Page 125 of Elemental Becoming

I’m already exhausted by it.

And somewhere deep inside—beneath the polished smile I wear for them, part of me still aches for the quiet sanctuary I found in Thane’s arms only moments ago.

“That one was staring at your breasts through that entire conversation,” Lyra mutters as she strides up beside me, taking a sip of wine. Her eyes flick toward a lord who clearly believes subtlety is for lesser men.

“I hate this.”

“Oh, it’s only just begun.”

“Remind me why I have to talk to all these people?”

“Because you’re The Spiritborn, Mara,” Lyra replies, with a grin. “And the nobles love nothing more than feeling important. Smile, nod, try not to stab anyone.”

I scowl into my goblet. “No promises.”

I meet a duke who talks about himself for ten minutes straight. A merchant lord who asks how my bond magics might impact trade. A Lady who offers me a marriage proposal on behalf of her son.

Did shenotsee me with the Warlord in the middle of the dance floor?

“Does anyone here know how to speak like a normal person?” I whisper to Lyra between greetings.

“Not a chance,” she murmurs. “This is all just a game to them.”

“A game?”

“Oh yes. One where they try to figure out who has the most power in the room.”

I glance at Thane, who stands speaking with Valen nearby, posture straight, entirely at ease in a world that still feels foreign to me.

“And who wins?” I ask, taking another sip of wine.

Lyra smirks into her goblet. “Tonight? You do.”

I try to hold onto that thought as another noble approaches, speaking as though I’m merely there to admire his brilliance.

“Of course, your presence at the ball signifies a turning point in our history,” the man drones dramatically, voice thick with self-importance.

Then he launches into an agonizing explanation of the elements and my powers—how they work, what they mean—as though I’m a clueless observer instead of the person actually wielding them.

I plaster on a polite smile, nodding occasionally while fantasizing about setting his robes on fire.

Lyra leans in close, barely suppressing her laughter. “I think he practiced this speech in front of a mirror.”

“If he says ‘turning point’ one more time,” I mutter, “I’mgoing to turn him into ash.”

“Oh, please do,” she whispers back, far too delighted by the idea.

I take another long sip of wine, contemplating how many ways I can make this evening end faster.

And then I feel it.

The air becomes charged. The kind of shift that only happens when someone powerful enters the conversation.

Thane.

The noble in front of me notices it too—his words faltering mid-sentence. The conversations around us do not stop entirely, but I can feel the subtle change, the way the attention in the room gravitates toward him.

Toward us.