THIRTY-SEVEN #3
Of course Valen was there observing my training session. His expression remained neutral, but I could feel the concern rolling off in waves.
I had collapsed onto the training grounds, sweat-drenched and gasping for a moment of reprieve, and he’d crouched beside me with that infuriating look that always meant he’d noticed something I hadn’t.
“You’re pushing too hard.”
His words had been sharp, cutting through me with brutal honesty.
“You’ll burn out before you ever reach the war.”
Even now, submerged in steaming water, the words linger. I sink a little deeper, letting the heat wash over me.
Rest feels impossible these days. Every time I close my eyes, I still see them—the fallen. Their bodies broken, their blood pooling across marble floors at the ball. The desperate screams still echo in my mind, refusing to fade.
And worst of all, I remember the moment I knew I wasn’t enough.
I wanted to do more. I should have done more.
But I couldn’t.
Valen doesn’t fully understand. He isn’t the Spiritborn. He doesn’t carry the weight of prophecy. No one does. He doesn’t know what it feels like to have the expectations of an entire realm pressing down on your shoulders. To be declared a destiny.
So many died.
My magics are still too new. Too unsteady. This world, this war—I’ve spent the last year playing catch-up while the other warriors have trained for this their entire lives.
I wasn’t strong enough then. But I will be. Because the attacks won’t cease. Instead, they’re becoming more organized, more brutal. The borderlands are burning.
And we are running out of time. I can feel it in my bones.
Last night, I had a nightmare. I woke up gasping, my chest heaving, my skin damp with sweat. Thane was there before I could even catch my breath, his arms wrapping around me and pulling me back into what was real.
As I pressed my face against his chest, I told him what I had seen. Because even now, the images refuse to leave me.
The grand ballroom rose around me, but it wasn’t whole.
The chandeliers had long since shattered, their crystal remains glinting like fallen stars in pools of blood staining the marble floor.
The air was thick with smoke and the acrid stench of charred flesh.
The metallic tang of death sat on my tongue.
And the screams. Gods, the screams.
I spun, my breath sharp, magics crackling at my fingertips. But I was too slow. Always too slow.
A cry cut through the chaos before I even saw her.
Rowena.
She stood just a few paces away, dark hair tangled, blood trailing from her temple. Her blade was slick with dark ichor, her chest heaving.
Behind her, a shadow moved—too fast, too silent.
I tried to call out, to warn her, but my voice was gone.
The figure ripped her backward into the darkness.
She was there one moment, her eyes locking onto mine, wide with terror and the realization that no one was coming to save her. Then she was gone.
No body. No sound. Just gone.
A scream tore through the chaos, but not hers.
I whirled.
Sera.
She was on the ground, crawling, blood pooling beneath her hands. Her leg twisted at a grotesque angle, bone white against the crimson staining her dress. A black figure loomed over her, its elongated fingers stretching toward her face.
She fought. But the shadow gripped her jaw, and I watched, helpless and frozen, as blackness poured into her mouth like living smoke. She convulsed once. Twice. Then her body went still. The shadow dropped her like a marionette whose strings had been cut.
I took a step forward, but the world shifted beneath me. The ballroom fractured, reality splintering. The walls stretched and twisted, unraveling into an abyss of flickering gold and black.
Figures emerged from the darkness. More of them. Too many. They moved like ink spilling into water. Formless. Writhing. Endless.
I turned.
Lyra stood at the edge of the shattered floor, her dagger dripping with something thick and tar-like. Her eyes found mine, burning with defiance even as the shadows closed in around her.
Amara, RUN!
Then they took her. She screamed as they grasped her limbs and dragged her down, down, down. Her nails bleeding as she desperately tried to catch hold of the marble floors.
I lunged, reaching for her hand. I swear I felt her fingertips brush mine. But she was gone, yanked into the abyss. Leaving me alone.
No bodies. Only blood and silence.
A creeping horror slithered up my spine. I could still feel them. They were there. Watching. The air was too cold, the shadows pressing in from every direction.
A voice pierced the stillness, twisting through the darkness like slime and rot.
You will never be strong enough.
The words wrapped around me like chains.
Not for them.
A shadow shifted in the darkness.
Not for this war.
More eyes opened beyond the veil of black. Watching. Waiting.
And everyone you love will pay the price.
Then, the shadows surged. And I woke up screaming.
So no.
I won’t slow down. I won’t stop. I can’t. Because the next time I stand in battle, I refuse to be the person who wasn’t enough. I will be better.
I have to be.