I don’t know what happened to her—not really. There are rumors. Whispers traded in war camps, murmured in court halls, woven into fireside tales from travelers and soldiers. But no one knows the truth.
Except for Thane. And his remaining family members.
I wonder how much of who he is now was shaped by what happened toher?
Thane stands, brushing dirt from his palms as he sets hiswater down.
He looks at me, eyebrows raised. “Back to it. We’ve got a lot to cover.”
Then, as we didn’t just have our first real conversation that is not about magics or wars, he says, “I’ll fetch you after dinner. Strategy lessons start tonight.” His voice is clipped. Controlled. “Most warriors get years to learn this. We don’t have that luxury.”
THANE
What the fuck just happened?
One minute we’re training—cool air biting at our skin, the spring wind stirring the grass around our boots—and the next . . . I’m telling her my whole fucking life story.
I didn’t plan on talking. Just meant to ask a few questions. Simple. Tactical.
Her village. Her family. Childhood stuff. Enough to get a read on who she is beneath all the fight—to gain knowledge to better train her.
She’s been coiled tight since arriving at the outpost. Unfocused.
Which is understandable. Considering the condition she was in when she got here . . . consideringeverything—anyone would feel untethered after learning they’re the answer to saving the fucking realm.
She’s grieving. Reeling.
And still, she shows up every day. Bleeding. Breaking.Pushing forward.
So yeah—I thought easing up might help. A little softness. A little curiosity. Something to remind her that she’s more than just the Spiritborn inked into war maps and whispered inprophecy.
I thought if I asked the right questions, actedinterested—it might help her trust me.
That’s all it was supposed to be. Strategic.
I didn’t mean to give her anything back.
Not handing over pieces of my past like they don’t cost anything. Not speaking Kastiel’s name aloud. Not mentioning my father’s illness. Not nearly bringing upher.
Gods.
I don’t talk about that.
I don’t talk aboutanything.
But she just sat there—attentive,present—and somehow the words kept coming. Likeshewas the one I’d been waiting to tell.
And now I’ve gone and said too much.
I wanted her to trust me so I could train her for war—not because I needed her tosee me.Not because I wanted to remember the boy I used to be—before death and duty made me . . .this.
I should pull back. Rein it in. Regain control. Because whatever’s happening between us—it’s not safe.
And yet . . . something about her makes me forget how to hold my silence.
She’s walking back to the barracks. There’s a sway to her steps—loose, unbothered. The soldier’s training uniform hugs her inallthe right places.
Fuuuuck!
