Garrick takes another sip from the canteen, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“So how’s it going with the Spiritborn?” he asks, casual as anything. “Is she awake yet?”
I don’t look at him, just lean forward, elbows on my knees, eyes fixed on the dirt. “She’s awake. And as far as how it’s going . . . oh, you know. Denial. Grief. Disbelief.” I take a slow breath. “How it usually goes when you find out you’re part of a prophecy.”
Jarek lets out a low whistle. “She holding up?”
“She’s still standing.” I pause. “Which is more than most could manage.”
Garrick hums—low, thoughtful. “Sounds about right. Girl’s got teeth. Valen told me what she did at her village when the Fellborn hit.”
Across from me, Rian’s eyes shift to mine—quiet andsteady. That look he gives me isn’t surprise or sympathy. It’s understanding. The kind that doesn’t need words. Because they all know. They were there whenIfound out.
I hold his gaze for a beat. A nod passes between us.
Jarek leans his head back against the bench with a grunt. “Prophecies are overrated anyway.”
Garrick sprawls in the dirt like it’s a feather mattress. “I still think if the gods are going to hand out destinies, they could at least do it with a proper feast. Maybe some wine. And a warning.”
“Would’ve been nice,” I murmur.
The courtyard hums with heat and distant voices. A hawk cries overhead. Somewhere in the mess hall, metal clatters against stone. The kind of midday lull that lets everything ache a little louder.
We stare up at the sky, half-broken and half-healing. And for a second, it almost feels like we’re all thinking of something deeper.
Then—
As if the thought has just occurred to him, Garrick lifts his head and says, “You know . . . she’s lovely to look at. The Spiritborn.”
I blink. “What?”
“I’m just saying,” Garrick continues, undeterred. “The gods may be cruel, but they have taste.”
Rian exhales like he’s preparing for impact. “You’re going to get hit.”
“I’ve alreadybeenhit,” Garrick says, rubbing his ribs with a wince. “Might as well earn it.” Then he squints at the sky, thoughtful. “What’s the Spiritborn’s friend’s name again?”
I stare at him. “TheSpiritborn’sname is Amara Thalor,” I say flatly. “And her friend is Lyra Durnhart.”
“Oh, right,” Garrick says, entirely unbothered. “Amara andLyra. Sounds like the start of a ballad where one of them saves your life and the other ruins it.”
Jarek mutters, “More like a funeral dirge.”
But Garrick’s off and grinning now, eyes gleaming with mischief. “I mean, look at them. One’s got ancient power pulsing through her veins, and the other could talk a dragon out of its hoard.”
“Shedidtalk Valen into letting her keep the training blade,” Rian adds. “Lyra was already sparring with the recruits two days ago while Amara was still unconscious. She wants to fight.”
Garrick sits up, grinning now. “I bet Lyra can talk anyone into anything.” He looks at me sideways, wicked amusement flickering in his eyes. “I could be persuaded . . . ”
I narrow my gaze. “Don’t.”
Garrick’s grin widens. “What? I’m just appreciating the strategic value of a woman like that. Dangerous. Charming. Probably keeps a dagger tucked in her boot.”
“I did see her tuck a dagger into her boot after training with the new recruits yesterday,” Rian confirms.
“See?” Garrick gestures broadly. “That’s not a red flag. That’s a challenge.”
Jarek snorts. “You’d be dead before you finished a sentence.”
