Before I can spiral, the door opens again and a man steps inside. The one with the gray-streaked hair.
And instantly, the room feels smaller.
He moves with purpose. Cloak worn from travel, boots dusted with earth, a staff in one hand—dark, polished wood veined with something older than time. His frame is solid. His posture relaxed, but not casual. Like someone who’s always assessing—always ready.
His eyes sweep over me—quick, precise, impossible to read. And I realize he’s older than I first thought. Streaks of silver thread through dark hair, and the lines on his face aren’t from age, but from memory. From experience. From carrying things most would never understand.
“You’re awake,” he says, voice low and level. Like he’s been waiting, but not anxiously. “Good.”
I straighten instinctively, ignoring the pull in my shoulders, the throb low in my spine. “Who are you? Where am I?”
He inclines his head. “Valen Thorne. You’re at an outpost of the Fire Clan. Half a day’s ride from the capital.”
I blink. “Why?”
“Because you’re safe here.”
That word again. It scrapes across something raw in me. I don’t know if I believe in safety anymore. I hate that word right now.
But his gaze doesn’t waver. If anything, it sharpens, like he’s not just hearing my question, but the ones I haven’t said aloud.
“This place is heavily warded,” he says. “Shielded against the things that hunt from the dark. Soldiers train here. And those already trained . . . ” He pauses, just long enough for the meaning to settle. “ . . . they’re preparing.”
A beat of stillness.
Then I ask the only thing that makes sense.
“Preparing for what?”
His eyes hold mine. And the answer lands heavy in the space between us.
“War.”
Valen’s expression doesn’t shift. “It’s a long story,” he says, the words edged with fatigue. “May I sit? It’ll be easier to explain everything.”
I hesitate. Then nod. “Fine.”
He moves slowly, pulling the chair away from the table and lowering himself into it. His cloak shifts with the motion, folds of worn fabric falling like parchment long handled. He exhales, settling his staff across his knees—but I don’t give him the luxury of comfort.
“Three days.”
The words cut sharper than I intend. The weight of that time presses against my ribs like a stone.
“Why was I unconscious for so long?”
“Your body needed to recover,” he replies, calm and maddeningly simple. “Channeling magics of that magnitude takes a toll.”
I stiffen. “What do you mean? I don’t even understand what happened.”
He nods—expecting this, maybe even relieved by it. “I’ll explain.”
His fingers shift along the staff, and when he speaks again, his voice is steady but not impersonal.
“You know of the wars against the Shadow Forces.”
I nod once, wary. “Yes. Of course.”
“Then you also know the wards protecting the realm have been faltering.”
