He says it lightly, almost teasing—but there’s weight beneath the words. A flicker of a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
Heat pulses between us. His gaze holds mine, tension thrumming like a live wire.
But I feel the resistance too. Like he wants to close the space . . . and won’t let himself.
There’s something beneath the charm. Something unspoken. And I don’t know if he’s still playing the game . . . or afraid of what happens if he stops.
I feel like a deer caught in a hunter’s gaze—frozen, breath shallow, the rest of the world falling away beneath the weight of his eyes. The boldness I wore a moment ago unravels—thread by thread.
With far less certainty, my voice quieter now, I murmur, “It’s just a dance.”
But it doesn’t feel likejustanything. Not with the way he’s looking at me. Not with the way my heart won’t slow.
Thane’s smirk lingers—for a moment. But then something shifts. The warmth from before—his laughter, his teasing dims—pulled back like a tide retreating. His smoke-gray eyes flicker,shadowed by something I can’t quite name.
Something restrained. Held tight.
The muscle in his jaw twitches—like he’s wrestling with words he doesn’t want to say. For a moment, I think he might crack. Might let something slip.
But then—just as quickly—he pulls it back. Smooths the edges. Masks whatever surfaced behind that calm.
The Warlord again. Untouchable.
“It wouldn’t be appropriate,” he says at last.
The words catch me off guard. I blink. “Appropriate?”
His gaze shifts—past me, toward the celebration behind us. The soldiers, the staff, the pulse of the Solstice still burning strong.
“I’m the Warlord of the Fire Clan, Amara. Leader of the realm. I don’t have the luxury of—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. A muscle ticks.
He exhales—slow. Quiet. “This is not the place.”
I study him, the silence stretching as realization settles in my chest. This isn’t about not wanting to dance. It’s about control. About duty.
Thane steps back—not far, but just enough to remind me of the space he keeps between us. The shift is subtle, but I feel it like an icy breeze against my skin.
I swallow the sting. Bury it beneath a crooked smile.
“Your loss, Warlord,” I murmur, lifting the wine to my lips. The smoothness of it no longer soothes—it fuels something else. Annoyance. Rejection.
I’m not sulking, I tell myself. But it tastes bitter.
The music swells again, bold and bright. And this time, I don’t hesitate.
If Thane won’t dance with me, someone else will.
I scan the crowd until I find Kieran—grinning, caught in the rhythm. Without hesitation, I stride toward him and tap hisshoulder.
“Dance with me,” I say, the words coming out a bolder. Looser. Fueled by wine—and something sharper beneath it.
Kieran doesn’t need convincing. With a grin that’s all mischief and ease, he grabs my hand and spins me into the dancers. The laugh that bubbles up—too loud, too loose—is charged by wine, drums, and firelight.
As Kieran and I twirl—again and again—around the bonfire, the world spins in flashes of color and heat. Through the blur, I catch glimpses of my friends.
Taila is with a tall man whose long dark hair is tied back, green eyes sparkling down at her. She kicks her feet, dress flaring wild and free with every beat of the drum. Then she throws her head back and laughs—pure and loud—just as he pulls her close and kisses her. She freezes. Just a breath. Then grins and throws her arms around him, kissing him back.
At one of the long tables, Fenric and Darius sit with massive glasses of ale. They’re deep in animated conversation with a few soldiers—gesturing wildly, laughing between sips.
