TWENTY
A DIFFERENT KIND OF BATTLE
Challenge calls to us. We can meet it, or turn away from it. That choice is always ours. Real strength isn’t found in our magics or dragons, but in what endures beneath them: the people we love, and the love that keeps us standing.
—VALEN’S JOURNAL
THANE
Iwatch as she walks away, Garrick leading the two most important women in our lives.
To meet his parents, of all things. I don’t think I ever truly believed Garrick would settle down.
My gaze follows Amara through the ballroom. Every Elemental tattoo along her spine is visible for the entire court to see. The boldness of that dress didn’t just steal the breath from my lungs the first time I saw her tonight—she’s making a statement to everyone here.
To every noble in this room. To the council.
To the realm itself.
Does she even know how much that matters?
And somehow, she’s handling all of this with a kind of grace and instinct that can’t be taught.
My Amara.
She keeps becoming something even more extraordinary than I imagined.
“She’s a good one, brother.”
I turn to find Rowena and Sera standing a few feet away, both looking far too pleased with themselves. I can’t help the grin that breaks across my face.
“Aww,” Rowena coos dramatically. “He’s in love.”
My grin only widens.
Gods.
I run a hand through my hair and glance away, suddenly feeling far too exposed.
“Row, leave him be. He has enough to manage,” Sera says, gently chiding her wife, before turning back to me. “How are you doing tonight, Thane?”
“I’m managing. It’s the same damned maneuvering from the nobles—one clan threatening to leave, another questioning the alliance altogether. It’s been like this for years.” I exhale sharply, rubbing a hand across my jaw. “They still don’t seem to grasp how bad things are becoming.”
Rowena’s expression tightens.
“Division is exactly what the Shadeheart wants,” I continue. “We’ve been a united realm for over five hundred years. Why splinter the realm apart while the Shadeheart grows stronger?”
I know they’re scared. But gods, I’m exhausted by it. Tonight would be so much worse if it weren’t for Amara.
Without even meaning to, my gaze drifts toward the direction she disappeared.
I can’t see her anymore, but I can still feel her through the bond. She’s happy.
And . . . concerned.
My brow furrows slightly.
About Lyra? What in the gods is happening over there?
“And what about Amara? How’s our Spiritborn holding up?” Sera asks.
I turn back toward them, that stupid smile returning before I can stop it.
Rowena punches me on the arm, grinning. Good gods, the woman hits hard.
“What the fuck, Row?!”
“I just love seeing you like this.”
I roll my eyes while rubbing my arm.
“She’s doing well. Better than I expected, to be honest.” I glance toward the ballroom again instinctively. “She was nervous about all of this when I first told her.”
Sera rubs a hand against my back. “That’s really good, Thane. I never doubted her.”
Rowena suddenly squeals, causing both Sera and me to jump.
“This is all going so much better than I could have hoped!” she announces, clapping her hands together excitedly.
Before Rowena can continue tormenting me about being in love, a familiar voice cuts through the conversation.
“Warlord.”
I glance over to find Master Orlon Revic approaching, his dark formal robes immaculate despite the revelry of the evening.
Bronze threading catches the chandelier light along the sleeves and collar, the symbol of the council embroidered neatly over his chest. The man somehow always manages to look like he’s carrying six separate political disasters at once without allowing a single crack to show.
Of all the council members, Orlon is usually the one I can count on to keep a clear head, and for that, I’m grateful.
The moment I see him, something in me shifts automatically.
The Warlord settling back into place.
Rowena notices immediately, her grin fading. Sera’s hand slips quietly against the small of her back.
“Master Revic,” I greet evenly.
“My apologies for interrupting,” Revic says smoothly, inclining his head respectfully toward Sera and Rowena before returning his attention to me. “But several noble houses have already asked me about securing private audiences with the Spiritborn before the week’s end.”
Of course they have.
I suppress the urge to drag a hand down my face. Rowena mutters a curse under her breath.
“That was fast,” Sera says quietly.
“They waste no time,” Revic replies.
My lips press into a thin line.
Across the ballroom, I can still feel Amara through the bond. Her emotions brush faintly against mine—amusement, affection, traces of lingering concern from Lyra’s panic.
And now this.
Nobles already circling. Already trying to secure access to her. Political alliances. Influence. Power.
Gods, I hate it.
“Which houses?” I ask.
Revic folds his hands neatly behind his back. “House Grendin. House Marinth. And Lord Hale has already requested a private supper within the next few days.”
“Lord Hale already had a private supper with her while we were still at the outpost.” Irritation burns low beneath my skin. “He does not need another one.”
The memory surfaces immediately after.
Lady Evelyne slipping into my quarters believing I would be there. Amara seeing her. The hurt on her face before I could even explain.
Gods, I hated that. I would have thrown Evelyne out myself if I’d been there.
“They’re treating her like an opportunity,” Rowena says sharply.
“They are treating her like the Spiritborn,” Revic corrects carefully. “And many are eager to secure favor before the political landscape shifts further.”
His words don’t make me feel any better. If anything, it makes it worse.
My gaze drifts instinctively across the ballroom again, searching for Amara through the sea of dancers and candlelight. I find her near the Kaelens’ table, Lyra still clinging to one of her hands while Garrick looks entirely too pleased with himself.
Amara laughs softly at something Mama Maeve says. The sight hits me straight in the chest.
She looks happy. Relaxed. Gods, I want to keep it that way.
Revic lowers his voice slightly. “Most of the requests appear harmless enough,” he says carefully. “But several seem . . . strategic.”
Of course they do.
The realm is beginning to fracture, alliances shifting beneath our feet while the Shadeheart grows stronger every day. And now Amara stands at the center of it all—the Spiritborn, the symbol everyone wants tied to their side before the storm truly arrives.
And every noble in this room knows it.
“They’ll wait,” I say flatly.
Revic inclines his head once. “Understood, Warlord.”
But even after he steps away, the irritation lingers beneath my skin. Because this is what leadership actually is.
Not crowns. Not power. Not glory.
It’s watching the people you care about become targets the moment the world realizes how important they are.
AMARA
The ballroom hums with life, the music getting louder as dancers move in elegant formations, silks and embroidered tunics swirling in a sea of color. The scent of jasmine and spiced wine lingers in the air, mixing with the faint heat of burning sconces that line the towering stone walls.
Gold light gleams off polished marble floors, and chandeliers overhead flicker like captured starlight, illuminating conversations weaving endlessly between nobles, warlords, and diplomats.
Eventually, I politely excuse myself from the Kaelens to go looking for Thane. It isn’t difficult to find him because the bond leads me straight to him. I follow the quiet pull through the crowd until the sea of people parts just enough for him to come into view.
His back faces me, the line of his shoulders tense beneath the dark fabric of his formal coat.
Master Revic is walking away. Then Thane lifts his head slightly and turns in my direction. He must feel me through the bond too. And the moment his eyes find mine, the tension leaves his body almost instantly.
I smile before I can stop myself.
As he steps aside, I catch sight of Rowena standing beside him with Sera. The resemblance between her and Thane is almost startling.
“Hi,” I say as I step beside him.
“Hi,” he murmurs back, smiling already.
He wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me close. Then he leans in, his lips a breath from my ear.
“Don’t leave me again.”
Never.
I press my lips together, looking down as I try—and fail—not to smile.
When I lift my head again, I find Rowena practically glowing while Sera watches us with quiet satisfaction.
“Oh, knock it off,” Thane says, exasperated. “Can you please go somewhere else for a while?”
Sera laughs as she pulls her reluctant wife away, still beaming at us.
The moment they disappear into the crowd, I exhale softly. But before I can fully collect my thoughts, another figure steps into the space beside us.
“You’re handling this well.”
Valen’s voice is calm, his presence quieter than the chaos around us, but no less commanding.
The ballroom continues to move: courtiers exchanging pleasantries, warriors drinking in corners, the ever-present buzz of conversation laced with political undertones. Some are discussing alliances, military strategies, and the looming war. Some are discussing me.
Valen notices it all. Thane does too, though he makes no move to step away from me.
“Define ‘well,’” I say dryly.
“You haven’t burned the ballroom down yet,” Valen replies, amusement flickering briefly through his gaze.
“Yet,” I echo with a scoff.
Beyond us, I catch glimpses of guests watching from the edges of the room. Some whisper behind raised glasses. Others glance away too quickly when I catch them staring.
The scrutiny of the evening presses tighter against my ribs, but Valen’s gaze is focused only on me.
“How are you?” he asks.
Not How’s the ball. Not How’s Ardyn. Just—How are you?
And gods, I appreciate that more than I can say.
I shrug, not sure how to answer.
“I don’t know. I’m still standing.”
“That’s a start,” Valen replies with an easy smile.