FORTY-ONE #2
His thumb brushes along my pulse, a gentle caress.
“I always want to know what you’re thinking. And if you don’t want me to know, you don’t have to tell me.”
A playful glint returns to his eyes.
“But make sure to keep your shields up.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Bastard.”
His laughter joins mine, a warm, comforting sound that echoes throughout the garden.
As we walk, I take in the changing gardens.
The trees stand tall, their branches still full, but their leaves have turned, shifting from summer’s green to a riot of gold, amber, and crimson edges.
The early autumn sun filters through them, casting dappled light along the path, making the leaves glow like embers caught in a gentle breeze.
The sight of the changing seasons and trees brings me back to my village again. To home and the harvest season.
Back in the village, this was always the busiest time of year. Long days spent gathering crops, storing food, and preparing for winter. Everyone worked together, knowing that the hard labor of autumn meant survival through the cold months ahead.
The crisp scent of autumn always meant the same thing: work now, rest later.
I wonder if the village has finished its rebuilding. If the homes that had been burned stand whole once more. If life has finally begun to feel normal.
My thoughts drift to Revan. The last time I saw him, we were having dinner at Lyra’s family home. He spent half the evening talking about dragons and how one day he was going to channel all four Elements and become a rider.
A smile tugs at my lips.
Back then, it had sounded impossible. Now, with Calryx and all four Elements humming beneath my skin, I realize I’m living the dream he used to talk about. The thought is both strange and humbling.
I’ll have to ask Lyra if she’s heard anything from her parents. She always seems to know more about what’s happening back home than I do.
Ahead of us, nestled among the autumn trees, a pool of water comes into view.
The surface is so still and clear it looks like glass. The reflection of the fiery canopy ripples only slightly in the breeze, as though the water holds the season itself within its depths. Smooth stone borders the pool, and weathered benches rest beneath the trees on either side.
The entire place feels untouched, suspended in time. A sanctuary hidden from the rest of the world.
I slow my steps, drawn to the peacefulness of it. The changing world moves around the pool, yet the water remains calm and undisturbed, reflecting the canopy of color.
A massive oak tree stands beside it, its trunk so wide that two of me couldn’t have wrapped our arms around it.
Golden leaves shimmer overhead, and the air beneath its branches smells of bark, earth, and autumn.
The tree is monolithic, ancient enough to feel like a guardian watching over this hidden corner of the gardens.
Thane leads me to the nearest bench, his fingers lingering in mine.
In the pool, large orange fish drift lazily beneath the surface, their bright scales flashing as they weave through the water. Maybe a dozen or more, their movements unhurried, as though nothing beyond this quiet place exists.
The water is so clear I can see every ripple they create.
My gaze drifts back to the oak. Something about it tugs at a memory.
It reminds me of the oak tree at the outpost, the one I often sat under when I needed quiet. When the weight of everything felt too much and the noise of the world pressed in too close.
I can still recall the rough bark beneath my fingertips. The way its roots twisted through the earth. The sense of peace I always found there.
For a fleeting moment, I wonder if the outpost remains unchanged. Or if time has reshaped it in the weeks since we left, the way it reshapes everything. Including me.
Lately, it feels as though we’re running out of both time and peace.
The thought lingers, a hollow ache of loss, before I push it aside. Some things endure. Like ancient trees, cherished memories, and the people who help us find our way back to ourselves.
Thane’s voice pulls me back.
“Those are Koi,” he says, nodding toward the fish.
I watch the fish glide beneath the water’s surface, their bright scales flashing beneath the water.
“They look peaceful.”
“They are,” Thane agrees. “They’re meant to bring luck and perseverance.”
I arch a brow. “You believe that?”
His lips curve slightly. “No. But I like watching them.”
Something about that makes me smile. Thane, the Warlord of the realm, standing in a garden watching koi fish. The image doesn’t fit the version of him most people know, but it fits the man I’ve come to love.
A moment later, he lowers himself onto the nearest bench, straddling it the same way he rides his stallion. Without a word, he reaches for me and guides me down beside him.
His grasp is secure, a quiet strength that settles me without a word. And then he takes my other hand in his as well, enclosing both of mine in the warmth of his palms.
I glance down at them.
His hands are larger than mine, scarred and calloused from years of wielding a blade. Mine are smaller, but no longer untouched by battle.
The contrast in the size of our hands is striking.
When I look back up, I find him watching me. Studying. Not with the easy attention of a man enjoying a quiet morning, but with a concentration that makes me wonder what he’s turning over in his mind.
Reflexively, I reach for the familiar thread of connection through our bond. The resistance is immediate. That wall of fire is up, shields firmly in place. It isn’t unusual. Thane has spent a lifetime guarding what lies beneath the surface. A Warlord’s instinct.
And yet . . .
I get the distinct impression that he is nervous. I push the thought aside.
His thumb moves in an unrushed path across my skin, but there is a hesitation in him now. A carefulness I don’t often see.
“ . . . Thane?”
He exhales, as though he is bracing himself.
“I have something for you,” he finally says.
He releases one of my hands and reaches into the pocket of his trousers. When he withdraws it, his fingers are curled around something small. I don’t see what it is until he turns his palm upward.
A ring.
It rests in his hand, simple yet striking. A band of dark metal, smooth and cool, its surface unmarred save for faint symbols etched along the inside. The markings are delicate, worn by time. At its center, a single onyx stone is set deep, its polished surface catching the fading light.
At first, it appears entirely dark. Then the angle shifts, and a faint glimmer stirs deep within the stone, like the last ember buried beneath ash.
I blink, my breath catching. The ring hums with a quiet power, old and watchful, as though it remembers things long forgotten.
“This is not a proposal,” Thane says, as though anticipating exactly where my mind went. His gaze never leaves mine.
“But it’s a promise.”
A small smile touches his lips. Quiet. Certain. Like this decision settled inside him long ago.
I see you. I choose you. I am yours.
I lift my eyes to his.
A promise.
“This was my mother’s ring,” he continues, his voice thoughtful. “It’s been passed down through my mother’s side of the family for generations. There’s old magics in it. A vow that holds even when words themselves are forgotten.”
My pulse quickens, my fingers tingling as I stare at the ring, at the weight of what he is offering.
Thane takes my hand. He carefully places the ring in my palm. It hums in response to my touch, as if recognizing me.
The ring seems to be its own source of heat. The onyx catches the light again, and for an instant I swear something stirs within its depths. The magics isn’t loud or demanding, but it is there, woven deep into the ring itself.
I stare at it resting against my skin. Generations of history carried in a single piece of metal. His mother’s ring. And he’s giving it to me.
I look back up at him, my brows drawing together.
“Wait.” A laugh escapes me. “Are you sure this isn’t a proposal?”
His lips twitch, but his expression remains serious.
“No, it’s not.”
I blink at him, then glance down at the ring again.
“But you’re giving me a ring.”
“A promise ring,” he corrects, his thumb tracing circles over my knuckles. “Not a formal proposal. Not yet.”
I narrow my eyes. “Are you absolutely sure?”
He exhales, half amusement, half exasperation.
“Amara.”
I glance down at the ring again.
“Because it really feels like a proposal, Thane.”
“If I were proposing, you’d know,” he says smoothly, and the look in his eyes makes it impossible to dismiss the comment as teasing.
I lift my gaze back to his, the magics in the ring still thrumming against my palm.
“Would I?”
He leans in slightly, his voice lower, meant just for me.
“You would,” he murmurs. “And when that moment comes, you won’t have to ask.”
When. Not if. For one impossible moment, I can almost see it.
I stare at him for a moment before looking back down at the ring.
“What does it mean?” I ask softly.
Thane’s thumb brushes along my knuckles, his voice skimming across me like a caress.
“That I will stand with you. That I will fight beside you. That no matter what comes, I am yours. Always.”
He watches me, reading every reaction, waiting for me to understand.
Then, as if to make sure I do, he leans in. His lips brush against mine, as though he’s sealing this promise with something more than words.
I melt into the kiss, into the familiar comfort of him, the magics of the ring still pulsing in my palm.
When he pulls back, his fingers slide into my hair, cradling the back of my neck. The gesture is possessive in the gentlest way. His thumb traces the curve of my ear, and I lift my free hand to his face, brushing my fingers along the line of his jaw.
His eyes soften, and for a moment, neither of us speaks. We simply sit there, holding on to one another.
Then I lean forward, and he meets me halfway. When our lips meet again, the kiss is deeper. A promise met with a promise.