I pretend Thane didn’t flinch the moment my blade arm was hit. Pretend he didn’t move like he felt it—not saw it. Pretend Valen wasn’t watching him like he always knew this moment was coming. Pretend Lyra wasn’t watching—her sharp green eyes narrowed, committing every second to memory.
Because even though I’ve seen it with my own eyes, I still can’t accept it. I can’t accept that there’s one more force dictating how my life is going to go. One more thing stolen from my choosing.
I can’t accept that the one person I’ve fallen for—the one person in this new world who truly sees me—is now bound to me not because he chose to, but because the gods decided he should.
I ignore Thane’s stare as I push damp hair from my face, refusing to acknowledge the sting of my wound. Refusing to acknowledgehim. Even though I can feel his eyes burning into my back.
I won’t look at him. Won’t give him a second of my thoughts. My mind won’t stop spiraling—because of Thane, because of what I saw, because I don’t know what it means now.
I need space. I need tobreathe. I need toprocess this.
I turn away and walk off the field. And Lyra follows me.
I don’t make it three steps before she falls into stride beside me.
“Well,” she says, casually wiping sweat from her brow, “thatwas fascinating.”
I groan.
“Ly, don’t—just drop it.”
I keep walking.
“Absolutely not.”
Because Lyra isn’t just my best friend. She is my family, my sister. She was the one who kept me standing after our village burned and my parents died. The one who made me laugh when I wanted to break. The one who never lets me hide—not from my grief, not from my anger, not from myself.
She grins, bumping my shoulder, trying to make light of something that feels far too heavy right now.
“So . . . do we think it’s true love?”
“By the gods, Lyra—now isnota good time,” I snap.
She pauses, assesses me. “Thereissomething going on between you. Now what the hell is it?”
She grabs my arm, stopping me as we pass the mess hall. The teasing vanishes. The humor fades. And what’s left is just Lyra—real, sharp, unforgiving.
“Amara,” she says, quieter now. “You can lie to yourself. But you can’t lie to me.”
I press my lips together, jaw clenched.
Her eyes soften—just a little.
“And I know what you look like when you’re afraid of something. You act all angry, but really . . . you’re scared.”
I exhale, shoulders tight, breath uneven. “I’m not afraid.”
She doesn’t flinch. “Then why won’t you even look at him?”
I don’t have an answer. Because she’s right. And I hate her and love her for it.
Lyra doesn’t let it go. She never does.
She follows me into the barracks, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
I pretend I don’t notice. Pretend I don’t feel her staring at the back of my head like she’s waiting for me to break. Just like I was pretending with Thane back out on the training field.
I drop onto the trunk at the foot of the bunk beds we share, kick off my boots, run my hands through my sweaty, tangled hair.
