And then there’s the seating of four chairs, worn but inviting, arranged in a half-circle before the hearth. A low table sits between them, ringed with nicks and faint wine stains. This looks like a space where real conversations happen, I realize. Not the war room. Here. In the quiet. With no eyes watching.
There’s something intimate about the space. Not gentle—but grounded. Real. This is who Thane is when no one’s looking. I can feel him here, in the battered desk, in the haphazard notes scribbled in margins, in the precise placement of the compass beside a broken quill.
He strides in ahead of us, jaw tight, eyes unreadable in that particular way of his—flat, closed off, a warning and a wall.He doesn’t speak. Just crosses to a low cart near the window. There’s a decanter there—amber liquid catching the light like fire caught in glass. A few thick-bottomed glasses sit beside it, rimmed in dust, like they’ve been waiting too long to be used.
He grabs one, pours a generous measure, and downs it in one go. Then exhales hard exhales—sharp, through his teeth—like he’s trying to burn something out from his chest.
He pours again—less this time—then fills two more glasses with equal care. Without a word, he hands one to Valen, then one to me.
Our fingers brush around the glass. Warm from his hold. My eyes lift to his—and I see it. Tension. Hesitation. And fear. Not the kind that comes from enemies at the gates. The kind that comesbeforea confession.
He turns away, picks up his own glass, and gestures to the four chairs arranged before the hearth. No fire burns there—none needed, not in the height of summer.
We sit.
Thane takes the closest chair, elbows on his knees, his glass cradled in both hands. He stares into it for a beat, as if the right words might rise from the bottom like silt.
He lifts his gaze.
“I figured these might help what I have to say go down easier.”
He takes a slow sip from his glass, then sets it down on the low table between us. His fingers linger on the rim for a beat before he pulls back, dragging a hand over his face like he’s trying to wipe away whatever mask he usually wears.
His gaze flicks to me—just a glance. But it lands like weight. Then he exhales, deep and steady, the kind of breath a man takes before walking into battle.
He leans forward, forearms braced on his thighs, hands clasped tightly in front of him. His posture is rigid, composed—but I can see the strain beneath it.
“Before I start,” he says quietly, “please let me say all of it. And then, I’ll answer any questions you have.”
He lifts his eyes. First to me. Then to Valen. We both nod.
I sit a little straighter, bracing myself.
Suddenly, the bond between us stirs. No, it thrums. Low and insistent. Like it too senses the shift in the air. Like it knows something big is about to change.
Thane’s jaw tightens. A flicker crosses his face—sharp, fleeting—and then his eyes cut to me.
I hold his gaze.
The weight between us stretches thin. Strung tight. Humming like a drawn wire. I nod again. Slow. Deliberate. Telling him I’m here. That it’s okay. Thatwe’re okay.
The bond quiets, just a little. But the thrum remains. Steady. Anchored beneath my ribs.
He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t blink. His eyes are wide open—unguarded—like he’s clinging to a lifeline only I can offer.
Then, finally, he speaks.
“I have Shadow Clan blood in me. From my mother’s side. We’re descended from the last Shadow Warden—the one who created the Shadow Realm to seal the Unmaking.”
The words settle over the room like ash. Soft. Weightless. And everywhere.
But his gaze doesn’t waver. It stays locked on mine, even as something in me starts to tilt. I don’t flinch. But I feel the shift—like the ground just gave an inch beneath my feet.
Shadow Clan.
The last Shadow Warden.
His mother.
