We pass through the remnants of the village square—now a ring of char and blood and ash. My boots crunch over bone. Over scorched stone. I don’t look down. I keep my eyes on the path ahead. And on the woman in my arms.
Valen points to the shimmer of violet energy splitting the air ahead of us. I step through with her in my arms, her head tucked beneath my chin.
And I know, with absolute certainty, that the world won’t be the same when she wakes up.
GRIEF MADE FIRE
THREE
“She may be the Spiritborn, and the realm will need her like no other, but she is still a young woman with a choice. We can only hope she chooses well.”
—VALEN’S JOURNAL
AMARA
Ijolt awake, breath catching in my throat.
Ash clings to my tongue. My hands tremble—I’m crashing back into myself.
Grief pummels me without warning—tight, cold, everywhere. And then I’m crying—full-body, rib-wracking sobs that tear through me. I feel like I’m breaking apart, like something essential has split wide open, and there’s no putting it back.
There’s a shift behind me. The mattress dips.
“Mara. I’m here.”
The words, followed by arms, wrap around me like a blanket. I turn my head, vision swimming.
Lyra’s eyes shine with tears she tries to hold back. I collapse into her, my hands fisting in her tunic, breath hitching in my throat. If I let go, I’ll fall apart again.
“Ly . . . ” My voice breaks. “Your parents. Are they—?”
She eases back just enough to meet my eyes. Her gaze soft, though marred by grief.
“They’re alive,” she says. “They’re safe.”
Relief punches through me, so fierce it leaves me dizzy. But confusion immediately follows.
“Then why—why aren’t you with them?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Just laces our fingers together, her grip tightening like she’s grounding herself too. When she speaks, it’s quiet.
“Because I couldn’t leave you alone in this.” Her voice quivering, but honest. “It’s enough for me to know they’re safe, but you need me more. And they told me to go. They wanted me to tell you they love you so much.”
The tears flow freely, faster, and I mourn not just my parents, but the life stolen from me. The version of myself that existed before the world as I knew it capsized.
Lyra says nothing. She doesn’t try to make me smile like she usually does, doesn’t fill the space with one of her ridiculous jokes or whimsical stories. She just holds me, her arms a quiet barrier against the collapse.
We breathe in the silence together, a silence so loud it reverberates in my bones.
Finally, her voice breaks through— “We’ll figure it out.”
I nod against her shoulder, even though I don’t know what that means anymore. Survival? Revenge? Healing? Each wordfeels too large, too distant.
I take in the space, trying to place myself in something real. But the room is unfamiliar. The bed I’m laying in—wide, sturdy, covered in a plain woven blanket—anchors the space. A chair sits in the corner beside a low table, where an unlit candle leans beside a clay pitcher of water.
I rake a hand through my tangled hair, fingers catching on knots. “How long have we been here?”
She shifts just enough to meet my eyes. There’s weariness in her gaze, but also warmth, and a thread of unspoken things she’s not ready to say.
