Thane meets his gaze without hesitation. “Yes. We can send three.”
A beat of silence follows.
Three. Not many, but enough to make a difference. I don’t miss the way Toren exhales, slow and measured, before giving a small nod. A silent acceptance of terms.
Then his gaze shifts.
To me.
“And what of the Spiritborn?” He gestures toward me with a deliberate tilt of his hand. “When will we see you protecting the realm?”
The clink of silverware fades. His words settle—heavy. Inevitable. Like I already belong to the war.
Eight pairs of eyes are now all on me.
I grip the stem of my goblet, steadying my hand. I will not shift. I will not waver.
I glance at Valen. My mentor. My anchor. My friend.
His expression is neutral, but his silver-blue eyes hold something steady, something knowing. A silent reminder of what I now understand—this moment was always coming.
Then, I turn to Thane. Seated at my right, he holds his goblet near his lips, but he does not drink. His eyes meet mine, unwavering. Watching. Waiting. He gives nothing away—no reassurance, no command.
And in that stillness, I see it.
Belief.
He gives me space—to speak freely. For myself.
The Fire Clan may not rule my fate, but they are all waiting for my answer.
I shift my gaze to Lady Evelyne. She watches me, the firelight glinting in her eyes, but it does nothing to warm them. She’swaiting for me to stumble.
I won’t. I will not let these nobles look down on me or let them speak of me as if I am less—village girl or not.
I lift my chin and meet Toren’s gaze.
“Like all soldiers, I’m in training. I’m learning, growing—becoming the warrior this realm will need. And when the time comes,” I say, voice steady, gaze unwavering, “I will stand on the front lines.”
A beat of silence.
Torchlight flickers, shadows stretching across the table as murmured conversation fades into the background.
Toren watches me carefully, his expression unreadable at first. Then, he exhales sharply, leaning back in his chair. “Spoken like a true warrior,” he says at last, though whether it’s approval or just observation, I can’t tell.
Evelyne, seated beside him, raises her chin slightly, studying me. “Time will tell,” she murmurs, her tone smooth as silk. But something flickers behind her gaze—curiosity. Perhaps even intrigue.
Garrick, ever the one to break tension, lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Well, if nothing else, she’s got fire.” He lifts his goblet in a lazy salute in my direction before taking a long drink.
Jarek, near the table’s edge, nods once—considering. “It’s a good answer,” he says simply. When I look across the table towards him, there’s an approving glint in his eyes. I smile at Jarek and he gives me a quick, reassuring nod.
Captain Elaris remains silent, but his sharp gaze cuts to Thane, as if assessing his reaction.
Rian grins and raises his goblet from a few seats down. “To the Spiritborn,” he declares smoothly, voice carrying just enough amusement to take the edge off the moment. “May she burn our enemies to ash.”
Garrick shakes his head. “Careful, Rian. Keep talking like that, and she’ll start thinking you believe in prophecies.”
A few of the men chuckle, the tension around the table easing slightly.
