away, wind rushing against my skin as she beats her wings once, twice—each powerful stroke sending us higher into the crisp morning air. Below, the field shrinks, the castle’s spires gleaming, banners already stirring in preparation for the night ahead.
Higher.
Faster.
Free.
The world stretches endlessly below us. The wind rushes past, cool against my skin, and unbridled joy floods through our bond.
It isn’t just mine.
Calryx’s exhilaration pours into me—her love for the sky, for speed, for the unbound freedom of flight.
And me.
I feel her love for me.
My emotions rise to meet hers, amplifying until the line between us blurs—like I belong here as much as she does.
She banks sharply, wings tilting with effortless control.
Sunlight glints off her opalescent scales, scattering flashes of color across the sky. Below, the landscape unfurls like a painting: rolling fields, winding rivers, the distant sprawl of the capital on the horizon.
Then she dives.
The drop is sudden, breath-stealing. I laugh, gripping the saddle as we plummet, only for her to snap her wings open at the last moment, catching the wind and propelling us upward again.
“Show off,” I tease through the bond.
Her response is immediate, firm. “Humans call it showing off because humans require witnesses. Dragons require only the sky.”
There is no jest in her tone—a truth so absolute, there’s no space for further discussion.
She’s not wrong.
Up here, there is no war.
No politics.
No expectations.
Only the sky, the wind.
And the unshakable bond between us.
Free.
Calryx climbs higher, the air thinning as her emerald eyes catch the light.
“Where would you like to go, Virelya?”
I don’t have to think about it.
“Anywhere.”