The table goes still for a heartbeat.
Then Galen leans forward, voice gentle. “No, little one. You’re of the Earth Clan. Even dragon-bonded riders can only wield their own Element. The bond makes it stronger—but it doesn’t change what lives in you.”
Revan’s face falls. “So I can’t do all of them?”
His disappointment is quiet, but it hits me harder than I expect.
And for a moment, I think of the dream I had last night—the woman who looked like me but wasn’t. Standing in a storm of all four elements—earth rising at her feet, fire blazing in her hands, wind twisting around her, water like ribbons in the air.
All of it at once.
Imagine if that were possible.
I blink, but the image lingers, too vivid to be forgotten.
“No one can do all of them,” my father says, his voice warm but sure. “But earth is enough. You’ll be surprised how much power sleeps beneath your feet.”
Tamsen grins. “And frankly, I’d rather you not have fire, Revan. My garden would never recover.”
He pauses, serious. “So only Fire Clan wields fire?”
I nod slowly, remembering the time I stood in the field behind our home, arms outstretched to the wind, willing it to lift me.
It never did.
“Sorry, Revan,” I say gently. “Magics follow bloodlines. Fire for Fire Clan. Water for Water. Earth for us.”
Revan slumps a little. “Mama and Papa are both Earth Clan.”
I smile softly. “Then you’ll be one of us. And Earth?” I reach out, tapping the table. “Earth is strong. It holds and supports and remembers. It doesn’t need to roar to be powerful.”
I watch a flicker of hope return to his eyes.
“You’ll do amazing things with it. I know you will.”
He looks at me, quiet for a moment. “Even if it’s not fire?”
“Especially because it’s not fire.”
Revan studies me, as if tucking the words away somewhere sacred. Then his expression shifts, brightening once more.
“Then I’ll build the strongest castle in the whole realm!” he declares, flinging his arms wide. “With towers that pierce the clouds—and walls no Shadow will ever break.”
Laughter bubbles around the table again—but this time it’s lighter, warmer. Even my father smiles, the lines in his face softening.
And something quiet settles in my chest.
Dinner winds down in a haze of full bellies and flickering candlelight. Revan barely makes it through dessert before his mother calls from the front door, voice lined with thatnow, not latertone. He protests sleepily, hugging Lyra one more time, waving at us like a tiny, drowsy prince before shuffling into the night—still mumbling about stone towers and dragon wings.
The adults linger at the table, wine glasses half-full, conversation unlikely to end any time soon.
Lyra nudges me with her shoulder. “Come on. Help me withthe dishes or my mother will hex me into a toad.”
I follow her into the kitchen nook. We fall into rhythm easily—passing plates, scrubbing, not needing to speak. The kind of silence only possible between people who’ve known each other long enough to fill in the blanks.
Then Lyra glances at me sideways.
“You’ve been quiet,” she says.
