And in those moments, in that quiet between dusk and moonlight—I see him.
Not the warlord. Not the weapon. Just . . . Thane.
But by morning, it’s gone. His walls are back, voice clipped, posture all command and distance.
And I’m left with a head full of battle plans . . . and a heart I no longer recognize.
POWERFUL
TEN
“I feel as if it’s right there, a ghost just outside of my grasp—The answer to the unknown. What is the “fifth”? What is the element long lost? My colleagues insist it’s obvious, the Shadow Element. And that does make sense, mostly. But that little bit of doubt has me questioning. Maybe my curiosity is unfounded and I’m inventing complexities that don’t exist. I will go back and look for the lore that gave me pause. Perhaps I am misremembering. Or maybe there is more to the Shadow Element than we know. Again, I have more questions than answers.”
—VALEN’S JOURNAL
AMARA
Thane’s strategy lessons have gotten more intense and detailed—battles, war, the art of command. He’s given me books to study, filled with war philosophies and ancient doctrines written by generals long dead.
I didn’t expect any of it to feel . . . enlightening. There’s something strange about learning the logic behind conflict. To see structure in chaos; purpose in violence. It’s hard to reconcile—this idea that protecting something might require you todestroysomething else.
To go from growing life as a farmer to taking lives as a warrior is something I still struggle to swallow. War isn’t just blood and blades. It’s decisions and sacrifice—I’m being taught how to do just that.
The war table is cleared except for a single map, unrolled and weighted down at the corners with small iron figurines. The lines on the parchment are sharp; rivers, ridges, roads, and forests written in black ink.
Thane stands across from me, hands behind his back, expression studious.
“This scenario is based on a real battle,” he says. “Two hundred against a thousand. Outnumbered. Surrounded. Most would call it hopeless.” He pauses, then gestures to the figurines on the map—small soldiers in silver, a dragon carved from obsidian. “But the smaller force won.”
My eyes widen. “How?”
“That’s what you’re going to tell me.” He steps closer, tapping one corner of the map. “This is your position—north ridge, elevated terrain. The enemy surrounds you on three sides. The river makes retreat impossible.” His finger glides along a thin blue line. “You have ten Elemental channelers in your ranks, spread across air, earth, and fire. What’s your move?”
I study the map. “Defend the high ground?”
Thane’s eyes narrow slightly. “That’s what theyexpected,” he says. “And what got most of the original generals killed in the opening volley.”
He picks up one of the enemy pieces and knocks over three of mine. “In the book,The Art of Steel and Silence,it says—‘When you are outnumbered, do not match force. Create fear. Create confusion. Then strike where they’ve already begun to crumble.’”
I glance back at the map. “You’re saying . . . fight like they don’t see it coming.”
Thane nods. “Use the terrain. Misdirection. Make them think you’re cornered.” His finger traces the river again. “It’s a trap if you try to cross. But if you break the dam upstream . . . ”
“You flood the valley,” I finish.
“And force a retreat,” he finishes. “While your forces fall backwiththe water—hidden, covered, and alive. This,” Thane adds, “is how you win a battle before it begins.”
I stare at the map. It’s brutal. And brilliant.
I feel something shift in how I see the field. For the first time, war doesn’t feel like chaos, but rathercalculation.
And although I’m starting to see it, I’m still having trouble sitting with it. They keep calling me the Spiritborn. Training me to fight and think like one. But inside, I’m still a farmer pretending to be a warrior.
A few days later, after finishingThe Art of Steel and Silence,we meet again. The war room is brightly lit, the stone table in the center strewn with hand-drawn maps, miniature figurines, and stacks of worn parchment.
Thane stands at the head of the table, arms crossed. I hover near the opposite side.
“This isn’t sparring,” he says, voice even. “You won’t sweat, but your mind will feel fatigued if you’re doing it right.”
