He’sholding me steady.
That’s when I feel it—how tight I’ve been wound. How my shoulders locked, every muscle braced for something that isn’t there.
The tension starts to unravel, bit by bit, like a dam breaking in slow, measured cracks. The grief, the anger—the storm that had been building inside me for weeks—it begins to drain away.
I don’t know if it’s his touch, or the way he’s just standing there, silent and unwavering, or the fact that I’ve finally let myself feel what I’ve been running from. But for the first time in what feels like forever, I can breathe.
Thane continues to quietly stand there, anchoring me to the present, letting the storm pass without demanding I explain it. Like he gets it.
Then, finally, he speaks.
“Are you okay?” His voice is quiet.
I swallow hard, still feeling the warmth of his hands. My knuckles throb, the ache in my arms deep, but my chest—the crushing weight that had been there moments ago—is lighter.
I exhale slowly. “I . . . I think so.”
He watches me. Still measuring. Then, with a quick nod, he says, “Okay. Let’s end for today,” and drops his hands.
I blink, caught off guard.Just like that?
He steps back, arms folding over his chest. “Tell Valen what happened.”
I nod slowly, flexing my aching fingers. I don’t want to talk about this. Not yet. But I know Thane is right. Valen needs to know.
Thane tilts his head, like he might say more—then doesn’t.
He just watches me for a beat longer before nodding a goodbye and turning away. He walks to the weapons rack and starts collecting the fallen blades.
I stay where I am. My heartbeat still high in my throat. The weight of what just happened settles into my bones.
Finally, I turn. And walk out, quiet and heavy, like the air hasn’t cleared yet.
SHADOW WARS
EIGHT
“Long ago a scroll, roughly translated as The Dragon Rider’s Forging, was used to help a new rider learn how to use their greater magics. The scroll has been lost over the centuries, but we all remember our respective elemental couplets.
‘Earth, awaken from slumbering stone—Rooted deep, the form is known.
Water, release—become the flow—to wield the tide, let all else go.
Air, the freedom never forced—Feel, then trust to guide its course.
Fire, the will where passion runs—Feral, free—unshackled ones.’”
—VALEN’S JOURNAL
AMARA
The barracks are quiet. The rhythmic rise and fall of breaths, the occasional murmur of a dreamer, the faint creak of a bed shifting under tired muscles—it all blends together into a lullaby of exhaustion.
My body aches from the day’s training, every muscle sore, my knuckles raw and tender from training with Thane. Every inch of me begs for rest, but my mind won’t quiet. The weight of everything that happened today presses down on me, heavy like armor I can’t remove.
Eventually, exhaustion wins and sleep pulls me under.
The meadow stretches endlessly, bathed in golden light. The sky above is an endless blue, streaked with wisps of white clouds that drift lazily. Sunlight wraps around me, like the embrace of an old friend.
