For one breath, my stomach turns. Questions race through me—half-formed and crashing into one another like waves in a storm.
Didn’t the Shadow Clan fall?
Weren’t they all gone?
How can a Fire Warlord carry blood from the clan that ended the world?
But I say nothing. Not yet. Because he asked for space—to say it all. So I breathe. I hold his gaze. And I wait for the rest.
Thane’s hands are clasped tight between his knees. Knuckles white, shoulders rigid. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t look away. Like he’s braced for me to recoil.
I don’t.
But the thrum of the bond pulses harder again. A low echo of my heartbeat. As if it can feel what I haven’t said out loud. What I haven’t even admitted to myself yet.
Beside me, Valen still hasn’t touched his drink. He’s staring at Thane, mouth set. There’s something in the way his brows pull together—like pieces of a puzzle are finally clicking into place. Like heknewsome of it. But not this.
Thane draws another breath.
“This was never meant to be public. Not even to the Fire Clan. Only a handful of people have known. My mother hid her lineage from everyone except the family. My father—” he breaks off, jaw flexing. “He knew. But it was never spoken of again after she died.”
His voice is quieter now. Controlled. But I can hear the gravel in it—the scrape of old wounds.
“My bloodline carries a fragment of the old power. The tether. The curse, as my family has come to know it.” He pauses, then adds, “I’ve always feared the shadow inside me.”
He doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t need to. The words land heavy.
I glance at Valen. Still unmoving. Still silent. But his eyes have sharpened, like he’s reading a language I don’t speak. Like Thane’s words are a cipher he’s just now cracking.
And all I can think is—Thane has carried this.This hiddenlegacy. The fear. The silence. He was born with a secret powerful enough to shatter everything the realm believes. And he’s been carrying it alone.
Thane’s fingers are still laced between his knees. White-knuckled. When he speaks again, it’s barely more than a breath.
“It’s been dormant in my family for generations. But what is known . . . is that it’s passed down through the generations, not everyone gets it, and as far as I understand, it’s been dormant until my mother.”
He pauses. Swallows. Looks down, finally—eyes fixed on the space between his boots.
“From what we know, it takes the mind. Twists it. Turns clarity to noise. It . . . consumes the person’s mind.”
The bond between us pulses again—sharp this time. Not painful, but like it’s bracing too. Likeitknows what’s coming.
“Something awakened the curse in my mother.”
The silence that follows isn’t like before. It’s heavier. Grief-soaked. Raw.
I draw a breath. Too fast. Too loud. The only sound in the room.
Not much is known about the Warlord’s mother. I have only heard whispers about her falling ill and her untimely death. But no one ever spoke of madness.
Thane’s eyes find mine again. Sharper now. Like heknowswhat I’m thinking. As if he’s been bracing for this moment since the day we met.
“It drove her mad,” he says quietly. “But it was small things at first. Things we tried to explain away.”
He shifts. The words rough in his throat.
“She’d pause mid-sentence. Tilt her head like she was listening to something just out of reach. Said she could hear things we couldn’t. That they were calling to her.”
His eyes darken. The memory pulls at him.
