In the shadows beyond the archway, tucked just out of view of the main pathway, stand Thane and Valen. Their heads are close together, their voices low but tense.
I instinctively slow. Lyra too. Though they speak in hushed tones, the words still carry on a breeze.
“We need to give her time,” Valen says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Her heart still grieves, and that will shape her choices.”
Thane exhales sharply, frustration clear in his stance and gestures. “Time’s not a luxury we have, Valen. The wards are weakening. More villages. More outposts near the Forsaken Lands—” He cuts off, his voice thick with urgency. “Every day we wait, more lives are lost. She could change everything. Give us an advantage.”
Valen shakes his head. “If we push too soon, she will break. And if she breaks . . . we lose everything.”
I exchange a glance with Lyra, my pulse quickening.
We slip away, pretending we didn’t hear, but the weight of their words linger as we continue toward the mess hall.
The next few days pass in a blur of exploration and recovery.
Lyra and I wander the outpost, watching the soldiers train, studying their precise movements as they hone their skills. We admire the dragons overhead, their massive wings cutting through the sky with effortless grace. Each time I see them, I feel a deep pull in my chest—a mix of wonder and unease.
Lyra spends the afternoons training with a squadron of new recruits, already moving like she belongs here. I know she wants to stay, no matter how often she insists she’ll go where I go.
But I don’t know where to go. Or where I belong anymore.
I catch myself watching Thane and Valen from a distance. They give me space, as if knowing I am not ready to face them just yet. Thane spends most mornings sparring with three menI’ve come to recognize—Garrick, Jarek, and Rian.
Their skill is undeniable, each strike and counter fluid, honed from years of training. Their camaraderie is evident in the way they challenge one another, never holding back.
“They’re cute,” Lyra mutters as we watch, nudging me with her elbow.
I snort. “You think everyone’s cute.”
“No,” she says, grinning. “Just the ones who could kill me and look good doing it.”
She’s not wrong.
Garrick’s grin is all teeth and trouble. Jarek moves like he’s always listening for the next threat.
Even in a camp full of warriors—they stand out.
Rian is the balance between them. The calm inside all their fire and noise. He doesn’t speak often, but when he does, everyone listens.
Still, I feel distant from it all.
The outpost buzzes with purpose—like the high day of the market back home, only every face here knows war and everyone here belongs.
I walk through it like a ghost.
At night, I cry for my parents. For my village. For everything that burned.
Sometimes Lyra sits with me. She doesn’t say much, but her presence is enough. She grieves too, in her own quiet way. I see it in the lines around her eyes, the way she stares too long at the fire.
One afternoon, I slip away, needing the quiet.
I sit beneath the sprawling branches of a beautiful ancient oak tree, letting the sounds of the outpost fade into the background. My thoughts tangle—grief, guilt, the weight of a name I never asked for.
Spiritborn.
They keep saying it like it’s a name. But it doesn’t feel like mine.
It feels like a prophecy wearing my skin.
