I feel untethered. Drifting. As if none of this is real.
As ifallof it is.
Thane shifts slightly, nudging the teacup closer. “At least drink some tea,” he says. “Lyra insisted I make sure you did. She’s been bossy and pushy ever since we arrived at the outpost. Wouldn’t even let me in the room today unless I promised you’d drink and eat something.”
There’s a flicker of a smile behind the words—an attempt to lift the weight pressing down on both of us.
It doesn’t quite reach me. And I don’t care.
But still, I nod, wrapping my hands around the cup, the warmth bleeding into my fingers like a lifeline. Something solid in the storm.
“Thanks,” I murmur, managing a tired smile. “Yeah . . . that’s my best friend.”
The silence stretches again, but it’s different now. Softer. Less suffocating.
Then it hits me.
I don’t actually know who they are. Valen. Thane. This place.
Names, titles, pieces—but not the whole.
I glance at him, studying his posture, his poise, the way he hasn’t once looked away.
“Who are you?” My voice is low but steady. “Valen, you, this outpost—you’re all helping me. But why? You were the ones who showed up at the village, weren’t you?”
He meets my gaze without hesitation. “I lead the Fire Clan. Valen is a mage—and my mentor. He’s also a scholar.”
His answer is simple, but it carries weight. I blink, absorbing the information.
The Fire Clan—one of the most powerful in the realm. He doesn’t carry himself like royalty, but hefeelslike it.
And Valen—a scholar and a mage. That explains the depth. The control. The calm.
But it doesn’t explainwhythey’re here. Or what they want from me.
Their supposedSpiritborn.
I blink, letting the words settle, though they feel distant, as if they belong to someone else’s story. My gaze finds Thane again. I study him now—the sharp lines of his face, the quiet strength in his eyes. Gray and stormy, but steady.
He doesn’t look at me with expectation. Just presence.
Where Valen filled every silence with knowledge or prophecy, Thane lets it stretch. As if he understands the pieces have to fall into place on their own.
He exhales softly, then nudges the plate closer. “Eat.”
I glance down. The meal is simple but hearty—roasted meat still warm, thick slices of bread beside a dish of softened butter. Root vegetables—carrots, parsnips, potatoes—roasted with herbs I can’t name but recognize from scent.
And again, I think of home . . . the farm.
I hesitate, my stomach twisting. The idea of eating feels foreign, like something that belongs to another life. But Thane doesn’t move the plate away. He just waits, watching me.
I sigh, almost imperceptibly, then spear a piece of parsnip and lift it to my mouth. The earthy flavor spreads across mytongue, and something about it tethers me—just a little.
Something that says:you’re still here.
I glance back up. Thane is still watching. Not with judgment or concern.
Just . . . there.
