The silence here feels heavy, as though the walls remember every word ever spoken within them. Forgotten words, for a forgotten place. But then again, so is everyone on this side of The Lightborne Barrier.
Ronyn leans against the wall, his bow slung lazily over his shoulder, though his sharp gaze flicks back and forth between Kael and his companion, Therion. Ronyn doesn’t trust either of them—and I can’t blame him.
Seren stays close, clutching her worn book like a lifeline. Her eyes dart toward Therion too often, brows furrowed, as if she can feel the weight of his gaze, his lingering attention.
I turn to confront him, my lips parting to ask what in the Stars he’s staring at, but Therion speaks first, his graveled voice slicing through the silence like a blade.
“Let’s skip the niceties,” he says, leaning against a cracked pillar. His tone drips with disdain, as though our very existence offends him. “I see three people who wouldn’t last a day in the forest—let alone The Wastes. You can’t fight, can’t lead, and from the looks of it, you react on impulse.” He jabs a finger at Ronyn.
The words sting sharper than I’d like to admit. Ronyn stiffens, jaw tight, but I step forward before he can speak, my voice sharp as steel.
“If we’re truly so useless, go on without us,” I say, my glare piercing his like a blade through armor. “It is you—or rather, your companion—who requested to meet us here. If we’re not dignified enough for your delicate sensibilities, quite frankly, Therion”—I let his name curl like a curse—”you can fuck right off. I don’t see you fulfilling the prophecy in my stead.”
I hear Seren’s sharp inhale of breath beside me.
For a heartbeat, I wonder if I’ve pushed too far. Therion doesn’t flinch. Instead, the corner of his mouth quirks upward, faintly amused, like a predator who’s found its prey interesting.
“You’re bold, Lightborne,” he murmurs, voice low, eyes shadowed. “I’ll give you that. But bold doesn’t mean capable. Words won’t stop greedy kings from tearing you apart, no matter how sharply you spit them.”
Ronyn pushes off the wall, knuckles white around his bow.
“We’ve handled worse than the likes of you,” he snaps.
Therion doesn’t even blink, his gaze sliding to Ronyn as if he’s nothing more than a mildly bothersome fly.
“Pride kills faster than steel,” he mutters, more warning than threat.
I open my mouth to retort, anger simmering, but Kael steps forward. His voice cracks through the tension like a whip.
“Enough.”
We freeze. There’s an irrefutability in his tone, as if even the air bends to his command. Therion stands down, his silence a reluctant surrender, and I hate the way it only amplifies Kael’s presence—commanding, effortless, unshakable.
“So, you are the Lightborne,” Kael says—a statement, not a question. His gaze cuts through me, stripping me bare. I can feel it—like he sees my thoughts, my soul, mysecretslaid bare before him.
I lift my chin, forcing my spine straighter. “I am,” I say, though the words don’t carry the strength I intend.
Because it’s hard to feel like a prophesied savior when you’re standing in a tunic and linen pants that have been worn for seven days straight. My clothes are threadbare and filthy, held together with Revryn’s stitching. I feel naked. Exposed. Ill-equipped to bear this title—or fulfill this destiny.
My destiny.
A knot tightens in my chest. Doubt whispers its poisonous truths:You’re not ready. You’re not enough.
But as if answering the unspoken question, the mark on my chest flares. Heat blossoms beneath my ribs, and a burst of golden light spills through the fabric and lights up the outpost for barely a heartbeat—a flare of power, of defiance, that silences every doubt.
It burns beneath my ribs. Not a flare of magic—but a claim. One I can’t run from anymore.
I am the Lightborne.
Kael’s gaze flicks to the light spilling from my mark, lingering for a moment before returning to my face. His eyes are piercing, scrutinizing, as if he can see into the depths of me. There’s something there—recognition, curiosity—but it’s gone as quickly as it came.
“How did you know it was me in The Tannery?” I ask, unable to keep the edge from my voice. “You helped me before my mark flared. How could you tell?”
He hesitates, just enough for me to notice, and when he speaks his voice is measured, deliberate. “I couldfeelyou,” he admits. “Your magic, your presence—it’s unlike anything I’ve sensed before. It’s not just power. It’salive. Fighting to break free.”
“But how?” I press, my frustration bubbling to the surface. “My magic is bound. I’ve never felt it—not even a flicker—except for the two times my mark has flared. I can’t wield it.At all.”
Kael’s expression doesn’t shift. “I’m a Shadowweave. My magicis connected to our darkness, what lurks within. That’s the best explanation I have. I sensed you before I saw you—your magic was...different. When I saw you in The Underbelly, I followed you.”
