I just stare at the solid door between me andthem.
A WARLORD’S WEIGHT
FIFTEEN
My realm map is growing crowded with marks—Shadow Force attacks are spreading like rot. The Fire Scout team returned, and not unscathed, bringing word of yet another strike on a border town. It’s unclear what their intent truly is. Are they still hunting the Spiritborn? Trying to break our morale? Or are these simply opportunistic strikes—low-hanging fruit meant to stretch us thin? Either way, the pattern is shifting, and not in our favor.
—VALEN’S JOURNAL
AMARA
The nobles are still here, and Thane’s been buried in meetings—with them, with Captain Elaris. He hasn’t been around. Hasn’t spoken to me. Hardly looks at me when I pass.
I know he’s been busy—strategizing patrols, dispatching soldiers, hosting endless meetings.
And after what I saw . . . maybe that’s for the best.
So I train. Harder than usual.
Jarek doesn’t pry. Doesn’t study me like Valen does, like he’s waiting for me to crack. He just blocks, dodges, and counters as I throw everything I have at him, my movements fueled by frustration and anger.
For the next two days, Jarek trains me alone.
I lunge, blade swinging—Jarek catches my wrist mid-strike. “You’re getting sloppy,” he says, voice flat. “Again.”
I yank free, biting back the retort rising in my throat. I don’t need a lecture. I need to hit something.
So I do. Again and again.
But Jarek doesn’t give. He knocks me down—again and again. Every time I rise, he sweeps my legs out or sends me sprawling with a brutal strike.
My frustration grows, but so does my determination. I push off the ground, my muscles burning, sweat dripping down my spine, and lunge at him again.
Another mistake. Another hit. Another fall.
The sparring mats do little to soften the impact. Each fall rattles through my bones. My breath punches out as I hit the mat, frustration flaring hot in my chest. I grit my teeth, swipe the sweat-soaked hair from my face, and shove myself upright.
Jarek stands over me with a furrowed brow as I lay on my back yet again.
I’m not focused. And I hate that I know it.
“Do you need a day off?” Jarek asks, adjusting the loose strands from his top knot.
“No,” I grit out. I push up, stand, and look him in the eye.
“Your head isn’t on this mat, Amara,” Jarek says, stating the obvious.
I shake out my hands, muttering under my breath, trying to beat back the noise in my head.
And yet here I am—letting one man take up more space in my mind than the coming war.
“Let’s go again,” I insist.
He shrugs and repositions across the mat from me.
When I’m not sparring, I’m training with Valen. Precision matters.
I work on wielding one element after another in quick succession—Fire into air. Air into earth. Earth into water. Over and over, I force my magics to shift without hesitation. It’s harder than it sounds. Each missed step coils frustration in my gut. The shift should be effortless. But emotion keeps knocking me off rhythm.
