But then he says it.
“You are the Spiritborn, Amara.”
A breath.
“I am certain of it.”
My pulse thunders in my ears. My hands twist in the blanket, knuckles white. I can’t stop shaking. Everything I’ve ever known—my village, my parents, the garden rows and fence posts, the hum of morning chores—all of it collapses beneath the weight of his words.
And I can’t hold onto the pieces.
“I’m a farmer,” I whisper, like that might be enough to undo him. “I plant seeds. I mend fences. I wake up before dawn and carry water from the well. I—I don’t fight. I don’t lead. I don’tdestroy.”
I push myself deeper into the headboard, heart slamming against my ribs. Like maybe if I press hard enough, I’ll vanish. Maybe if I hide deep enough, none of this will find me.
“You’re wrong,” I whisper. “I don’t care what some dusty scroll says. I’m not special. I can’t be.”
The last words break on a sob.
“I don’twantto be.”
Valen watches me with the calm of someone who’s stood in storms before.
“I believe otherwise,” he says quietly. “And so do they.”
I don’t have to ask who they are. I already know; the Shadow Forces. The ones who destroyed my home. The ones who killed everyone I ever loved. The ones who are now huntingme.
Valen doesn’t push further. Instead, he exhales slowly, his voice calm but resolute.
“Deny it all you want, Amara. It won’t change the truth. The only question that remains is whether you will run from it—or face it.”
My hands lift to my temples. I press hard, trying to hold my thoughts in place, but they won’t settle. They spiral—wild, frantic, loud.
If I accept this, then everything I have ever known is a lie. But if I reject it, does that make the danger disappear?
Before I can respond, a knock on the door shatters the silence. A voice I don’t recognize follows, hesitant but clear. “Amara?”
Valen rises. The movement is quiet but full of purpose. He doesn’t speak at first, just watches me.
Then, with a nod that carries more weight than the words themselves, he says, “Rest. You’ll need it.”
He crosses to the door, sunlight slanting through the high windows, casting his shadow long across the floor.
The door creaks open. A tall figure steps inside, dressed in black leathers, the unmistakable cut of a warrior. He carries a tray of food and tea, his eyes flicking between Valen and me, assessing the tension in the room with cool precision.
Without a word, he crosses to the table and sets the tray down. His movements are precise, unhurried. Like every motion has been practiced a hundred times before.
“Lyra asked me to bring this,” he says at last.
The door shuts behind Valen with a soft click, and then it’s just me and this stranger.
But I’m not reallyhere. Not fully. The weight of Valen’s words still presses around me like a cage. I can feel every syllable of it—heavy, impossible.
The Spiritborn.
Change everything.
Face it or fall.
