I drag my fingers through my hair, my breath unsteady. I don’t know if I believe Valen or don’twantto.
The stranger lingers. Then clears his throat. “You should eat.”
The calm in his tone feels like command—quiet but immovable.
I barely register his words. The food, the tea, even his presence—all of it feels distant, muted beneath the storm raging in my mind. My hands tighten around the blanket as if holding onto something solid will keep me from unraveling completely.
I want to tell him to leave. To take the tray and disappear. But the words won’t come.
Instead, I stare at the cup of tea, its surface still rippling from when he set it down. Part of me wishing I could dive into that little cup and disappear. My world has been turned inside out, shattered into something unrecognizable, and yet here he is—calm, steady, unshaken.
As if everything isn’t falling apart.
I finally manage to speak, though my voice is barely above a whisper. “Who are you?”
The stranger exhales, as if he had been waiting for the question.
“Thane Caelum,” he says. “And I’ve been waiting to meet you.”
I know that name.
My throat tightens. I swallow hard, pushing down the ache that rises with it. My parents raised me to be polite. Even now—even with my world turned to ash—some part of that remains.
“I’m Amara Thalor,” I murmur, voice trembling.
Gods.My parents.
The grief crashes through me again, sudden and sharp. It claws up my chest and wraps around my lungs, pressing until it’s hard to breathe. I grip the blanket tighter, fingers curling until my knuckles ache.
Thane watches me without moving. His stillness feels unnatural—like the entire room is holding its breath.
Then, softly, he says, “I know.”
Silence settles between us.
Then, finally, he shifts. “May I sit?”
I don’t have the strength to argue—don’t have the energy to care—because Valen’s words echo in my skull.
The Prophecy. The trials. What you must become.
I feel like I’ve already drowned.
So I nod.
Thane lowers himself into the chair beside the bed, his movements careful, as if not wanting to disturb the fragile silence between us.
He exhales softly before speaking. “I’m sorry about your parents. And your village.”
The words hit like a blow to my chest. I force myself to keep breathing. I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything.
After a moment, he continues, his voice quieter. “I lost my mother a few years ago. It’s a grief that never really leaves.” He hesitates. Something flickers across his face—quick, then gone. “But you learn to carry it, like a new companion.”
I finally look at him.
His eyes are striking. Not just for their smoke-gray color, but for the intensity behind them. There’s something in them I recognize—a weight. An expectation. Something unspoken and heavy.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I manage. The words feel thin, like they’re coming from someone else.
