I huff out a laugh. “You’re not wrong.”
Taila sighs wistfully. “No, she’s very, very right.”
Darius only hums in agreement, unable to tear his eyes away from the Warlord and his second sparring.
Nessa smirks. “Garrick’s got that ‘I can and will throw you over my shoulder’ energy, though.”
I bite my lip, watching the way Garrick’s back muscles flex as he adjusts his stance, the sheer power behind each strike effortless, commanding. “Again, you’re not wrong.”
But it’s Thane who makes my pulse stutter, my breath comes just a little too shallow when he stands close to me—when I feel the heat of him, the weight of his presence, like gravity pulling me in.
The way he moves—fluid, controlled, every motion sharpened by discipline and danger—it’s mesmerizing. And gods, the ripple of muscle with every strike, the sheen of sweat gliding over the sculpted lines of his torso, the raw strength coiled beneath his skin—it’s doing things to me I have nobusiness feeling.
He’s the Warlord of the Fire Clan—a man who probably has women lined up at the capital, waiting for just one look from him.
And me?
I’m from a village no one remembers, training for a destiny I barely understand.
Anyway, I have bigger things to focus on—training, magics, trying to become the damn Spiritborn. Not standing here, gawking at a man who is the very definition of untouchable.
And yet . . .
Lyra and I watch in mutual appreciation as they move—bodies shifting, sweat glistening. The rhythmic clash of blades fills the room, punctuated by gritted breaths and sharp, focused exhales. Every now and then, a smirk flickers between them, a silent challenge exchanged as they push each other harder, faster.
Lyra exhales dramatically. “Why do they all look like that? Is it a requirement to be an elite warrior? Because I swear, every time one of them takes off a shirt, my brain just—” She makes a vague, explosive gesture near her temples. “Gone.”
I nod slowly. “Yep. Same.”
“Alright, enough ogling,” Jarek says dryly, cutting through the moment. “If you all are done admiring my brothers, maybe get back to training?”
Darius sighs, shaking his head dramatically. “Just when I was really appreciating the arts.”
Taila grins. “A tragedy, truly.”
Nessa smirks but steps away, stretching her arms. “Back to work, then.”
Lyra and I stand there a moment longer, appreciating the view, before she bumps her shoulder against mine. “Alright, my friend, your turn’s up. I’m sparring with Jarek now, and you’reon strength training.”
I blink, my brain still slightly scrambled from Thane-induced thirst. “What?”
Lyra grins. “You know, lifting heavy things, making sure your arms don’t give out mid-swing, generally not embarrassing yourself in a fight?”
She gestures to the weights across the room. Lyra calls after me as I turn my head toward the weights, voice dripping with amusement.
“Focus! Those biceps aren’t going to sculpt themselves.”
Jarek, still standing beside me, fully entertained by the entire exchange, just smirks. “Try not to get too distracted while you’re lifting. You might hurt yourself.”
I elbow him—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make my point. He only laughs harder, his hazel eyes sparkling, knowing all too well where my mind is.
But as I walk toward the strength training area, I don’t let myself look back. Because if I do, I know I’ll get caught up staring at Thane again.
THE NOBLES
THIRTEEN
My search continues—as it does every day—unrelenting, guided by urgency. I hold firm: that when we stand as one, rooted and strong, the answers will come. And our revelations will guide us to victory.
