Page 341 of Elemental Becoming

—VALEN’S JOURNAL

AMARA

We step into the dining hall, and the scent hits me all at once—smoked bacon, fresh bread, spiced tea. My stomach clenches in response, a sharp reminder of how hard we pushed this morning.

The hall is alive with dragon riders spilling in from the fields, sweat-slick and starving, laughter and exhaustion threading through the air. Thane had us up at dawn, drilling formation runs, dives, and endurance flights until every muscle burned.

And never at the same time.

He changes the schedule constantly—early mornings, late nights, midday drills that bleed into dusk. Nothing predictable. Nothing comfortable. Because in war, there’s no waiting until you’re ready. No promise of sleep. No guarantee of a next meal.

You fight when you have to. Simple as that.

I glance toward the long wooden tables, already crowded with platters of eggs, thick-cut bacon, and grilled sausages. Crusty hearth-baked bread steams beside bowls of berries and sliced citrus. Aged cheese sits beneath the golden light, nestled beside dishes of honeycomb. Riders pass mugs of black tea and dark coffee hand to hand, the scent of spice drifting through the room.

Despite the fatigue dragging at my limbs, the sight alone sends a fresh surge of energy through me. We drop onto an empty bench, our squad gathering naturally. Around us, plates clatter, boots scrape against stone, and conversations overlap in the easy rhythm of warriors sharing a meal.

My plate is piled high with eggs, bacon, and bread still warm from the oven. My stomach tightens, grateful and greedy all at once.

We never went hungry back in the village. There was always enough.

But enough was different from this.

I grew up measuring meals by what could be spared, not by what I needed. Second helpings were rare, and taking one meant wondering who might go without.

Here, the tables are always full.

After hours of flying, sparring, and channeling until my body trembles, I eat until I’m satisfied instead of stopping when I think I should.

Thane settles on my left, Garrick on my right. Rian and Jarek slide in across from us, already reaching for the nearest platters. The rest of the squad follows, slipping in with the same bone-deep exhaustion and easy camaraderie.

I lift my fork.

Arms wrap tight around my neck. A loud, sloppy kiss lands on my cheek, and a tumble of red hair falls into my face.

Lyra.

“Good morning!” Lyra says cheerily, her voice bright and unapologetic.

She wedges herself between Garrick and me, utterly unfazed by the lack of space, and immediately starts stealing from his plate. In between bites, she leans over and plants a quick kiss on his lips before nabbing a piece of bacon. Garrick just huffs a laugh and shakes his head as though this is the most normal thing in the world.

“How were flight maneuvers?” she asks, popping another piece of bacon into her mouth.

Across the table, Rian exhales through his nose.

“Well, Thane had us run the Wedge Formation right out of the gate. No warm-up. Just, ‘Get in position or die.’”

He deepens his voice in a grim parody of Thane’s tone.

Jarek chuckles. “Some of us were still half-asleep.”

“Jarek definitely was,” Garrick grumbles, reaching for his mug.

“I was adjusting to the wind current,” Jarek replies flatly.

“You were drifting out of formation.”

“Minor details.”