Lyra’s jaw tightens. She doesn’t like that answer. Instead, she presses a chunk of bread into my hand. “Eat.”
I glance up.
She holds my gaze, refusing to let me slide.
She’s right. I sigh, rolling my stiff neck, taking the bread from her hand.
Lyra doesn’t look away, eyes sharp, watching me the way she does when she’s about to say something I won’t like.
Then, quietly but firmly, she says, “You won’t bring them back by killing yourself.”
The words land like a strike to the ribs—unexpected, jarring, deep.
I go still.
My fingers tighten around the bread, my breath caught somewhere in my throat. For a moment, all I hear is the sound of the mess hall around us—the clatter of bowls, the murmur of voices, the occasional burst of laughter.
But I don’t feel any of it.
I swallow, my chest tight, something dark curling at the edgesof my mind. I know I won’t bring them back.I know.But if I stop—if I don’t push, if I don’t fight, if I don’t become stronger—then what was the point of surviving?
I don’t say any of that.
I just break the bread in half, forcing myself to take a bite, chewing mechanically, swallowing past the tightness in my throat.
Lyra doesn’t say anything else. She sits there, making sure I don’t disappear into the silence.
We both know she’s right, but I also know, I’m not going to slow down or stop.
I take another bite. The bread turns to paste in my mouth.
Before the quiet can settle too deep, a shadow falls across the table. I glance up to find Valen standing there, arms folded, his presence as calm and unmoving as ever.
“Amara,” he says, nodding once. “I want you to start meeting me earlier for training.”
I blink at him, swallowing my bite. “Earlier?”
He studies me the way he always does, his sharp gaze too knowing, too precise. “You’re learning the elements,” he says. “You’re learning to fight. But you haven’t learnedwhy.”
I sit up straighter, muscles aching in protest. “Iknowwhy.”
Valen tilts his head. “Do you?”
Something about the way he says it makes my stomach twist. I open my mouth to argue, but I don’t know what to say. Because the truth is, I haven’t stopped long enough to think about it. I’m fighting because I need to dull the ache in my heart.
Valen watches me for a long moment, as if he can see the war in my head. Then, finally, he speaks again. “The realm needs you,” he says, voice steady. “But do you understand why?”
I feel Lyra watching me, but I don’t turn to her. Because the answer is simple—and not simple at all. I exhale, my grip tightening around the glass in my hands.
“When do we start?” I ask.
Valen nods. “At dawn. Join me for tea in my quarters—there you will learn the history of how the Shadow Wars came to be.” Then he turns and walks away, leaving me with the question still lingering in the air.
The barracks are quieter than usual that night. I stare at the ceiling, my body aching, my arms heavy, but sleep does not come easily.
Instead, I think ofbefore.
Before my hands were wrapped in linen and bruised from striking a post. Before I knew the taste of exhaustion from wielding magics. Before I stood in a sparring ring I never asked to fight in.
