Thane doesn’t answer right away. Just walks beside me, our footsteps quiet on the stone. Then—
“That’s all any of us can do.”
There’s no judgment or expectation in his voice.
His eyes slide towards me. “We don’t always get to choose what calls us,” he adds. “Only whether we answer.”
I look at him. “Did you answer the first time it called you?”
His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, not quite bitterness. “No.”
A beat of silence.
“I ran for a while,” he says. “Thought I could outrun what it meant . . . what it would cost.”
“And did you?” I ask.
He shakes his head once. “It found me anyway.”
I wrap my arms around myself, fingers curling into the thick fabric of my coat. The wool is coarse beneath my palms.
We move through the quiet stretch of corridor—stone underfoot, torchlight flickering against the walls, the low murmur of distant voices echoing behind closed doors.
Thane doesn’t say anything else as we continue to walk side by side.
Finally, we stop in front of a heavy wooden door. Thane places his hand on the handle, then pulls it open, gesturing for me to go first.
I wonder if they’ll know the second I walk in—that I don’t belong here. That I’m just pretending to be someone who does.
I step inside.
The room is warm—lit by hanging lanterns and the soft crackle of a hearth on the far wall. A long table stretches through the center, already set for the evening meal.
Five faces turn toward me as I enter, one of them familiar as my own.
“Amara!” Lyra rushes forward, pulling me into a tight hug.“I’ve had themostincredible day,” she says, breathless. “I started hand-to-hand combat lessons! Well—we just worked on balance today, but still!”
She pulls back, green eyes bright, cheeks flushed. And for a moment, the weight lifts a little.
She grabs my hand, giving it a quick squeeze, her grin infectious. I can’t help but smile, the edges of my weariness softening.
“You’ll have to tell me about it later.”
Lyra grins. “Deal.”
Thane steps up beside me. “Let me introduce you to everyone,” he says, his voice low but carrying easily in the quiet room.
“This is Garrick Kaelen.”
The man at the far end of the table lifts a hand in greeting. He’s tall and broad, sandy blond hair falling in a wind-swept mess across his brow. Mischief glints in his eyes, and his crimson tunic—edged in gold thread—is unmistakably Fire Clan. A black leather pauldron rests over one shoulder, more style than function.
He grins at me. “So you’re the Spiritborn.” Garrick’s hazel eyes travel up and down my body and I suddenly feel very exposed. “Huh. Thought you’d be taller—maybe glowing.”
Thane shoots him a look, but Garrick only winks at me. Lyra snickers.
Thane continues. “And his younger brother, Jarek Kaelen.”
Jarek is leaning against the wall behind him, arms crossed. Same hair—though his is tied back into a loose knot. He wears a dark red undershirt beneath a sleeveless leather vest, a flame-etched clasp at his shoulder. Quieter posture than his brother, but sharp eyes.
