FIFTY-FOUR #2
Sera and Rowena stop by nearly every morning to check on me, but they never come empty-handed. There’s always a sweet pastry, fresh fruit, or a steaming cup of something that smells vaguely medicinal and a bit like tree bark.
Lyra brings gossip. And sass. And a kind of joy I didn’t realize I’d been missing, at least not until it was sitting cross-legged at the edge of my bed, grinning like no time had passed and teasing me as though we were back in the village instead of in the middle of preparing for war.
She gave me updates on everyone at the outpost. Nessa, Fenric, Darius, and Taila are still deep in training, but Garrick, as Thane’s second-in-command, is already making plans to reassign them soon.
I plan to write them while I’m stuck on bed rest. I’ve allowed the war to take over my life. Like Valen said, balance. Hopefully, I’ll be well enough to visit before long. After all, they’re only a dragon ride away.
Garrick and Jarek pop in just to wreak havoc. They rearrange Thane’s scrolls, raid the fruit tray, and pretend to inspect my bandages while loudly declaring me “unfit for duty” and “possibly cursed with boredom.”
Thane always kicks them out after thirty minutes.
Rian is quieter than the others. He doesn’t say much, but he stays the longest. Sometimes he reads by the hearth, the soft rustle of pages filling the room. Sometimes he simply sits nearby, his presence grounding in a way I hadn’t realized I needed.
He tends to come when Thane is called away, when duty pulls him back to the war room or council halls and I’m left alone with my thoughts. Rian doesn’t ask how I’m feeling. He doesn’t try to fill every moment with conversation.
He just is.
His silence doesn’t weigh on me. It eases something. Like a calm tide against the shore, gentle and constant.
Kieran visited too. He grinned the moment he stepped through the door and found me propped up in bed.
“Well, well,” he said, folding his arms with mock seriousness. “Look at this. Roles reversed. And now you’re the one laid up.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t get used to it.”
He stayed longer than he probably should have, sprawling in Thane’s chair as though he owned it, feet up, arms behind his head, all relaxed confidence.
To Thane’s credit, he was a good sport about it. He didn’t hover or glower. He simply crossed the room, pressed a kiss to my temple, and slipped out without a word.
Every day, at some point, I check in with Calryx. She’s never far away. Always watching. Always there.
Her voice echoes through my mind at the oddest times:
“If you were a hatchling, I’d sit on you until you learned better.”
“I leave you alone for five minutes and you nearly die. Again.”
“You breathe. I breathe. That’s the deal. I don’t want another rider. You are it!”
She grumbles. Scolds. Rolls her thoughts through the back of my mind like distant thunder. But beneath the sharpness is worry. Fierce, unspoken concern. And though she never says it outright, I can feel it. She’s relieved I’m still breathing.
So am I.
Valen visits in the afternoons, never staying long.
But he always brings something meaningful: a book, a new theory about Elemental flow, or a question about how the bond has evolved since the battle.
He treats my recovery like a study in progress, which should feel clinical. But from him, it feels like care.
We reflect on the battle. On what’s to come. Visiting the Air Clan. Finding the ledger. Speaking with Kieran about most of the truth.
And Thane, gods, Thane just lets it all happen.
No protests. No scowls.
Even when Garrick nearly broke one of his blades. Even when Lyra spilled an entire cup of tea across his maps.
He simply takes it all in stride, always nearby, a reassuring constant amid the chaos. These quarters don’t feel like just his anymore. They feel like ours.
And for the first time since the battle, since the blood and fire and everything that followed, I feel safe.
Not just physically.
Deep down, too.
Earlier this afternoon, Lyra burst into my room and flopped dramatically into the chair beside my bed as though she owned the place. She grinned at me like she’d been holding something in for days.
She wanted to hear everything.
“What was it like?” she asks, eyes wide and practically vibrating with curiosity. “Flying into battle on Calryx’s back? That last strike you landed with Thane? Rowena said the Commander exploded.”
I smile, but it’s tired around the edges. “It was . . . a lot.”
And that’s the truth.
I’ve already told the story a dozen times. To the council. To Valen. To the healers. I’ve dissected the battle with Thane down to every motion, every burst of magics.
I don’t want to talk about war again. Not today.
What I need is something simple. Something that doesn’t require strategy or strength.
Something romantic.
Especially since the book I’ve been reading is a wildly dramatic tale about a highborn general, a tavern girl with a dagger, and an absurd number of stolen kisses in moonlit corridors.
I glance sideways at Lyra, a grin tugging at my mouth.
“Tell me how it’s going with Garrick.”
That gets Thane’s attention.
He’s sitting at his desk across the room, calmly reviewing reports as though he hasn’t been eavesdropping since the second Lyra walked in. At the mention of Garrick’s name, he clears his throat and rises, far too dignified for someone whose ears are definitely pink.
“I’ll give you two some privacy,” he says, his voice measured and noble despite the color rising in his cheeks.
The moment the door clicks shut behind him, Lyra and I lose it. We burst into laughter, the kind that bubbles up from your ribs and shakes everything loose. The kind we used to share as little girls sneaking pastries from the village baker.
I haven’t laughed like that in weeks. Maybe longer. It hurts. Gods, my arm throbs afterward. But I don’t care. For that one moment, the world feels simple again. Just my best friend and me, gossiping about boys.
War be damned.
Once we finally stop wheezing and wiping tears from our eyes, Lyra throws her hands into the air and blurts, “I’m in love!”
She squeals.
Actually squeals.
I blink, stunned, before a grin spreads across my face. “Wait—what? Since when?”
She flops back in the chair like her bones are made of water, covering her face with both hands.
“Ugh, I don’t know! A while! I think. Maybe longer than I realized.”
I just stare at her, my heart swelling. Gods, it feels so good to feel this again. Joy. Surprise. That giddy flutter we used to chase as though it was the only kind of magics that mattered.
“I knew you liked him,” I say, nudging her with my good hand. “But love?”
She peeks at me between her fingers, sheepish and glowing.
“He makes me feel seen. And challenged. And safe. Like I can actually be me. He doesn’t try to shrink me or mold me into something more palatable. He just embraces the wild parts too. The fire. The chaos. The real me.”
Something in my chest tightens before easing again.
“He better be in love with you too,” I say, narrowing my eyes in mock warning. My voice comes out half teasing, half deadly serious. “Or I swear, I’ll sic Calryx on him.”
Lyra laughs, tossing her head back and waving me off.
“Oh, don’t worry. He said ‘I love you’ months ago.”
I blink. Again.
“What?”
She shrugs, far too nonchalant for someone unveiling a truth of that magnitude.
“Yeah. I’m the one who was dragging my feet. Took me forever to say it back.”
I stare at her, then give her a light shove with my good arm.
“Gods, Lyra. The poor guy!”
“I panicked!” she exclaims, throwing her hands up in mock defense. “He said it after a sparring match and I thought he’d hit his head. Turns out, he meant it. Kept saying it. I think he was hoping that if he said it enough times, I’d eventually stop pretending I didn’t hear him.”
I snort. “Classic Garrick.”
She smiles, a little more subdued this time. “Classic me, too. Always scared to say what I feel first.”
I reach for her hand and squeeze it.
“You got there,” I say softly. “That’s what matters.”
She squeezes back. “Yeah. I did.”
As she beams at me, absolutely radiant, I realize how much I’ve missed this. Not just the laughter. Not just the girl talk. The kind of connection that anchors you and reminds you who you are beneath the armor, the prophecy, and the blood.
Before Lyra can say more, the door creaks open just enough for Thane’s head to appear through the gap.
“Are you two done talking about Garrick?” he asks, deadpan.
Lyra immediately bursts into laughter. “Come on, Warlord. Don’t act like you weren’t listening the whole time.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “I wasn’t. I was strategically retreating.”
I roll my eyes, unable to stop my grin. “Yes, we’re done.”
Thane steps fully into the room, arms crossed loosely over his chest. “Good. Because now it’s my turn.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “To talk about Garrick?”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “To stretch your arm. Healer Marion said she’d give me a proper whooping if I didn’t make sure you moved it every day.”
He crosses to the side of the bed with the easy authority he always carries, though there’s warmth in it now. A gentleness I’m still getting used to.
“She’s not joking,” he adds, reaching for the sling. “She threatened to use her cane. She might be the only person in this castle who gets away with threatening the Warlord. She used to be the same way with my father.”
Lyra leans back in her chair, absolutely delighted. “Gods, I love Healer Marion!”
“Honestly, I’m afraid of her,” Thane mutters, unstrapping the sling with practiced care. “Have been since I was a boy.”
I wince as he begins guiding my arm upward, careful and patient.
“She also said I’m not supposed to laugh so much,” I grit out through my teeth.
Thane looks pointedly at Lyra. “Then you better stop making jokes.”
Lyra snorts. “Not likely.”
We sit in silence for a few minutes while Thane moves my arm, unfolding it, then folding it back again. His touch is careful and sure. Every motion measured, just as Healer Marion demonstrated.