TWENTY-EIGHT #2
The door opens softly. Maris slips inside with practiced grace, the kind that never disturbs the peace of a room. She nods to us and crosses to Lord Eryndor without a word, gently adjusting the pillows behind his back as though stepping back into a role she knows by heart.
Thane and I move toward the door together. Our hands brush once, then again, before he threads his fingers through mine.
I glance back toward the chair. “Does he always do that? Move his fingers like that?”
Thane follows my gaze. “The grooves?” He shrugs. “As long as I can remember.”
As the doors close behind us, Thane lets out a breath.
“He seems better today,” Thane says quietly. He doesn’t look at me, but I hear the relief threaded through his voice.
I glance over at him. There’s something different about him this morning. Not lighter, exactly, but steadier. As though sitting with his father gave him something solid to hold on to, even if only for a little while.
“Yes,” I say softly. “He does.”
Thane squeezes my hand.
We continue down the corridor in comfortable silence, our footsteps echoing against the stone. The stronghold is more awake now. Voices drift through the halls, mingling with the distant clatter of work resuming after the chaos of the night before. Yet this stretch of corridor remains mostly empty.
As we near the ballroom, the energy shifts. The air feels heavier here, as though the stone itself remembers what happened.
My steps falter. Then I stop.
The massive doors stand partially open, leaving just enough space to see inside.
Sunlight filters through the high windows, casting long slants of gold across the wreckage. Scorched banners hang in tatters. The once-polished floor is blackened in places, scarred by fire and blood. The scent of smoke still lingers, faint but stubborn.
Thane comes to a halt beside me when our joined hands pull taut between us. I don’t look at him. My eyes remain fixed on the room. On what we survived.
He follows my gaze, his jaw tightening as he takes it all in again.
Then, softly but with conviction, he says,
“It will be rebuilt.”
I nod, but my gaze remains fixed on the destruction. It doesn’t look like a ballroom anymore. It looks like a wound that hasn’t finished bleeding.
Morning light streams through shattered stained glass, scattering fractured color across the scorched floor.
Chunks of the towering pillars are gone, leaving deep gouges in the stone.
Tables lie overturned and splintered. Banners and garlands that once marked a celebration now hang in tatters, like remnants of a memory no one wants to revisit.
Bits of ash drift through the air, catching the sunlight as they fall.
Only the glass ceiling high above remains intact.
The room smells of smoke, steel, and ruin, as though something sacred was torn open and left exposed. Yet even through the devastation, the light finds its way in. The sun refuses to be shut out. It spills across the wreckage with the same warmth it always has, indifferent to the destruction below.
Thane must feel the sadness pulling at me through the bond because he squeezes my hand again.
“We’ll make it better,” he says quietly. “Stronger.”
But my eyes remain fixed on the scorched marble floor, on the place where I stood when the first scream cut through the music. I remember the sounds before anything else.
The crash of shattering glass.
The sharp edge of panic.
The instant everything changed.
I remember the heat flooding my veins, magic flaring wild and untamed as panic surged through the room. I remember the fear in people’s eyes, the chaos, the blood. Calryx’s scream echoed through my mind, begging me to focus, to hold on.
And Thane.
Carving a path through the fire, coming for me with fury in his eyes.
My pulse kicks up. I close my eyes long enough to take a controlled breath. The memory is branded beneath my skin, seared into the deepest parts of me.
The bond tightens across my chest, hot and insistent.
He feels it. My fear, the way it’s rising again.
Then his thumb brushes across my knuckles, pulling me back from the edge of the memory. Just like that, the panic loosens its grip. I breathe deeply, searching for the steadiness I need, and turn away from the wreckage.
“We should go,” I say, my voice even now. “There are people waiting.”
Thane nods, and without another word, we continue down the corridor hand in hand. I let the solidness of his grip anchor me, quieting the thoughts still trying to pull me backward.
The air changes again as we move deeper into the castle and the bustle of life replaces the silence.
Voices echo through the halls in a constant murmur, and the scent of poultices and bloodroot gradually replaces the lingering smell of smoke.
Now the castle smells less like battle and more like its aftermath.
The infirmary doors stand open.
Inside, the space is crowded but orderly. Beds line the walls, every one occupied. Some patients sleep while others sit upright, their expressions wary but alive. Healers move steadily between them, offering quiet encouragement as they check wounds and replace bandages.
Morning light pours through the wide windows, and a gentle breeze stirs the curtains. Even so, the coppery scent of blood lingers beneath everything else.
A few heads turn as we enter, and conversations dip into low murmurs. Then more faces shift in our direction, the atmosphere in the room changing as attention settles on us.
They’re looking at Thane and me. The Warlord and the Spiritborn.
Some nod. Others simply stare. But in their eyes, I see understanding and relief. They needed to see us alive. They needed to see us standing together.
Valen’s words drift back to me.
It’s time she was known to the realm.
As my gaze moves across the room, I think I understand what he meant.
They told me what I would be. Valen with his prophecies and Thane with his discipline. They trained me, educated me, and prepared me for this role. And yet, now that I’m here—truly here—standing in the aftermath of blood, ash, and survival, it feels heavier than I ever imagined.
Not because of the title, but because of the reality.
This isn’t a legend anymore. It’s a war. And they’re looking at me as though I might have the answers.
So many pairs of eyes. Their hopes. Their fears. Their grief. Their need for someone to believe in.
The weight of it presses against my chest until breathing becomes difficult. For a moment, the room blurs around the edges. The conversations fade into a dull roar, and panic begins to rise, sharp and sudden.
Then warmth washes through the bond. A pulse of reassurance pushes back against the rising tide of panic. I turn toward Thane. His smoke-gray eyes are fixed on mine, unwavering.
“You can do this. I’m right here, by your side,” Thane says softly.
I blink once, then again. The panic doesn’t disappear, but it loosens enough for me to breathe. Enough for me to meet his eyes.
When I do, I manage a small smile. He squeezes my hand and gives a faint nod.
“Follow my lead. You’re ready for this.”
Together, we move through the room, his hand never leaves mine.
At each bed, we pause.
A young soldier lies with one arm wrapped tightly against his chest, the other bandaged from shoulder to wrist. Burns crawl up the side of his neck, angry and raw. He tries to sit up when he sees us, wincing with the effort.
Thane places a firm hand on his shoulder and gently eases him back.
“Rest,” he says softly. “You did more than enough.”
The soldier nods, his jaw clenching as he fights to keep his composure.
At the next bed, a woman clutches a healer’s hand while her leg is splinted. Her face is pale and drawn, but when her eyes meet mine, disbelief flashes across her features.
I kneel beside her and offer a small smile.
“You’re not alone,” I tell her quietly.
Her voice trembles. “You’re the Spiritborn.”
I nod, taking her hand.