And this time, I choose them.
Valen holds my gaze. “Good. Now call the fire.”
I nod once and reach for it.
I let it rise.
Flames burst to life before me. An inferno. The fire erupts outward, roaring to life in an arc of twisting flame, licking across the dry grass, spiraling up into the sky in wild, flickering tendrils.
Heat rushes over my skin, but it does not burn. The air shimmers with the force of it, waves of heat rolling outward, distorting the space between me and the rest of the field.
But I am not afraid. The fire moves because I will it to. It expands, crackles, pulses in time with my heartbeat.
My fingers curl inward and the flames condense into a single, controlled mass. The inferno obeys. I breathe out, my pulse thrumming, the fire shifting, waiting for my next command.
Across from me, Valen watches, fire dancing in his silver-blue eyes. The wind shifts, pulling at his robes, sending strands of his hair drifting across his face, but he does not move.
I meet his gaze, breathless, but sure. The fire flares one last time, then with a thought, I extinguish it. The flames vanish as ifthey had never been there at all.
For a long moment, there is only silence.
Then, finally, Valen speaks. “Good. Again.”
FRIENDS
NINE
We have seen some resistance in the capital, which is to be expected. When a myth becomes flesh, it’s easy to question if that myth will equal their expectations. Will she be able to bear the weight of their hope? From dawn to dusk, from dust to discipline, she is proving to be a force that shall rise.
—VALEN’S JOURNAL
AMARA
After the midday meal, I drag myself to the training room to meet Thane.
As usual, it’s just the two of us, and for that, I am pathetically, overwhelmingly relieved. I don’t want the others tosee me—not yet. How I fumble my stance, how my grip on a weapon is clumsy at best, laughable at worst. Watch me flinch when I should strike, hesitate when I should move, lose before I even begin.
I am not a warrior. Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
For now, at least, I can fail in peace.
Thane stands in the center of the training room, arms crossed, his expression impassive.
“Today, you’re sparring with bracers,” he says, skipping any kind of greeting entirely.
I blink at him, then let out a slow breath. “Hello, good afternoon, Thane. How are you today?”
The sarcasm’s obvious, but it slides right off him.
He tilts his head, unimpressed. “Put them on.” He tosses a pair of thick, reinforced bracers my way.
They hit my palms harder than expected.
I watch him, adjusting the bracers in my grip. Every time I’ve trained with him, he’s been like this. All precision, no excess.
I still haven’t decided if that’s just who he is, or if it’s something he’s had to become. Most warriors, even the serious ones, have some edge of arrogance, some fire that flares when challenged.
