But I don’t. I can’t. I’m still buried in my own grief . . . still trying to crawl out of the wreckage of who I used to be.
So I say nothing.
I just stare past him, back toward the forest, his words vanishing into the echoing void that’s already taken root in me.
My fingers curl into the dirt beside me. Part of me wants to fight—to scream—like I once would have if someone spoke to me like he just did. But the weight of it all—his anger, my despair, the shadow of what I’m supposed to become—suffocates whatever words I might have said.
Thane blows out a breath, like he’s already given up.
“Figure it out, Amara,” he mutters, turning on his heel. “Before it’s too late.”
He doesn’t wait for a response. Just walks away, his long strides eating up the distance, his frustration trailing behind him like smoke.
THANE
The moment I walk away, I know I fucked up.
I grit my teeth, regret churning in my stomach. But my legs won’t let me turn around and go back to her to apologize.
Why do I even care?
I’m the Warlord. I have an entire bloody realm to think of—not just one person, Spiritborn or no.
No one gave me a choice. I had to step up because that’s what had to be done. She’s the Spiritborn. This is what she has to do.
Why can’t she just see the significance of finding her after all this time. Of actually having a chance to turn things around. We can finally end the Shadow Forces for good and bring peace to the realm.
No more death; no more burning villages or orphaned children.
The clans will stop bickering and become less divisive. The dragons will finally start choosing again.
Amara is the answer to everything.
But gods—what if she’s not?
What if Valen’s wrong? What if I’m wrong?
What if all I did was hand a grieving girl a prophecy and expect her to hold up the sky with it?
I drag my fingers through my hair as I keep walking, my cloak whipping behind me with every furious step.
Shit.
I saw the way she looked at me . . . like she wanted to disappear. And still, I kept pushing. I know I can be bull-headed—Mother regularly reminded me that not everyone moves at my pace.
I told her to figure it out. Like she hasn’t already lost everything. Like grief runs on a clock. I know firsthand grief doesn’t work like that.
Gods, what’s wrong with me?
I’m supposed to lead. To protect. But I’m the one who lit the match this time.
I was born into this world. Amara just arrived . . . after losing everything. I hate that I didn’t get a choice. But I hate even more that I have to ask her to do the same.
Fuck. I think I just made things worse for her.
I stop in the middle of the corridor, winded. My body’s still moving, but my mind’s somewhere back under the oak tree—watching her shrink into herself as I walked away. I don’t even remember what direction I was going. I just needed to leave.
But gods—there’s no outrunning this.
