TWENTY-SEVEN
ZEPHYR
I think I finally understand. Hope can power a realm as surely as fire or steel. If we are to survive what comes next, we must give them hope.
—VALEN’S JOURNAL
AMARA
These past few hours with Thane have been a rare kind of refuge, breathless and consuming. A world where only the two of us exist.
We’re tangled in the sheets after another lingering round. Sweat cools on our skin. My body aches, in the best way, from everything we’ve shared. I can’t stop touching him. Can’t stop needing him. But I know it won’t last.
The truth presses in like a bruise: the attack was only last night. Thane reaches out and brushes a damp strand of hair from my face, his touch achingly gentle.
“Will you come with me to see my father?” he asks softly. “And then visit the injured in the infirmary?”
His gaze drifts toward the window before returning to mine.
“It will be good for the people to see the Spiritborn.”
I nod. “Of course I will.”
Thane’s eyes search mine, something shifting behind the smoke-gray. Pride and worry war there in equal measure. He leans in and presses a kiss to my forehead.
“They need hope,” he murmurs. “We all do.”
We share a bath, and somehow, miraculously, we show restraint.
The water is warm, easing the soreness from our muscles and washing away the sweat, the lingering heat, and the chaos left in the wake of last night.
Beneath the surface, his fingers find mine more than once, and each brush reminds me how easy it would be to forget the rest of the world exists.
The bond hums between us, a gentle pull I have already come to rely on.
It steadies me in ways I never expected and feels as familiar as something I’ve known my entire life.
It reminds me of home. Of safety. Of the quiet reassurance that no matter how far I wander, there is always a way back.
Like a thread wrapped around my wrist, impossible to lose.
I never expected the bond to feel this natural, or to realize how much peace it would bring me.
The heat curls around us as we soak in comfortable silence.
Once dry, we both pull on soft tunics and pants, our more formal gear left untouched. I slip on my boots and hook the belt around my waist, fingers moving on muscle memory. Thane runs a hand through his damp hair and gives me a small, tired smile.
When our eyes meet in the mirror, the bond gives a quiet tug, as if reminding me that neither of us walked away from that conversation alone.
THANE
Air.
That was unexpected.
Earth would have made sense because she’s of Earth Clan. A wall of stone rising between her and danger. Something solid. Defensive. Immovable.
But Amara chose air.
I drag my shirt over my head and glance toward her as I pull on my boots. Morning light spills through the tall windows in pale ribbons, catching against the dark waves of her hair as she stands before the mirror.
I close myself off from the bond because she asked me not to listen. Amara is still new to this and has not had enough practice blocking. Even now, I can still feel her beneath the surface of it all, though her thoughts no longer reach me.
And still, after everything, she stands there with her chin lifted.
Amara was thrown headfirst into the cesspool of politics required to rule a realm, and somehow she has not let it consume her. No matter what is placed at her feet—prophecy, scrutiny, bloodshed, impossible expectations—she keeps moving forward.
Last night should have buried her. I was terrified the first time I stepped before the court in place of Father. Instead, Amara walked into that ballroom and faced nobles, councilors, and predators who would happily tear apart any weakness they found.
She stepped into the lion’s den and handled it with such grace and boldness. Not once did she let them see her bleed.
Then Ardyn fucking approached her.
My stomach tightens at the memory.
By all the gods.
I should have anticipated it. Ardyn never could leave wounds untouched once she found them. And Amara is already carrying enough invisible scars to drown beneath.
The guilt settles heavy beneath my ribs. I’ve got to be better. Do better. To protect Amara where I can.
Whether I like it or not, there are things I cannot protect her from. I will fight beside her until my last breath. I will throw myself before any blade, any shadow, any monster this realm unleashes if it means she survives.
But I cannot stop what she is destined to face. That truth haunts me more than anything.
Then, she went from the lion’s den and stepped into hell. Fucking Shadow Forces in the capital. I never thought I’d see the day.
I should have positioned more guards near the eastern corridor. Should have seen the fractures forming before the night shattered apart completely. Every decision I make now carries lives beside it, and last night proved how quickly everything can collapse.
While Amara slept, I spent hours dealing with the aftermath.
Securing the palace.
Moving the wounded.
Receiving casualty reports.
Trying to keep terrified members of the court from unraveling and spreading panic through the capital.
And through all of it, one thought kept clawing its way back to the surface.
Amara.
She almost burned out. I almost lost her.
Behind me, she lifts her arms and begins weaving her hair into a braid.
The movement pulls my attention instantly.
The air shifts around her without thought, subtle currents curling against her skin as though the Element itself reaches for her instinctively. Protective. Weightless. Alive.
Not rigid or immovable like earth, but adaptive.
The way she is. She bends instead of breaking.
And somehow . . . she does the same thing to me. Rowena was right. I have changed thanks to my Amara. The crushing pressure in my chest eases when she’s near. The constant weight of command, war, shadow magics, expectation—it all feels lighter around her, easier to carry.
Like breathing clean air after years of smoke.
A zephyr.
Soft enough to miss if you are not paying attention. Strong enough to change the course of a storm.
My little zephyr.
The thought hits me so suddenly I nearly laugh at myself.
She catches my gaze in the mirror. “What?”
I had not realized I was staring.
I straighten, fully dressed now, but I still cannot stop watching her fingers work through the dark braid draped over her shoulder. I want to cross the room. To press my mouth against the back of her neck and bury my hands in that impossibly soft hair.
But I know exactly where that would lead. If I touch her now, we’ll never make it to the infirmary.
A faint smile pulls at my mouth before I can stop it.
“Nothing,” I murmur.
Then, softer this time, the word slips free before I can think better of it.
“Zephyr.”
She turns then, brows raised.
“Did you call me a breeze?” she asks with a laugh.
“I did,” I reply, unable to hide my smile. “A zephyr, to be exact.”
The look on her face levels me: pure delight.
“Why?” she says with a laugh.
I move to stand behind her, meeting her gaze through the mirror. I find myself caught in the warm brown of her eyes yet again. Gods, I don’t think I’ll ever tire of that color.
I rest my hands on her shoulders and swallow, struggling to explain what she’s done to me. How she makes it easier to breathe. She must see it on my face because her brows furrow.
“Thane, what is it?”
Her expression shifts from delight to concern.
No.
I don’t want that look on her face. Not because of me.
“You make me breathe,” the words stumble out.
Her brows pull together. “What?”
I shake my head softly, frustrated with myself. Gods, why is this so difficult?
“Before you . . . ” My grip tightens slightly against her shoulders. “It felt like I was drowning beneath all of it. The war. The crown. The shadows.”
I meet her gaze in the mirror.
“Then you arrived, and suddenly I could breathe again.”
Her expression softens instantly, her eyes shining.
“Thane . . . ”
“You’re my zephyr.”
She turns around and wraps her arms around my waist, pulling me to her. I fold her against me without hesitation. For a moment, I simply hold her there, marveling at both the strength and gentleness within her.
Zephyr.