“Don’t mind him,” he says, gesturing towards his brother. “He thought the last ‘Spiritborn’ was a goat with a weirdbirthmark,” Jarek grins.
Lyra snorts beside me.
Thane nods toward the final man standing slightly apart. “And this is Rian Morne.”
Rian stands a little apart from the others, composed and steady. His clothing is simpler—deep navy with silver detailing, clean lines with no excess. Water Clan. It’s in the cool tones of his garb, the subtle wavework stitched into his collar, and the way he carries himself—measured, fluid, patient.
He steps forward and dips his head.
“Welcome, Amara,” he says. His voice is deep, smooth, carrying with it a gentleness.
I nod in return, something inside me easing at the kindness in his tone.
Thane speaks again, his voice low, almost reverent. “They call us a warband. A unit. Some even say we’re the last line of defense. But that’s not what we are.”
He glances toward Garrick, Jarek, Rian—each standing silent, meeting his eyes.
“We’ve burned together, lost, risen. Again and again.”
He pauses. Then, in a softer tone, adds:
“We’re the Phoenix Ring. Not because we survive—but because wereturn, and burn brighter each time.”
The words land like an oath. The men surrounding me grin, trading looks that only brothers-in-arms share—it’s history written in scars. They know things about one another no one else could know. And I understand the image—the fire, the rebirth, the bond that forged them. But my heart is still too heavy, too raw, to hold the meaning the way they do.
So I nod. And I smile—small, thin, and not quite reaching my eyes.
Thane tilts his chin toward the last figure at the table.
“And of course, you know Valen—resident mage and scholarof the Fire Clan.” A faint smirk. “Even if he doesn’t belong to us by blood.”
Valen inclines his head with a soft chuckle. “Air Clan, through and through,” he says, the corners of his silver-blue eyes crinkling with warmth.
His robes are slate-gray, woven with pale blue and silver. Elegant, but the hems are frayed from travel. A carved staff rests beside him, polished smooth by years of use. His dark hair—streaked with gray—falls past his shoulders, and his expression is open, quietly watchful.
“Glad to see you here, Amara. Truly,” he says.
Just six words. But they carry so much weight.
Here—and alive.
Here—and choosing.
Here—in the room.
Here—found.
I give him a small nod, unsure which one I’m acknowledging. Maybe all of them.
Thane glances around the room. “Shall we sit?”
Lyra, still holding my hand, tugs me gently toward the seat she’d claimed earlier. I let her guide me, sinking into the chair beside her.
Garrick strides to the head of the table like it’s the most natural thing in the world and drops into the seat with theatrical ease. I expect Thane to take the opposite end—but instead, he pulls out the chair beside me and sits.
Across from us, Valen settles into his seat with a calm rustle of robes, and Jarek drops into the one next to him, spinning a knife idly between his fingers. Rian, takes the seat at the far end of the table—where I thought Thane would be.
I glance sideways at Thane. “Aren’t you supposed to sit at the head? You’re the Warlord.”
