“I’m always up before everyone,” I tell her. “It’s the only time I can get some peace.”
She nods but doesn’t speak. The silence stretches.
Her eyes keep flicking to the statue behind her.
Saela, the Earth Goddess. Moss climbs her legs, her face half-worn by time.
I’ve walked past these statues more times than I can count. I usually don’t pay that much attention to them. But something happened here—I can see it in Amara’s shoulders; the way she’s bracing herself for something.
And for a breath, I hesitate.
Not because I don’t care, because I do. She’s the Spiritborn. The weight on her shoulders would crush anyone else. And part of my role—my duty—is to make sure it doesn’t. Not just to train her, but tokeep her standing.
I step closer, slow and measured—I don’t want to spook her again.
“You want company,” I ask, “or quiet?”
Surprise flickers across her face—this time it’s clear—and I have to stop myself from smirking. Apparently, I’ve made quitethe impression.
Warlord. Weapon. Untouchable.
She’s not wrong. But still.
“Um . . . sure,” she says, hesitant but not unwilling.
I nod once and offer another small smile. One meant to disarm—not command. Then I gesture toward the path leading away from the temple, giving her space to walk beside me if she chooses.
We walk in silence for a while. It’s not awkward, just quiet. Spending all this time with her, I know she’s capable of talking a lot. But she also knows how to be in silence.
I’m good at quiet. I’ve learned how to make space for others to speak—or not. I’ve used it to read the intentions of men who’d rather lie with flattery than speak plainly, which is useful in the political games. I’ve used it to let soldiers breathe out what they couldn’t carry back from the battlefield.
Silence draws out truth in ways words rarely do.
And honestly? Quiet is easier than talking.
Safer, too.
I glance at her.
She’s not as thin as she was in those first weeks after arriving at the outpost. The sharp edges have softened, her strength returning. She’s eating. I make sure of it—even when I’m not the one watching. Trusted eyes keep track when mine can’t.
But the shadows are still under her eyes. Is she not sleeping well? Or is it from the sadness I know still lingers beneath the surface. Whatever light is in her doesn’t yet blaze.
But it’s there. Flickering. Holding on.
I know she still grieves. Of course she does. But she gets up every day. She trains, listens, and learns. She fights. And by the gods, that’s all I can ask.
I steal another look. She walks with her shoulders drawn, her gaze low, like she’s still half inside whatever happened back atthat temple.
I want to say something. Tell her she’s doing well. That I see the fight in her. That she’s not alone. But the words sit on my tongue—heavy. Unfamiliar.
So I say something safe. “Valen told me you’re wielding all four elements with control now. That they’re answering to you.”
She lets out a laugh. Loud. Sudden. A guffaw followed by a snort. Her eyes widen in horror as she slaps a hand over her mouth.
And to my own surprise, warmth blooms in my chest. I smile.
“I wouldn’t say ‘with control,’” she says, dropping her hand, her voice still laced with laughter. “But at least I know how to summon them. I’m far from ‘control.’”
