Lyra must catch me quietly watching, because she suddenly straightens in her chair, clearly deciding to shift the attention.
“So,” she says, loud enough to be heard over the clatter of cutlery, “how did you all become friends? Garrick mentioned you met as kids.”
Garrick brightens instantly, leaning back in his chair like a man preparing to perform. “Oh, that story. Classic!”
Jarek groans. “Here we go . . . ”
“No, no—this one’s formative,” Garrick says, brandishing his fork like a sword. “Picture this: we’re eight. Training yard behind the barracks. Someone—definitely not me—sneaks into the armory and ‘borrows’ a few of the wooden practice blades.”
“They were full-size,” Jarek mutters. “We could barely lift them.”
“Details,” Garrick waves him off. “Anyway, Rian had just arrived from a Water Clan outpost. New kid. Real serious. So naturally, we told him that the only way to prove himself was to take down the fiercest young warrior in the Fire Clan.”
Lyra gasps. “You didn’t.”
“We absolutely did,” Garrick says, grinning. “And who better for the role than Thane himself? We hand Rian this oversized plank of a sword, expecting him to hesitate—but no. He walks across the yard, no warning, andwham!Full swing. Right into Thane’s ribs.”
“I went down hard,” Thane admits, a faint smirk playing on his lips.
“With a full swing,” Rian adds calmly, not looking up from his plate.
“You dropped like a sack of coal,” Jarek says, now laughing.
“And landed in the trough that happened to be right behind him,” Garrick finishes, pounding the table. “Soaked from chest to boots.”
Even Valen is chuckling now, eyes crinkling.
“Sword flew one way, pride the other,” Garrick says, laughing so hard he nearly chokes on his drink. “And Rian? Just stands there like nothing happened.”
“I was following instructions,” Rian says calmly.
“I thought Thane was going to murder me,” Garrick adds, wiping his eyes.
“Iwasgoing to,” Thane replies. “Until I saw he had better form than half of the older recruits. Even at eight years old.”
“Thane stood up, soaked from head to toe, and just stared at him,” Jarek adds. “And then he says, ‘You’ve got good form.’ Like he hadn’t drowned in front of the entire yard!”
“We made Rian one of us that day,” Garrick says, liftinghis mug. “Partly because he earned it. Mostly because we were scared of what else he might swing at.”
Laughter circles the table—real, easy.
Garrick raises his ale. “To the Phoenix Ring!”
Jarek clinks his mug against his brother’s, grinning. “And to water troughs.”
Even Rian lifts his glass. Valen, and Lyra raise theirs too. Thane just shakes his head—but he’s smiling.
I raise my glass too. I should feel like one of them. I don’t. But I lift my glass anyway—because maybe pretending is how it starts.
But I can sense Lyra isn’t done. My eyes slide to hers, catching the mischievous glint as they dart between Garrick and Jarek.
“Why are your names so similar? Other than the topknot on Jarek’s head, how am I supposed to tell you two apart? Your mother couldn’t come up with something more original?”
I widen my eyes and kick Lyra under the table.
“What?” she says, turning to me with raised brows.
Garrick nearly topples his chair back with how hard he laughs, thumping the table as if Lyra just told the best joke of the century. Jarek only shakes his head, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth—his amusement quieter but no less sharp.
