The wind stills.
“I used to think we’d be old together. Two brothers racing the wind, laughing at all the things we’d survived. But he didn’t survive.”
His voice is calm, but there’s a tightness in it—controlled, practiced. The kind that comes from telling a story too many times without letting yourself fall apart.
“I joined because someone has to stand in the storm. And because I couldn’t live with doing nothing while others were dying.”
Darius keeps stroking Fenric’s hair. Like he’s done it a hundred times before. His eyes soften as they meet Fenric’s, and a private moment passes between them.
Fenric’s face, usually so full of mischief and easy joy, is still now. Quiet in a way that makes my chest ache. I didn’t realize how much brightness he brings until it dims.
I reach for Fenric’s hand and squeeze it. He squeezes back.
“I lost my parents,” I say softly, my voice barely above the breeze. “In an attack on our village. It was quick. I was lucky tosurvive.”
I feel Lyra shift beside me. She doesn’t say anything, but I know she remembers—how everything changed in a single night. How the world we knew vanished in smoke and fire.
The others go still.
“I didn’t come here just because of the prophecy,” I add after a moment. “Yes, I’m Spiritborn. Yes, the world seems to think that means something. But Ichosethis. I could’ve run. Could’ve hidden. But I didn’t.”
I glance around at them—Taila, Darius, Fenric, Lyra. “I came because I want to fight for something better. Because I want this war to end with us. I don’t want anyone else to lose what we did.”
Fenric’s grip tightens just slightly. Darius’s hand is still in his hair. Lyra leans her shoulder into mine, and I let my head rest there.
We sit in silence for a while, a warm breeze ruffling our hair. The kind that carries the scent of blooming meadowgrass and distant woodsmoke from the village hearths.
On rest days at the outpost, the world feels different—softer, slower. No shouts from the training grounds, no clash of steel. Just the lazy hum of insects, the occasional call of a bird overhead, and the low murmur of voices drifting from further down the lakeshore, where other soldiers have claimed sun-drenched rocks for their own quiet escape.
Somewhere across the field, I hear the deep, rolling rumble of a dragon, content and drowsy. Likely stretched out in the designated clearing, basking in the sun while their riders take what peace they can.
The lake glitters, its surface rippling with golden light. The ancient oak behind me creaks as it sways in the breeze, its roots sunk deep into the earth like it’s been waiting centuries for days just like this.
Taila pokes my foot with hers, pulling me out of the quiet. Iglance over, and she’s smirking.
“Someone keeps looking over here,” she says in a sing-song voice.
I follow her gaze to the far end of the outer field.
Thane.
He’s standing with his brothers—Garrick, Jarek, and Rian—spread out in a loose line near the stone perches where riders meet their dragons. The sky above is clear and quiet, but they’re waiting for them to return. Each warrior wears their riding leathers; the thick, fitted kind made for flight and battle.
Thane’s are jet black, burnished with crimson along the seams. The chest and shoulders are embossed with a subtle flame motif—stylized and sharp, like fire caught in motion. Gold rivets glint at his collar and wrists, catching the sun every time he shifts.
Garrick and Jarek wear similar gear, though theirs bear unique marks—Garrick’s has etched flame patterns curling down one arm like a sleeve of fire, while Jarek’s are darker, simpler, the flames carved deeper into the leather like smoldering embers.
Rian, standing slightly apart, breaks the pattern. His leathers are a deep sea-blue, almost black until the light catches them. Silver wave patterns ripple across the chest and bracers, subtle and elegant. There’s a calm in the way he holds himself—steady, still, like water before a storm.
Garrick’s talking, of course—gesturing wildly about something, grinning. Jarek looks half-annoyed, half-amused. Rian listens quietly, arms folded.
But Thane’s not really listening. His eyes keep drifting.
To me.
Thankfully, Thane was away at the capital for several days after themanure incident—what Lyra has gleefully started calling it.
Which meant I didn’t have to face him. Didn’t have to suffer through training while my dignity hung by a thread. Didn’t have to see that unreadable expression of his and wonder if he was silently reliving the moment a very unfortunate pile of manure made direct contact with my entire lower half.
