Page 214 of Elemental Becoming

“Do you remember Amara?” he asks gently. “The Spiritborn. My Lady.”

Lord Eryndor turns his head slowly, as though moving through water. His golden-hazel eyes find mine, and for a moment he simply studies me, as if searching for something he almost remembers.

Then, with visible effort, he lifts his hand. I reach for it before the moment can slip away.

His fingers are cool and dry, his grip faint. But there is a squeeze. Weak, yes, but intentional. I squeeze back, covering his hand with my other one and holding it gently between my palms.

His eyes remain fixed on mine, and though he says nothing, something passes between us. I don’t know if it’s recognition, gratitude, or simply the comfort of being seen. Whatever it is, it feels important.

The breeze lifts a strand of hair from my cheek, and somewhere outside, a bird calls. It’s a soft, melodic reminder that the world is still turning, even after everything.

I glance across Lord Eryndor’s shoulder to Thane to find his eyes shining with emotion, softened in a way that makes my heart squeeze.

I tighten my grip on Lord Eryndor’s hand, grounding myself in both moments at once.

Thane never mentions the attack. He doesn’t speak of the wounded or the breach.

Today, he lets his father have peace. Instead, he talks about other things.

Thane tells Lord Eryndor how his brothers are doing—Garrick, Jarek, and Rian. He shares a story about a sparring match, a ridiculous wager Garrick lost, and the way Jarek nearly choked laughing because of it. He even mentions that Rian has somehow become the rooted one in the middle of all the chaos.

As he speaks, I watch Lord Eryndor’s fingers trace the same deliberate pattern across the worn arm of his chair that I noticed the first time Thane brought me here. The movement is sluggish, repetitive, almost instinctive—his fingertips following the same shallow grooves over and over again.

After a while, Thane’s gaze drifts past his father to where I sit across from them.

“And Garrick,” he adds, a half-smile tugging at his mouth, “has finally met his match in Lyra Durnhart, Amara’s childhood friend.”

At that, Lord Eryndor’s lips twitch with a glimmer of something old and warm. He has known these men since they were boys—watched them train, fight, and grow. For a moment, the weight behind his eyes seems to lift, if only a little.

Thane studies his father for a moment before speaking again, his voice quiet but laced with warmth.

“Oraxis misses you. He tends to stay near the castle, spending little time with the other dragons. He rarely leaves Volcaris.”

Thane has told me about his father’s massive black dragon, larger even than Xaroth. Oraxis is Xaroth’s uncle.

Losing a rider to death is devastating for a dragon, but at least there’s closure. What Oraxis endures feels crueler somehow. Every day he waits for a rider who is still alive, yet farther away than ever.

Lord Eryndor’s expression doesn’t change, but something in him seems to withdraw. His gaze drifts toward the far wall, andhis shoulders sink a little farther beneath the weight of his robe.

Thane notices it too.

“Xaroth’s been restless,” he says lightly, steering the conversation elsewhere. “He loops the outpost twice before landing now, wings flared like he wants everyone watching. The others think he’s showing off.”

An almost-smile touches Lord Eryndor’s face. It never quite reaches his lips, but some of the distance leaves his eyes.

Then Thane looks at me.

“Tell him about Calryx,” he murmurs. “He should hear that from you.”

I nod, still holding Lord Eryndor’s hand in mine.

“She’s unlike any dragon I’ve ever heard of,” I begin. “She’s clever. Blunt. Always three steps ahead of me, and she knows it. She has shown me her love of flying high and feeling the wind beneath her wings. And she never lets me get away with anything. Sometimes she’s more like a mother hen than a dragon.”

Lord Eryndor’s attention slowly settles on me.

I tell him about my village, nestled among rolling hills where wildflowers grew thick and stubborn, and where the wind carried the scent of old trees and warm earth each spring. I tell him about my mother’s strong hands and my father’s quiet laughter. About how everything changed the night of the attack.

A shadow passes through his eyes when I tell him how my parents died.