Jab, jab, cross.
The grief twists into something sharper. Hotter. Dangerous.
And then, the ground rumbles.
I barely notice at first. Too lost in my own my own fists, my fury.
I strike again—harder—and the tremor grows. A deep, throbbing force beneath my feet, rolling outward like an exhale.
There’s a distant clatter—metal hitting stone.
Something shifts in my peripheral vision, but I keep punching.
Then a loud crash. A row of weapons topples from the wall, clattering to the ground. The walls shudder, dust shaking loose from the ceiling.
Thane’s voice cuts through the haze. “Amara.”
I barely register it.
“Amara, stop.” The command is sharp, demanding, but I’m still locked inside the rage, the ache, the crushing guilt.
The next blow doesn’t land because Thane’s hand catches my wrist mid-strike.
When I look at him—he’s not watching my form, he’s watchingme.
Another deep, echoing tremor rolls through the floor. Louder. Stronger. And this time—I feel it. The earth beneath me moves with my pulse, echoing my grief.
I stumble back, breathing hard. My hands won’t stop shaking. My body protests every movement. And my mind—my mind won’t stop reeling.
And just like that—I stop. The rumbling goes silent. Dust hangs in the air. Weapons lie scattered across the floor. The tension still hums in the walls—like the room itself hasn’t caught its breath yet.
I blink, my heartbeat crashes in my ears. I wasn’t trying to use my magics, but they answered me anyway.
Slowly, I pull my gaze away from the striking post, from where my fists still hover in the air. The floor is littered with weapons. Swords, daggers, axes knocked loose from their mounts, scattered in disarray.
I did that.
The realization settles slowly, creeping in.
I look at my hands. The linen wraps are dark with fresh blood. I didn’t even notice when my knuckles split.
I look up.
Thane is standing in front of me now. Close. I hadn’t noticed him move.
His stance is steady, his arms loose at his sides but his presence feels different now. He isn’t just observing anymore.
I meet his eyes. Smoke-gray. Intense.
I can’t look away.
Thane steps closer, and before I can react, his hands settle on my shoulders.
I still.
His touch is firm, steady, grounding in a way I don’t expect. The heat of his palms seeps through the thin fabric of my shirt, spreading slowly, sinking into my skin.
At first, I think he’s restraining me. Holding me back from breaking something else. But he’s not.
