I gesture vaguely. “He felt it. This so-called bond. But I don’t. So how does that make sense?”
Valen tilts his head slightly, watching me too closely. “Maybe you’re not ready to feel it yet.”
The words send a shiver down my spine, though I don’t know why. I scoff, forcing out a breath. “Or maybe there’s nothing to feel at all.”
It should sound convincing. But it isn’t.
Because I feel him in the way my pulse quickens when he walks into a room. In the way his voice grounds me, steadies me, even when I don’t want it to. In the way his hands grip too tightly, the way his jaw clenches when he’s holding something back, the way his eyes—gods, his eyes—always find me, always see me.
I drag a hand through my hair, frustration simmering beneath my skin. “What does it mean, Valen?”
He exhales, shaking his head. “I don’t know.”
I blink, caught off guard. “You don’t know?”
Valen lifts a brow. “Did I stutter?”
I glare at him. “You’re the one who’s supposed to have answers.”
“And yet, I don’t. There are many things I don’t know, and I will always pursue that knowledge.” He withdraws his hands and leans back, studying me. “Which means, for now, we wait. We pay attention. And see what happens.”
I hate that answer. I hate waiting. I hate not knowing. I hate—
A pit forms in my stomach, slow and creeping.
What if I never feel it back?
The thought slams into me, cold and unwelcome.
What if it’s only him?
My fingers tighten in the blankets, my throat suddenly dry.
Valen doesn’t say anything—doesn’t need to. He just watches as the worry seeps into my face, as my mind turns over the one thing I hadn’t let myself consider. And that scares me.
I want to feel it back.
UNSPOKEN
TWENTY-ONE
A good magics trainer does more than just instruct—they must discern the balance between what a student truly needs and what has become a crutch. Support is essential, that much is undeniable. But support takes many forms: sometimes it means ignoring a behavior, sometimes validating a trauma, and other times offering cold, hard truths. Often, it’s all of the above, offered with intention.
—VALEN’S JOURNAL
AMARA
Iwake slowly the next day. Not to pain—not the sharp, searing kind that haunted my sleep the night before. Just a deep ache, dull and lingering, pulsing faintly through myribs with every breath.
The air is thick with warmth—the kind that clings on summer nights. The faint scent of embers and steel clings to the air, mixing with the faintest traces of pine from outside.
It’s still dark, the kind that softens everything—edges, shadows, thought—right before sunrise. The kind that holds the world in quiet stillness, where everything is waiting to wake but hasn’t yet.
Summer is still holding strong. Even this early, warmth seeps through the open window, the rustling of leaves barely breaking the stillness.
I shift slightly, and pause.
There’s a weight beside me. A presence. I turn my head, my breath catching.
