But I see it. And I can’t stop myself from smiling.
It is rare to catch Thane acting like a man instead of the Warlord. He falls back into it easily—leader, Warlord, host.
Then, in a steady, formal tone, he gestures toward the nobles. “Lord Toren Hale. Lady Evelyne Hale.”
His tone does not falter, but I catch it—the tiniest pausebefore he says Evelyne’s name, as if bracing for something.
“This is Amara Thalor. Wielder of all four elements.”
He does not say the word Spiritborn, but everyone hears it anyway.
Lord Toren Hale gives me a slow, assessing nod. His eyes—sharp, piercing—sweep over me like a man cataloging details for later.
I raise my chin, refusing to fidget.
Then, after a quiet beat, he speaks. “I’ve heard much about you.” It’s neither praise nor criticism—just carefully placed. Perfectly neutral.
I’m not blind. He’s watching me. Studying not just what I am, but how I respond.
Then, Evelyne moves. She steps forward, her gown shifting around her, the rich green fabric catching the firelight. A goblet rests lightly in her grasp, fingers loose, elegant. Not a speck of dirt beneath her polished nails. Blue eyes flick over me—cool, interested, curious.
I glance down at my own hands. Calloused, rough. Not delicate or made for stemware and silk. These were a farmer’s hands once—blistered from spades, raw from hauling water, palms bloodied pulling weeds.
Now they grip a blade.
Then, with a smile so smooth it could be silk, she tilts her head. “Now that we’ve been formally introduced,” she muses—warm, amused. Each word is perfectly placed. She lifts her goblet slightly, her smile unwavering. “You do look lovely.”
I meet her gaze. “How kind of you.”
My voice is cool. Even. Impossible to read.
A pause—just a fraction too long to be casual. Then, the faintest flicker of amusement at the edges of her smile.
I lift my goblet and drink, keeping my eyes on hers.
And in the quietest, most imperceptible of ways, her lipscurve just slightly.
Because she understands; the game has begun. And I am playing.
Thane speaks, voice calm, steady—carrying the weight of the room with ease. He talks of the outpost, the warriors, the dragons, the newly bonded riders.
And as he does, Evelyne rests a hand on his shoulder—light, effortless. Deliberate. Her fingers linger just a fraction longer than necessary, her posture angled toward him. A gesture not of possession, but of presence. A quiet statement:I have the right to stand here.
I set my goblet down. A bit harder than necessary.
The air shifts when the server steps inside and bows. “Dinner is ready, my lords.”
Everyone responds, moving towards the large dining table in the center of the room. Goblets are placed down; quiet conversations shift; one by one, the men move toward their seats.
And as expected, Evelyne stays close to Thane.
I don’t move right away. I hang back, watching as everyone drifts to their seats—movements easy, practiced, like they’ve done this a hundred times.
I don’t know where to sit. What’s proper. Formal dinners aren’t part of my experience. The closest I’ve had was eating around a fire after training—passing a flask between warriors too tired to care about etiquette. Or dinner at the table with my parents and our neighbors.
This is different.
The long table is set with roasted meats, dark bread, vegetables spiced just right, and goblets of wine reflecting the torchlight.
