Page 218 of Elemental Becoming

But not all wounds are visible. Some live behind the eyes.

Some people won’t look at us at all. Others hold our gaze as though it is the only thing keeping them from slipping beneath the weight of what happened. I see it in every face.

The memory of fire.

The memory of chaos.

The memory of music twisting into screams.

The night everything beautiful burned.

We stop at every bed.

Some of the wounded are sleeping, wrapped in salves and thick linen. Others lie awake, their eyes following us as we pass. And for those who want to speak, or those who need to, we make time.

We pause. We listen.

Thane kneels when needed, crouching beside beds, clasping hands, and bowing his head when words fail. I offer what I can in return: a listening ear, a dependable presence, the simple act of meeting someone’s gaze and truly seeing them.

We don’t hurry.

Whether the words come wrapped in grief, clipped shortby pain, or trembling with relief, we give them our attention. However long they need, we stay.

Nothing about it feels rehearsed. Sometimes it’s a hand on a shoulder. Sometimes it’s a quiet word, or a pause long enough to matter. And sometimes, it’s simply standing close enough that someone knows they aren’t alone.

And when the ache builds—when it rises tight behind my ribs, when the grief gets too loud and I start to forget how to breathe—Thane is already there. A touch at my back. The brush of his fingers against mine. And sometimes, without a sound, a thought slips into my mind.

“I’m here.”

He always feels it before I say a word. The unease. The helplessness. The pressure building beneath the surface. And without asking, he steadies it—steadies me—simply by staying close.

Thane carries it all with a kind of grace that never asks to be noticed. He doesn’t falter or flinch from the worst of it: scorched flesh, empty sleeves pinned neatly in place, or the silence of people who have seen too much and survived anyway.

He meets every gaze. Greets every person the same, without judgment and without pause. And I watch him with awe.

Not for the warrior he has become or the title he carries. For the man who bows his head to listen. The man who doesn’t pull away from pain. The man who never lets his hand be the first to fall away.

Further down, we find an older rider. He’s still wearing his scorched tunic. One side is wrapped in linen darkened through with blood. His breaths come shallow. His eyes remain half-lidded but aware.

Outside the open windows, his dragon stands sentry on the parapet, stone-still with wings folded close, its gaze fixed on him with a fierce, wordless devotion.

Thane lowers into the chair, solid and focused, as though he intends to shoulder whatever burden the man no longer can. I remain standing behind him, my hand resting lightly on the back of the chair.

He speaks softly to the rider—Jon. I follow the conversation for a time, but movement near the far wall catches my attention.

A familiar head of blond hair. Dulled by sweat and plastered to his forehead, but unmistakable.

Kieran.

MEANT FOR ME

TWENTY-NINE

I found this passage in an old journal, from before the Shadow Wars. I strongly suspect it is the same as we are seeing now between Amara and Thane.

“This night, I partook of his sorrow and his joy alike. It seemed our very souls were [indecipherable], and through this sacred tether we communed in silence, known to none but ourselves. Such communion shall prove the very thing we require to cast down [indecipherable] on the morrow. The enchantment hath taken hold!”

—VALEN’S JOURNAL