“Tell me, Warlord—”
I don’t stop moving, but I hear the shift—the way the surrounding warriors hesitate, the subtle pause in the air. Lord Toren Hale’s voice carries, sharp and assessing. His gaze flicks toward me.
“—is this the Spiritborn we’ve been hearing so much about?”
Silence spreads through the hall. I feel it instantly—every gaze shifting to me, the room holding its breath.
I do not react. I do not answer.
Not because I’m caught off guard. Because I know better. Anything I say—any word, shift in tone, or flicker of emotion—will be remembered.
Instead, I lower my blade and meet Toren’s gaze, holding itwithout a word. And after a beat, he looks back to Thane.
Thane does not react outwardly. He stands as he always does—composed, immovable, unreadable. But there is weight behind his silence. I know him better now so I can see it, sense it.
A beat passes. Then another. Only after the silence has stretched too long does Thane speak. His voice is even but edged in steel.
“That is not a name we use lightly, Lord Hale. Her name is Amara Thalor.”
A warning. A reminder. A line drawn in the sand.
The silence lingers, thick and heavy, pressing against the walls of the training hall.
Across the mats, Lyra turns to me, eyes flaring with something between shock and satisfaction. Then, just as quickly, she snaps her attention back to Darius, resuming her fight as if nothing happened.
But I catch the small, sharp grin of approval she tries to hide. She heard that. They all did.
Toren doesn’t look away, his features carved into something hard and impassive. But there’s something beneath it—a flicker of thought, as if he’s weighing and considering.
Beside him, Lady Evelyne watches me intently. Her gaze lingers—sharp, assessing. The kind that memorizes weakness and files it for later.
After a pause, she tilts her head—an almost imperceptible shift. She leans in close to Thane, as if to whisper, as if this moment is meant only for him. Her fingers brush lightly against his arm, her lashes lowering just slightly—just enough to make the touch feel intentional.
But then—just as the moment stretches—she speaks loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Then you’ll forgive our curiosity,” she murmurs—light, pleasant, calculated. “Stories travel quickly, Warlord. Butnames? Even faster.”
The tension lingers—settling like dust after a storm. Warriors return to their sparring, the rhythmic clash of steel and the low grunt of exertion filling the space again.
Captain Elaris’ voice cuts through the clash of steel.
“The training program here is rigorous by design,” he says, his words measured but firm. “Every warrior is expected to maintain proficiency across multiple forms of combat. Strength alone won’t win battles—discipline and adaptability will.”
I hear him, his voice threading through the background of my sparring match with Taila. He’s speaking for the noble party, walking them through our training regimen. I don’t let it distract me.
Taila lunges, and I twist away, barely evading the strike.
“We incorporate endurance conditioning, strategy drills, and daily sparring sessions,” Elaris continues.” A warrior who cannot outlast their opponent in a fight will not survive one.”
Taila presses forward, her blade flicking toward my ribs. I counter fast, blocking, forcing her to pivot to recover. The floor groans underfoot, the mats absorbing each impact. Sweat beads along my temple, my arms, but I don’t slow.
Thane and the nobles move through the hall, their presence shifting the room’s energy.
I keep my focus on Taila—until I don’t. Because now, I can see them, just beyond her shoulder.
Lady Evelyne, standing close to Thane, her fingers resting lightly on his arm. I grit my teeth, muscles tensing. She leans in slightly, like she’s going to whisper something to him, but it’s obvious she isn’t trying to be discreet. The way she tilts her head, the way she lingers—it’s deliberate.
It’s not the fight making my chest burn.
