FIFTY-FOUR #4
I turn that way too, a little more slowly this time. It’s harder. Everything aches. But his hand never leaves my side. His other rests lightly against my shoulder, guiding me just far enough and never too far.
“Breathe,” he reminds me. “You’re doing better than you think.”
I focus on the feel of his hands and the quiet certainty in his words. He doesn’t rush me. He doesn’t let me sink into self-pity.
He simply stays, supporting me in moving forward one breath, one stretch, one step at a time. He helps me turn back to center, his hand still at my waist, the other brushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
We’re standing so close, the space between us feels charged.
And then he says, so quietly I almost miss it, “I thought I lost you that day.”
I continue with my stretches, listening. His gaze remains fixed on me, smoke-gray and full of something deeper than I’ve ever seen him reveal.
“When I saw that bolt hit you, and later when you collapsed, I didn’t think. I just moved.” He swallows, his jaw tightening. “The bond . . . it screamed. I’ve never felt anything like it. Like a part of me had been ripped away.”
I lift my good hand and press my palm to his chest, just over his heart.
“I’m still here,” I say softly.
“I know.” His voice frays at the edges. “And I’m trying to let that be enough. But gods, Amara . . . if you had died—”
He doesn’t finish the sentence.
He doesn’t have to.
Because I feel it in him. The words he never says. The fear he carried while I lay unconscious. The way he stood watch at my bedside these past few days as though the world itself might come apart if he looked away.
“I know I’ve said this before,” he murmurs, and I can hear the tremor in his voice, “how I tried to keep my distance from you because I didn’t want my feelings to get in the way of what the Spiritborn is supposed to do. What you’re supposed to do.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks. Something in his expression eases, and a small smile curves at his lips. One meant only for me.
“Okay,” he says, amusement threading through his voice. “Back to the left. Nice and easy.”
I huff a breath, smiling despite the ache in my chest, and turn as instructed.
When he speaks again, his voice is quieter.
“I almost let how I feel about you stop me from doing what I need to do for the realm.”
The words land with more weight than he knows because I remember that moment on the battlefield, when the Commander stood before us, exposed and vulnerable, seconds from falling.
We had him. We had a plan.
Then I was struck.
The black lightning slashed my arm, and Thane hesitated. He almost came for me, abandoning the final strike. I wonder what it would have cost us. What it would have cost the realm if he had broken formation and run to my side instead.
I don’t blame him. Gods, I don’t—I would have done the same. I understand now what it means to choose the greater path. To choose each other and the world we’re trying to save.
Still, the question remains: How are we going to make this work?
How are we supposed to do what needs to be done when our hearts are demanding the opposite? When instinct says go, protect, run to them, even if it means risking everything?
Because I know that one day, maybe not soon, but one day, that choice will come again, and it might break us or break the realm.
The thoughts race through me, unguarded and relentless. I don’t even realize how open I’ve become or how the bond between us hums, raw and unfiltered.
My shields are down, and Thane hears all of it. I feel it before he speaks. The catch in his breath. The ripple that moves through the bond. His voice threads through the noise in my head, calm and unwavering.
“We’ll make it work,” he says.
I blink, startled, my gaze snapping to his.
He’s already looking at me, his expression resolute. “We’ll choose duty to protect the realm.”
He draws in a breath. I search his face, aching for something solid amid all the uncertainty and hoping he holds the answers to the questions that keep clawing at me in the dark.
“And we’ll fight like hell for each other,” he says.
His hand rises to cup my face, and my chest tightens at the familiar touch. His thumb brushes beneath my cheekbone with such care that it feels like a promise.
“And when our hearts scream otherwise . . . ” He hesitates, as though the words cost him something. “We hold the line anyway. Together.”
A small smile touches his lips, carrying a hint of sadness, and it pulls at something deep inside me.
“What choice do we have, little zephyr?” he murmurs. “We’re in this together. I don’t know what’s coming or how this war will end. But I do know this.”
His hand shifts, pressing over my heart.
“This is where I live now,” he says quietly. “And I’ll fight with everything I have to protect it. To protect us.”
His gaze never leaves mine.
“I’m yours, and you are mine.”
I lean into his touch and into the weight and wonder of it all. I think about not only what we are, but who we’ve become.
We are the Spiritborn and the Warlord, bound by dragons, bound by magics, and bound by choice.
And gods help anyone who tries to take that from us.