And she embraces all of it.
I shut my eyes and let out a slow breath.
No one’s ever looked at me like that before. Like they wanted to earn my approval—and not just because I’m the Warlord. But the man behind the Warlord. She wantedmyapproval.
No one’s ever made mewantto give it.
But Amara . . . she’s not like anyone. And she’s starting to unmake something in me. Quietly. Completely. Without even trying.
I turn my head, gaze drifting toward the window, where the light has faded to deep violet and shadow. The room feels smaller now. All the pieces I built to lead this realm are scattered across the floor—and I no longer know where they belong.
For the first time in longer than I can remember—I’m not thinking about the realm. War. Duty. I’m thinking about a woman who laughed at her shame.
And how, gods help me . . . it made me want to be better.For her.
I exhale through my teeth. My head aches.
This isn’t good. Not for her training.Not for me.
This . . . feeling. This pull.
It’s unraveling my focus. My discipline. My control.
I think I should spend a few days at the capital. Get my head right. Remember who I am. Get my priorities back in line.
I’ll ask Jarek or Rian to take over her training while I’m gone. They’re both capable. Jarek, especially—he’ll keep things sharp, focused. Professional.
I’ll let Valen know. He won’t question it. He’ll probably seeright through it, but he won’t say anything.
I’ll tell them I have capital business. That’s all. Because it is business. Keeping my distance. Keeping my role intact. Keeping her on course to become who she needs to be.
This isn’t about me.
It can’t be. She deserves someone who can see her clearly—without the weight of everything I can’t say. Everything I’m starting to feel.
So I’ll leave for a few days.
Long enough to remember who I was before she started undoing it. Long enough to forget the way she felt in my arms, or at least push it way, way down.
As long as I live, I don’t think I could ever forget how she felt against my body. I need to get my head back on straight and not let thislapsehappen again.
THE ART OF SPARRING
TWELVE
There’s an old folk song, barely more than a hum these days—passed between elders and children as a game. One verse keeps echoing in my mind:‘Fierce blows the fire, Strong flows the water, Sturdy holds the earth, Free rides the air. Rest in the spirit—Here, we unite.’Rest in spirit . . . we unite? I believe there is more to this. I’ve been looking for connections, patterns from not just our ancient texts, but traditions, folk songs. Someone had to have left breadcrumbs for us to learn. Rarely is great knowledge—especially—of impending doom completely buried. Our ancestors were far too clever, and powerful to not leave us clues. I must find them soon.
— VALEN’S JOURNAL
AMARA
Time blurs into routine and weeks pass. Early mornings belong to Valen. The first rays of light barely crest over the horizon before I’m seated in his study, surrounded by books and scrolls, the quiet punctuated by Valen’s instruction. He teaches me the histories, the cultures, and the traditions of the Elemental Clans.
Fire isn’t just destruction, but renewal. Water doesn’t just bend, but remembers. Earth endures. Air never bows to anything.
When my head is spinning with too many facts and theories, we take to the training fields where I practice wielding what’s inside me.
Some days, the elements come easily. Other days, I feel like a child fumbling in the dark. Fire burns too hot, water slips through my fingers, air refuses to be caught, and earth remains silent beneath my feet when summoned.
