SIXTEEN #2
The noble in front of me notices it too—his words faltering mid-sentence. The conversations around us do not stop entirely, but I can feel the subtle change, the way the attention in the room gravitates toward him.
Toward us.
Because Thane Caelum, Fire Warlord, Heir to the Realm, does not move without purpose.
And right now?
He has chosen to stand at my side.
He doesn’t look at the noble. Doesn’t acknowledge the whispers curling around us. He simply places a hand against the small of my back and finds my gaze.
Smoke-gray eyes, focused only on me. In that one simple act, the entire room tilts in our favor.
“You disappeared on me,” Thane murmurs, his voice lowered just for me.
A thrill shudders through me, flashes of that alcove igniting across my skin.
“You had to mingle . . . do Warlord things,” I reply, arching a brow.
His hand tightens slightly at my waist, fingers flexing.
“I decided it could wait.”
My pulse stumbles.
Because everyone is watching. Because he does not care. Because he has made his choice, and he is letting the entire room see it.
“Oh, now this is interesting,” Lyra hums, sipping her wine like this is the best entertainment she’s had all year.
“Ly—” I warn.
“Thane, tell me,” she cuts in shamelessly, “do you enjoy watching all these lords squirm?”
“Immensely,” he replies smoothly, without hesitation.
I groan under my breath.
“Well, you’ve certainly made your point,” Lyra continues, glancing at the nobles who are now shifting uncomfortably, very aware that Thane Caelum does not often linger at someone’s side like this.
“That was the idea,” Thane says casually, taking a sip of his wine.
I shoot him a look. “You’re making them nervous on purpose, aren’t you?”
His mouth curves up at one side.
“Only the ones who think they can manipulate you.”
I stare at them both—Lyra and Thane—watching them sip their wine in perfect, smug synchronicity. A matched set of chaos and cunning.
I exhale sharply, shaking my head. “You two are terrifyingly in sync.”
“Thank you, my friend,” Lyra says sweetly, entirely unapologetic.
Thane merely shrugs.
I should feel overwhelmed by the stares. The whispers. The scrutiny curling through the ballroom around us. But I’m not. Because he is not doing this for them. He’s doing this for me. For us.
Beneath all the whispers and lingering stares, the meaning feels unmistakable.
This is where I stand.
This is who I stand beside.
We chose each other.
And the entire court can see it.
Before I can fully process the intensity of that realization, another presence steps into our space.
Garrick.
Still sheepish. Still slightly wary. But also—thoroughly enjoying himself.
Thane notices him immediately. And gods, Thane looks one sentence away from murder.
“You’ve got balls to talk to me right now,” Thane says, his voice edged with warning.
Garrick grins, utterly unbothered. “What can I say? I have a death wish.”
He clears his throat, attempting—and failing—to look serious before glancing between me and Thane. His gaze drops briefly to Thane’s hand still resting at my waist.
“So,” Garrick says, in a tone far too casual to be innocent.
Thane just stares at him, daring him to continue.
Garrick, unfortunately, does.
“You two look . . . cozy.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, careful not to smudge the makeup Elira spent so much time applying.
Thane doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.
His voice cuts low and unimpressed: “Why are you here?”
“I’ve got a good reason,” Garrick replies cheerfully. “But honestly? Seeing you this worked up is just a bonus. You know, after this afternoon, I really thought my head would be on a stake in the main courtyard,” he muses, rubbing the back of his neck. “But, here I am. Still alive, brother.”
“For now, brother,” Thane mutters darkly.
“Ah. Delayed execution.” Garrick nods solemnly. “Understood.”
I press my lips together, trying not to smile.
Thane’s hand flexes once against my waist—the only outward sign of restraint.
“I still haven’t forgiven you for that, by the way.”
His tone sounds almost casual, which somehow makes it more threatening.
“Oh, trust me, no one has.” Garrick sighs dramatically before shooting me a pleading look, like I might somehow save him.
Lyra nearly spits out her wine.
“You know,” she interjects, laughing, “I take back everything I said about hating this ball. This is fantastic.”
Before Thane can genuinely consider murder, Garrick pivots smoothly toward Lyra, his voice turning smooth with practiced charm.
“Lyra,” he says, offering his hand, “would you care to dance?”
Lyra pauses mid-sip, eyebrows lifting. Then, without missing a beat, she downs the rest of her wine, sets the goblet aside, and slips her hand in his.
“Try to keep up, soldier.”
Garrick laughs, leading her toward the dance floor, and I swear I hear him mutter something about what he’s gotten himself into.
I watch them disappear into the crowd, shaking my head.
Lyra moves like she owns the entire ballroom, the deep emerald silk of her gown sweeping behind her like dark water.
Gold embroidery coils over the bodice—delicate and intricate, but somehow still bold, like her.
The slit along her leg is high enough to be scandalous, which means it was almost certainly intentional.
She looks made for this world. Daring. Effortless. Entirely in control.
I don’t notice it at first—the subtle tightening of Thane’s hand at my waist, the absent circles his thumb traces against my lower back. Not until he leans closer.
“I just can’t seem to keep my hands off you,” he murmurs, his breath brushing my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. “It’s becoming a problem.”
A slinking, simmering heat spreads through me.
I lift my gaze to him through my lashes. “So what are you going to do about it, oh powerful Warlord?”
The corner of his mouth curves slightly.
“You know,” he says quietly, his voice threaded with restraint, “I can still feel you—your leg hooked around me, the way you pressed into me, the way your slickness felt on my . . . ”
He trails off, the hunger in his expression impossible to miss as his gaze drops briefly to my lips.
Warmth rushes through me instantly, memories of the alcove flashing through my mind—his hands gripping my thighs, my lips against his neck, the hard press of his body against mine.
“Stop talking,” I hiss, my face burning, because if he finishes that sentence, I will actually combust.
“Why?” he asks, entirely too composed. Too controlled.
I turn sharply, glaring at him, but his expression remains infuriatingly unreadable—except for the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Gods, he’s enjoying this.
“Because if you keep talking like that,” I mutter, fighting to sound remotely composed, “I might have to drag you back to that alcove. And we are in the middle of a ball. For The Spiritborn,” I add, flailing for any shred of dignity.
Thane doesn’t move away, his fingers now tracing the lines of my lowest tattoo, Earth.
“And?” he asks softly.
I inhale sharply, gathering every ounce of self-control I possess.
“And people are watching.”
“Let them,” he says, his eyes burning into mine, leaving no room for argument.
Before I can even think of a response, someone clears their throat nearby. I jolt slightly, stepping back just as Thane straightens, turning toward the interruption.
A nobleman, dressed in deep emerald silks, bows slightly before us, his expression carefully measured.
“Warlord Caelum. Lady Amara.”
I barely suppress a groan. Because of course the moment Thane gets me completely unraveled, duty comes calling again.
Thane’s hand lingers on my back for just a second longer before he turns fully to address the man. I force my mind back to reality, back to the ball, back to why we are here.
As Thane is drawn into yet another political discussion with a cluster of nobles and council members, I watch him over the rim of my wine glass. He moves through the conversation with practiced ease, expression unreadable, posture perfectly controlled.
It’s strange.
Just moments ago, he had been soft with me in a way no one else really sees—whispering things meant only for me, holding me like I mattered more than the rest of the world.
And now?
He is the warlord again. Duty-bound. Controlled.
The nobleman straightens from his bow, a small, tight smile on his face.
“But Warlord Caelum,” he presses, “word reaches us from the northern borders. It seems the Earth Clan has recalled their outposts.”
Hearing ‘Earth Clan’ pulls me back into the present. My clan.
Thane’s posture remains perfectly composed, I catch the slight tightening in his shoulders. He inclines his head.
“A precautionary measure, no doubt. The Earth Clan has always valued prudence.”
Another noble—a tall man with sharp features and the gleam of ambition in his eyes—steps forward, swirling the wine in his goblet.
“Prudence, yes,” he says lightly. “Or perhaps . . . a lack of faith in Fire Clan leadership to contain the unrest.”
The words are casual. The intent behind them is not.
A murmur stirs the small cluster gathered around us. Thane’s smile remains perfectly intact, but something in his smoke-gray eyes cools noticeably.
The tall man continues, clearly emboldened. “What is the council suggesting could be done? To assuage the fears of those in the other clans?”
He swirls his wine again, the motion lazy enough to feel deliberate.
“Perhaps a gesture. Or . . . information, to show how the tides are turning.” His gaze slides to me, sharp and assessing.
“The realm has heard stories, but stories are becoming rumors. Rumors become fear. If the people were to see the Spiritborn for themselves, perhaps confidence could begin to return.”
The suggestion hangs in the air, sweetly offered, carefully cloaked, but unmistakably calculated.
Before Thane even speaks, I feel it. The bond pulls taut between us. Tension coils low in my chest—heavy, electric. Beneath it, anger simmers like magma beneath stone—contained for now, but capable of devastation when unleashed.