She’s grieving, and yet—she’s still standing. There’s a fire in her; I saw it in her eyes this morning.
I just hope, for all our sakes, she chooses to fight.
CHOICE
FIVE
I leave soon to renew the runes on the ancient wards—those first forged during the Shadow Wars. Each year, they require more reinforcement, as if a long slumbering evil is awaking. The urgency grows stronger with every new attack—especially after the capital attack. The people are near panic.
—VALEN’S JOURNAL
AMARA
The air holds the lingering chill of morning, biting at my exposed skin. Lyra and I step out into the open courtyard of the outpost. Sunlight filters through the towering stone walls, casting short shadows across the packed dirt pathsweaving between sturdy wooden structures. The scent of damp earth and smoke lingers in the air, mingling with the faint metallic tang of steel from the training grounds.
Beneath my boots, the ground is uneven—rough, hardened by countless drills and the weight of warriors preparing for war.
The outpost is alive with motion. Soldiers from all clans move with quiet precision. Some spar in the open yard, their blades clashing in rhythmic strikes. Others tend to horses or haul crates toward a stone building that looks like it could withstand a siege.
I pause, tipping my head back to take in the full scope of this place.
The walls of the outpost rise high above us, a fortress of dark stone reinforced with thick iron gates. Watchtowers loom at the corners, their narrow windows revealing glimpses of archers stationed within. The banners of the Fire Clan hang from the battlements, their crimson and gold insignia catching the wind, snapping like embers against the pale morning sky.
Beyond the courtyard, another training field stretches out—rows of warriors drilling under the sharp commands of their instructors. Further still, a set of stone steps leads to a raised platform, where a circular structure overlooks the entire outpost like a watchful eye.
Lyra glances at me, a flicker of something—uncertainty, maybe—crossing her face. “So, what do you think?”
I hesitate, trying to find the words. The scale of it. The precision. The cold certainty of what they’re preparing for. “It’s . . . it’s a lot.”
She snorts, but I hear the tension in her voice. “That’s one way to put it.”
We follow a worn path along the wall, passing a line of training dummies battered and burned. Boots striking the ground echoes around us as a group of warriors practice their footwork, their instructors barking sharp corrections.
My gaze lingers on a soldier repairing a row of spears—his hands quick, methodical, like he’s done it a hundred times. Even the quiet work feels like preparation. Everything here is meant for battle.
A passing warrior eyes me briefly, assessing, before turning away. The glance is fleeting, but it lingers in my mind.
I’m an outsider. A piece that doesn’t quite fit.
A sudden gust of wind sweeps through the outpost, and I look up just as a shadow passes overhead. A quiet gasp slips free.
High above, a trio of dragons soars, wings carving arcs through sky. One of them has obsidian black scales, its form sleek and intimidating. Another shines gold, its scales catching the sun like molten fire. The third is a deep sapphire blue.
Sunlight dances along their hides. Each shift of their wings sends a ripple through the sky like thunder waiting to break.
Beside me, Lyra stops, eyes wide with wonder.
“They’re incredible,” she breathes. “I always wished one had stayed near our village. I remember when Mireya was called by a dragon—she could’ve flown back at least once. Let us gawk properly before she vanished into legend.”
I nod, unable to tear my gaze away. The sheer size of them, the raw power in their every movement—it’s overwhelming. They are creatures of legend, beings of strength and fire, and seeing them like this, so close, fills me with a strange mix of admiration and unease.
I can’t deny the thrill that courses through me as I watch them disappear beyond the horizon.
We continue walking, letting the energy of the outpost settle around us. Our footsteps fall into an easy rhythm as we head toward the mess hall for breakfast, the scent of fresh bread and herbed roasted meat drifting through the air.
Just ahead, an arched stone passageway frames a path into the next section of the stronghold, its edges worn with time.
As we pass beneath it, hushed voices catch our attention.
