I roll my eyes—but my heart does somethingannoying.It flutters. Like an idiot.
Then he asks, “Your parents—what were they like?”
For a second, I want to deflect or joke, pretend he didn’t just touch the rawest part of me.
Why does he care?
But he doesn’t push. He just sits beside me, still as ever, the space between us filled only by the rustle of leaves overhead and the distant sound of steel clashing from soldiers training.
I haven’t talked about my parents since they died, other than with Lyra. So I let out a slow breath, and the words start to roll off my tongue.
“My father was a farmer,” I say finally. “He grew wheat, barley, and whatever else would survive the seasons.”
He was steady, quiet, always working, always focused onthe land. And just like that, the memory unfurls—unexpectedly soothing.
“I’d talk his ear off while he worked. He never told me to shut up. Just nodded, like he was listening, even if he wasn’t.”
Thane hums. A soft, thoughtful sound. “And your mother?”
The ache comes first—sharp and hollow—before the warmth can rise behind it. Bittersweet doesn’t even begin to touch it.
“She was . . . everything,” I say, the words easier now, but no less full. “Bright. Fierce. The kind of woman who never backed down from an argument and always had the last word. I learned early that it was better to just agree with her.”
Thane exhales through his nose, almost a laugh. “That explains a lot.”
I nudge him with my elbow. “Shut up.”
His smirk grows. “Go on.”
I shake my head, but keep going. Because talking about my parents this way makes it feel like they’re still alive.
“She taught me how to fight,” I say quietly. “Not with weapons. Just—how to be sharp. How to use my voice the same way warriors use swords.” My smile fades into something softer. Sadder. “She believed in being heard.”
Wind shifts through the trees, brushing past us like breath.
Thane is quiet for a long moment, then says, “She sounds like someone I would’ve liked.”
I glance at him. And something unfamiliar settles in my chest. Because it’s the way he says it—not like he’s just making conversation. Like he actually means it.
I swallow. My voice is quieter this time. “Yeah. I think she would’ve liked you, too.”
Something shifts in his eyes, like he’s turning the thought over. Letting it land.
Birds chirp nearby, their song cutting through the stillness—a small, bright sound in the heavy quiet between us. A welcomedistraction from the presence of the man beside me who—against all logic—has decided to talk.
“Do you have siblings?”
I glance at him, surprised, but he’s not looking at me. His eyes are skyward, watching the clouds drift by lazily.
“No,” I say finally. “I’m an only child.”
Thane nods, like my answer helped him understand something about me that he didn’t before.
I smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. “But Lyra, well, she’s always felt like a sister,” I say.
Thane looks at me, eyes softening. “Lyra’s a fiercely loyal friend to you.”
I nod. “She is.”
