I laugh under my breath and accept the bundle as the shopkeeper hands it to me with a shy smile.
The shopkeeper finally takes me in and something in her expression shifts, her eyes widening.
“Spiritborn!” she gasps, cheeks flushing deeper. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t realize it was you!”
Immediately she straightens, fumbling to smooth the wrapping paper as if she’s just committed some great offense.
Fenric steps back, amused but saying nothing. Darius lifts an eyebrow.
I offer her a polite smile. “It’s alright. Really.”
Ever since my first visit to the village—shortly after I chose to stay at the outpost—it’s been like this. The title follows me everywhere.Spiritborn.Whispers in the streets, murmured greetings, cautious wonder in people’s eyes.
Some bow. Others stare. And many—like the shopkeeper—share stories; a lost sister; a father’s healing; a dream someone had of a woman glowing like she’d stepped out of the stars. They all want to believe in something.
And while I’m still trying to figure out what being the Spiritborn means . . . I don’t mind. It warms my heart, in a way Ican’t quite explain, to see these people hold onto hope.
Even if I’m still learning how to carry it.
“Please,” I say gently, offering a warm smile. “Call me Amara.”Like I’ve said a number of times,I think, though not unkindly.
She hesitates, hands still resting lightly on the wrapped bundle between us. “No, no,” she says softly. “Words hold power. Youarethe Spiritborn, so that’s what I would like to call you—if that’s alright.”
But this is new. She’s never said that before. Never looked at me with such direct conviction.
Before I can respond, Fenric nudges me in the back, voice far too smooth. “Yes,Spiritborn.That’s who you are, so that’s what we’ll call you.”
I shoot him a sharp look over my shoulder, and he grins like the menace he is. When I turn back, the shopkeeper’s expression softens, but there’s steel in her eyes.
“My brother just joined the outpost for training,” she says. “He believes in the Spiritborn. So I place my faith in you too. So that my brother will remain safe.”
The shop seems to hold its breath for a moment. Even Fenric stills, his expression more solemn. Behind me, Darius exhales slowly.
I don’t know what to say. Because I’m still learning what it means to be this person—theSpiritbornthey see. Still waking up every day hoping I can be enough.
But the shopkeeper doesn’t see the uncertainty. She sees someone to believe in.
Darius steps forward to stand beside me. He places a hand on my shoulder, his voice full of quiet reassurance.
“What’s your brother’s name?” he asks. “We’ll look out for him.”
The shopkeeper’s face brightens with immediate relief. “Oh—thank you!” She clasps her hands together for a moment, like she’s afraid her gratitude might spill out too fast. “His name is Tarek Rennar. He’s only seventeen. We’re both Fire Clan.”
Tarek.So young. He’s just a boy.
My chest tightens. I picture him—eager-eyed, wiry, swinging his sword too wide. Barely more than a child. Most of them are. And yet they’re here, stepping into a war because they believe and refuse to run.
Because they believe inme.
I swallow, nodding slowly. “And what’s your name?” I ask gently, my voice soft.
The shopkeeper smiles, her fingers brushing the edge of the counter. “Rhosyn. Rhosyn Rennar.”
I nod, committing it to memory. “Thank you, Rhosyn.”
Her smile falters, turning wistful. “Our parents and I—we all still live here in the village. We’re proud of him. But . . . it’s hard letting him go. Even though the legal age to begin warrior training is sixteen,” she continues, her voice quieter now. “Our parents made him wait, hoping he’d change his mind. But he didn’t.”
There’s pride in her eyes. And worry. A blend I know far too well.
