Rian stands to my right, silent until now. He’s the tallest of us all, broad-shouldered and cut like a statue, his dark skin catching the sun like burnished bronze. His head is shaved at the sides, the rest of his dark hair pulled back into tight braids that group into a tail. His slate-blue eyes flick toward me.
Water Clan. Controlled. Exact.
He nods once. It’s time to spar.
And I’m grateful for it—more than I want to admit.
I need this fight.
Not for the training or the edge it sharpens. But to quiet everything else.
I glance toward the stone arch that leads to the inner rooms. Amara is still there, recovering. Her frame looked smaller than I remembered. Shoulders hunched. Eyes hollow. She moved like someone trying to outrun the echo of a scream.
I’ve seen that look before—on soldiers too young to understand what they’ve survived. And gods help us, she’s supposed to be the Spiritborn. How am I supposed to prepare someone who looks so fragile to lead the realm against the darkness?
Garrick claps the staff against his palm, snapping me back. “Well. Can’t back out now.”
Jarek exhales, sliding his eyes to me, mist curling from his mouth. “You just want an excuse to bruise us without consequences.”
“You volunteered,” I remind him.
Garrick grins. “I live for consequences.”
“That explains a lot,” Rian murmurs.
“Come on, War God,” Garrick calls, spinning his staff like he’s on stage instead of dirt. “Show us what you’ve got.”
I adjust my grip. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
They step into the ring with me.This is tradition.My friends. My brothers. The only ones who still look at me like I’m not already halfway legend.
Jarek lunges first. He always does. Fire Clan pride—fast, hard, no hesitation.
I parry high, but he’s got more strength in the swing than I expect. The impact shudders down my arms.
Garrick follows immediately, coming in low from the other side. I block his first hit, but the second catches my thigh. Hard. I grunt through it. Pain lances up my leg—sharp, immediate—butI twist with it and drive the butt of my staff into his ribs.
He stumbles back, wheezing, and grins.
“I’m good,” he coughs. “I’m good.”
Then Rian is there, sliding into the opening like water rushing downhill. His strike is too fast to block fully—I absorb it across my ribs, the wood slamming in with enough force to knock the wind from my lungs.
But I don’t stop. I use the recoil, spin, and slam my staff across Rian’s side. He takes it with a hiss, forced back two steps.
Garrick circles wide now, eyes sharper, looking for another angle. He’s smart when he’s not being loud.
Rian changes tactics too. He drops his center of gravity, moving like water—rolling through the cold, graceful in that fluid way of his.
Their breath fogs the air with each exhale. We’re all sweating now despite the chill.
And for a moment, I wish I could stay here in this ring, trading bruises with my brothers. They don’t see prophecy when they look at me. They don’t need me to believe in something I’m still wrapping my head around.
Scholars whispered about prophecy for decades, but only recently has the realm begun to believe. Whispers turned to shouts with desperate people clinging to hope. And soon, they’ll know we found the Spiritborn.
Garrick tries to tackle me. I sidestep at the last moment and he crashes into Jarek instead. They both go down in a heap, tangled and swearing. Laughter erupts from the edges of the courtyard. A few soldiers call out jeers.
I pace around them slowly, breath even, staff resting on my shoulder. “Again?”
