Silence settles again. Heavy. Real.
My mind screams that it’s too much, too impossible. But somewhere beneath that panic, beneath the grief, a smaller voice stirs—quiet, but stubborn.
He’s right.
I stare down at my half-empty plate, my appetite gone. The weight hasn’t lessened, but it’s shifted—like I’ve taken the first breath after drowning.
I don’t know how to carry this. But I know one thing.I don’t want the Shadow Forces to win.Or what’s the point of it all.
I exhale, slow and shaky. My fingers loosen their grip on the blanket. The pain is still there, sharp and staggering—but I can breathe through it.
The world doesn’t care if I’m ready.
Thane doesn’t push me for an answer. He keeps watching, waiting, giving me space.
The tea on the tray has gone lukewarm, but I reach for it anyway, wrapping my hands around the cup. The warmth is faint, fleeting. Like everything else I’ve lost.
I swallow hard, staring down at my hands. “I don’t know how to do this,” I admit, my voice barely more than a whisper. “It’s too big. Too much.”
Thane leans forward, eyes steady. “Then take it one step at atime.”
The fire crackles in the background, filling the silence that stretches between us. The warmth of the flames is distant, but I focus on the sound and feel my hands loosen their grip.
After a moment, Thane stands, reaching for the tray. “Rest,” he says simply. “You’ll need it.” Without another word, he turns and walks toward the door.
And then I’m alone. With the silence. With the fire. With everything I’m still trying to understand.
BROTHERS
FOUR
“The reports of Shadow Force attacks increase weekly. The Shadeheart appears to be creating new forces from some powerful source. We need to find it. We need Amara to join the realm in this fight. Or I fear we will all be lost to the Shadeheart’s nefarious objectives.”
—VALEN’S JOURNAL
THANE
The sun sits high overhead, casting short shadows across the courtyard. The stone beneath my boots has finally started to warm, but the air still bites—sharp and clean the way only spring can be. It smells like dew baking off the rooftops, old wood, and steel.
Soldiers ring the sparring circle, cloaks drawn tight, some perched on crates and barrels, hands curled around mugs still steaming in the sun. The cold clings to the shade, but the courtyard glows where the light touches stone—brighter. Harsher. Like the gods themselves are watching.
I grip the quarterstaff in my hands, flexing my fingers once, twice. The wood is cool and worn smooth from years of use. Familiar and balanced. Something I can control.
Across from me stand three warriors—Garrick, Jarek, and Rian. My brothers-in-arms. My oldest friends.
“No protective enchantments,” I say. “No magics.”
“To the death, then,” Garrick replies, already grinning, hazel-colored eyes alive. His sandy blond hair falls messily across his brow like it’s made a permanent home there. “My favorite kind of afternoon.”
“Toyourdeath,” I mutter.
Jarek rolls his shoulders with a sigh. He looks a lot like his older brother, but a bit taller. His own sun-streaked hair is tied back in a loose knot. A few strands fall free, before the sparring match has even begun. Jarek’s always been the more composed of the two—until someone gives him a reason not to be.
“Three against one?” he grins. “Feels a little unfair.”
I smirk. “For you.”
My breath no longer fogs, but there’s still a tightness in the air—spring hasn’t yet decided what it wants to be.
