Because I want it to be real. Gods, I want it to be real. But wanting isn’t knowing. If I fall into him without knowing, I don’t know if I’ll ever find my way back out.
And I just—I can’t take any more heartbreak.
I’m suddenly aware of a bird singing above our heads—a soft melody, delicate and out of place in the charged silence between us. It must be perched somewhere in the tree canopy, hidden in the leaves. But I can’t look up to see what kind of bird it is—I’m pinned in place by Thane’s gaze.
I hear its song, and gods, I wish—just for a moment—for simpler times. Back on the farm. Before my parents died. Before this fucking prophecy.
Before I became the Spiritborn.
Thane inhales sharply like I’ve knocked the breath from his lungs. Like I’ve said the one thing he’s been afraid to name.
But he doesn’t reach for me. Doesn’t step closer. Doesn’t try to wrap me in words or promises. He just stands there. Still. Fierce. Unmoving.
And somehow, entirely mine.
“Then let’s figure it out together,” he says.
His voice is low, rough at the edges.
“Slow. Messy. Flawed. Real.”
I stare at him, unsure of what to say. Because I’m still scared. Still aching. Still unsure.
I study his face. His expression is that Warlord mask of control—set jaw, steady breath. But his eyes . . . there’s a shift.
A quiet hope. A hand offered. A request to meet him halfway.
I inhale, slow and shaky.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Slow. Messy. Flawed. Real.”
But neither of us takes that final step forward. Neither of us breaks the space between us.
The sky has deepened to dusk by the time I find Lyra.
The training grounds are quieter now, fading into the hum of evening. Fires flicker in the courtyard, their glow licking the stone, casting long shadows. Soldiers and outpost staff linger near the flames talking, laughing, some with mugs of ale in their hands.
I spot her perched on a wooden bench, legs stretched out, absently twirling a dagger between her fingers. Her red hair catches the firelight, glowing like embered copper in the fading dusk.
Lyra doesn’t look up when I sit beside her. But I know she’s been waiting.
“Did you finally stop running?” Lyra asks, flipping the dagger once before smoothly sheathing it at her hip.
I exhale sharply, rubbing my hands over my face. “Yeah.”
She lifts one brow, unimpressed. “And?”
“And now we’re figuring it out.”
Her eyes narrow slightly. “What exactly is theityou’re figuring out?”
I hesitate. Then, finally, I say it. “Thane is bonded to me—or at least that’s what he and Valen are calling it—like riders and dragons.”
Lyra goes completely still.
Then—”What the actual fuck?”
I throw up my hands. “Trust me—I know.”
