SIXTEEN
A MERE COMMODITY
As the saying goes, ‘Courtly diplomacy is the grand illusion of letting someone else have your way.’ It is a tedious, civilized farce where one smiles at a belligerent ally, praises the extravagant cut of their robes, and softly reminds them that a single stroke of your quill could end all their privilege.
—VALEN’S JOURNAL
AMARA
Thane leads me onto the dance floor, weaving through the crowd until we reach the center. His hands find my hips. I slide my arms around his neck. As the music swells around us, it’s like we’re the only ones left in the room.
“Are you feeling . . . at ease, my lord?” I ask, unable to resist the jab.
Thane groans. “Please do not ever call me that.”
He chuckles, then lowers his voice near my ear, husky with barely restrained amusement.
“And yes, there is . . . ease. But we’re not done.”
His grin sharpens, sending desire twisting low in my stomach.
“I will have you tonight.”
My thighs clench instinctively, heat flashing through me. Gods. I could still feel him.
“So,” a voice cuts in smoothly, “how are the young lovers feeling?”
I jolt, turning sharply toward the interruption—only to find Rowena gliding across the dance floor, her grin all sharp edges and mischief. Sera moves beside her, the picture of composed tolerance, as though long accustomed to—and entirely resigned to—her wife’s chaos.
“Rowena,” Thane mutters, his voice carrying the weary acceptance of a man who has suffered this torment his entire life.
“Oh, don’t let me stop you,” Rowena says breezily, spinning perfectly in step with Sera.
“By all means, continue. Just do everyone a favor and spend a few minutes on the dance floor first. Let the guests get a proper look at the two of you before you disappear again.”
She pauses for effect.
“That way, everyone can politely pretend they have no idea where you disappeared to.”
I stifle a laugh, pressing my face briefly into Thane’s shoulder. A low chuckle rumbles through his chest.
“Rowena, let them be,” Sera sighs, though the fondness in her voice is unmistakable.
“Let them be?” Rowena gasps, clutching a hand dramatically to her chest. “Sera, my brother—the stoic warlord—is wrapped around a goddess disguised as a mortal. Like a damn romance novel come to life!”
Heat rushes to my cheeks.
A goddess.
The word echoes louder than anything else Rowena said. Louder than her teasing about Thane. Louder than the laughter around us.
My mind doesn’t see the Spiritborn. It sees the girl who raced through muddy fields with dirt beneath her fingernails, hair too wild to tame, and clothes patched because there was no money for new ones.
That girl still lives inside me. She has never once believed she could be anyone’s goddess. I bite the inside of my cheek, fighting the instinct to shrink beneath the attention.
Rowena’s head whips between Sera and us, eyes wide.
“Do you know what this means?”
“That he has good taste?” Sera replies dryly, perfectly unfazed.
“That he has finally, finally stopped being a brooding, miserable ass,” Rowena corrects, her eyes sparkling with delight.
Thane sighs, long-suffering, but his hands remain firm at my waist, keeping me tucked against him.
Sera shakes her head. “Young love is sweet. Stop being a pest, Rowena.” Then she lifts a brow. “As if we didn’t spend years sneaking off into dark corners ourselves.”
I laugh, looking up at Thane. “Is this what it’s always like with siblings?”
“Unfortunately,” he says with deep resignation, “yes.”
“You’ll survive,” Rowena replies breezily.
His chest shakes with another quiet laugh beneath my hands.
“Rowena, I swear—” Thane starts, his tone pure exasperation.
“Oh, relax,” she says, waving a dismissive hand. “We all knew this was going to happen eventually. The only people who didn’t seem to realize it were you two.”
Then she turns to me, brows lifting.
“Really, you should have made a move ages ago. My brother can be painfully obtuse sometimes.”
I gape at her as warmth rushes into my face.
Rowena tilts her head.
“Amara, dear, my brother has had a thing for you for months. How did you possibly not notice?”
Rowena’s still laughing to herself as she and Sera spin away while I stare after her in complete disbelief.
I turn back to Thane, narrowing my eyes.
“Is that true? Did you have a thing for me for as long as your sister claims, Warlord?” I tease, arching a brow at him.
Thane’s gaze smolders, heat darkening the smoke-gray of his eyes.
“I definitely did.”
His hand lifts, fingers curling gently beneath my jaw, grazing my skin with a touch so careful it sends a shiver racing through me.
“And anyway,” he murmurs, his voice softening into something intimate, “I already told you this.”
“Yes, but it’s different coming from your sister!” The words tumble out before I can stop them. “All that time I was pining after you. So much wasted time.”
My mind flashes through every moment I convinced myself meant nothing—every lingering look, every careful touch, every time he stepped too close and I told myself not to read into it.
And all this time . . . he wanted me too.
Thane’s hand tightens slightly at my waist, drawing me closer as we continue moving across the dance floor.
“I didn’t realize what it was at first,” he admits quietly. “That was part of the problem. I kept lying to myself, convincing myself it was anything except preparing the Spiritborn for war, like the prophecy said I was meant to.”
His thumb brushes against my waist.
“I fought it far longer than I should have.”
That slow, crooked smile returns.
“Amara, darling,” he says quietly, “I love you. I want you. I need you.”
A breath.
A heartbeat.
“That’s all there is to it.”
As we move across the dance floor, I feel the bond pulse between us, deep and impossible to deny.
And gods help me, I fall for him all over again. For the first time in my life, surrender doesn’t feel like weakness. It feels like coming home.
Thane’s thumb brushes over my cheek, his voice dropping again, velvet and heat.
“I wish I could keep you all to myself.”
The words send another shiver through me.
He straightens reluctantly, glancing toward the dais.
“But there are people we need to greet,” he says, amusement tugging at his mouth. “The council and a few others have been waiting to see the Spiritborn—though I told them I needed some time with you first.”
He presses one last lingering kiss to my lips before pulling back, lacing his fingers firmly through mine. His eyes remain fixed on me, an unspoken promise lingering there.
And every part of me wants to drag him right back into that alcove.
Where it’s just us.
But duty waits.
Thane turns, leading me forward into the glittering crowd. Together, we cross the marble floor until we reach the dais.
There, seated in regal arcs, the council members and high-ranking nobles wait, watching.
I take a slow breath to force my thoughts into order, and square my shoulders.
Time to go be the Spiritborn.
Introductions blur together.
Lords. Ladies. Dukes. Commanders. Names spill past me, barely registering. Men and women dressed in elaborate finery, their expressions shifting between curiosity, reverence, and careful calculation.
Some bow.
Some shake my hand.
Some watch me far too closely.
They speak of duty, of alliances, of admiration for what I have done. But I know what this truly is.
They’re deciding what I’m worth to them. Deciding what kind of leader I might be.
What kind of weapon.
I’m already exhausted by it.
And somewhere deep inside—beneath the polished smile I wear for them, part of me still aches for the quiet sanctuary I found in Thane’s arms only moments ago.
“That one was staring at your breasts through that entire conversation,” Lyra mutters as she strides up beside me, taking a sip of wine. Her eyes flick toward a lord who clearly believes subtlety is for lesser men.
“I hate this.”
“Oh, it’s only just begun.”
“Remind me why I have to talk to all these people?”
“Because you’re The Spiritborn, Mara,” Lyra replies, with a grin. “And the nobles love nothing more than feeling important. Smile, nod, try not to stab anyone.”
I scowl into my goblet. “No promises.”
I meet a duke who talks about himself for ten minutes straight. A merchant lord who asks how my bond magics might impact trade. A Lady who offers me a marriage proposal on behalf of her son.
Did she not see me with the Warlord in the middle of the dance floor?
“Does anyone here know how to speak like a normal person?” I whisper to Lyra between greetings.
“Not a chance,” she murmurs. “This is all just a game to them.”
“A game?”
“Oh yes. One where they try to figure out who has the most power in the room.”
I glance at Thane, who stands speaking with Valen nearby, posture straight, entirely at ease in a world that still feels foreign to me.
“And who wins?” I ask, taking another sip of wine.
Lyra smirks into her goblet. “Tonight? You do.”
I try to hold onto that thought as another noble approaches, speaking as though I’m merely there to admire his brilliance.
“Of course, your presence at the ball signifies a turning point in our history,” the man drones dramatically, voice thick with self-importance.
Then he launches into an agonizing explanation of the elements and my powers—how they work, what they mean—as though I’m a clueless observer instead of the person actually wielding them.
I plaster on a polite smile, nodding occasionally while fantasizing about setting his robes on fire.
Lyra leans in close, barely suppressing her laughter. “I think he practiced this speech in front of a mirror.”
“If he says ‘turning point’ one more time,” I mutter, “I’m going to turn him into ash.”
“Oh, please do,” she whispers back, far too delighted by the idea.
I take another long sip of wine, contemplating how many ways I can make this evening end faster.
And then I feel it.
The air becomes charged. The kind of shift that only happens when someone powerful enters the conversation.
Thane.