I roll my eyes, but it doesn’t stop the warmth creeping up my neck.
Lately, they’ve all been saying things like this—how Thane watches me. How he’s been . . . friendlier these past few weeks.
Lyra had mentioned it first, offhandedly after a sparring match. “He doesn’t look at anyone else like that.” I’d laughed it off, calling her delusional. Then Taila had brought it up after a long training session. “He’s not this patient with anyone else, you know.” And Darius, ever amused, had added, “Maybe he just likes watching you.” And of course Fenric had to escalate it—after one particularly tense moment between Thane and me: “You two either need to fight or kiss. Preferably before someone catches fire.”
Each time, I’d given them the same response. “He has to watch me. I’m the Spiritborn. It’s his duty to make sure I can do what I was born to do.” And I believe that. I have to.
Because anything else? Anything more than duty?
That would be dangerous.
Lyra smirks. “No, no. This is fate.”
Nessa shrugs, tilting her head. “Looks like you’re about my size.” Her gaze flicks over me, considering, before adding lightly, “It might even fit better on you.”
I hesitate. “Are you sure you’re okay with lending me this dress?”
Nessa waves a hand dismissively. “Absolutely. Us warriorshave to look out for one another, right?”
I exhale, then smile, small but genuine. “Right.” I take the dress, fingers brushing over the fabric. It’s softer than I expected, light and easy to move in—practical, but undeniably different from what I’m used to.
The dress fits. Perfectly. It hugs my frame just right—not restrictive, but emphasizing my shape in a way that feels . . . unfamiliar. I stand in front of the small mirror, adjusting the sleeves, turning slightly.
Lyra whistles. “Spiritborn or not, you’re about to turn some heads.”
I shake my head, trying to ignore the heat rising in my neck.
Nessa hands me the matching slippers. They fit . . . almost. A tiny bit too snug, but I can make do. I step around, testing them. “Tight. But I won’t die.”
Taila smirks. “Try not to let it show on your face when you walk. Wouldn’t want anyone to think you’re suffering.”
Lyra, mock solemn, places a hand over her heart. “Or do. Could add to the whole ‘brooding warrior with a tragic past’ thing you’ve got going.”
I glare at them. “Glad my suffering adds to the aesthetic.”
Lyra grabs me and pulls me into a bone-crushing hug. “Oh stop whining! You’re so dramatic! Just enjoy this!”
Lyra’s fiery-red hair covers my face as she continues to squeeze me tighter. Her grip is iron now, months of training turning her playful hug into a stranglehold.
Before I can push her off and catch a breath, two more sets of arms wrap around us—Taila and Nessa piling on, giggling. And before I know it, I’m laughing too, their glee infectious.
BELIEVE
FOURTEEN
Defeat is necessary. It must be felt, understood—lived through. Only in learning how to rise from it, to re-engage, do we truly gain anything from the fall. That is where the real lesson lives—not in the loss, but in the return.
—VALEN’S JOURNAL
AMARA
The sun is low, casting long shadows through the stone corridors as I walk to the dining hall. My dress whispers against my legs with every step, the fabric too soft, too unfamiliar. I roll my shoulders, trying to ignore the lingering warmth in my muscles from training and the tight pinch of theslippers.
I refuse to be nervous—I will not be nervous.
As I step inside the warmly lit private dining room, I feel every gaze shift toward me. They are all already here.
Torchlight flickers across the polished table, casting warm gold over the set plates and gleaming utensils. The heady scent of spiced wine lingers in the air. No one is seated yet; instead, they stand in quiet conversation, drinks in hand.
