Page 52 of Elemental Becoming

The only sound is our bare feet against the cool stone, the whisper of our breath in the empty hall. I don’t know how late it is, but the night feels endless, stretched thin with exhaustion.

When we step into his room, I lead him straight to the bed. He lies back, sinking into the sheets—but his mind is still elsewhere.

I feel it. The distance in his mind, the ache, the weight pressing down on him even now.

I move beside him, curling into his side, anchoring him to something real. To here and now.

His arm curls around me, solid and warm, holding me close. His other hand rests behind his head, his body still tense, his mind still turning. I press closer, my forehead against his shoulder, my fingers slipping over his ribs, grounding him, grounding us.

After some time, his breathing begins to ease.

The tension loosens—just enough.

He’s still carrying it.

But he’s here.

NINE YEARS

SEVEN

Last night I uncovered an old manuscript, its pages brittle with age, recounting a fairy tale passed down through generations. It spoke of the “Old Ones” and their design for a “future peace.” According to the tale, they wove a grand spell, pouring into it not only their magics, but fragments of their very souls. I cannot ignore how closely this legend mirrors the so-called “illness” afflicting Thane’s father. The resemblance is too precise, too deliberate to dismiss. Coincidence is a refuge for those unwilling to think. Deeper I delve.”

—VALEN’S JOURNAL

THANE

She’s asleep now. Her breath soft against my collarbone, her fingers still curled at my ribs like she doesn’t trust the world not to take me.

I haven’t moved. I don’t think I could. I feel like I’ve been hollowed out and filled with lead—too heavy to leave, too busy to rest.

Everything hurts.

Not physically or even magically. Just . . . inside. Like something broke open, and now every breath scrapes against what’s left.

I didn’t know.

Gods, I didn’t know.

My mother. My father.

I thought she was lost. I thought he abandoned us. But what if she was fighting? What if they both were?

Help him.

The words echo, sharper now. Clearer. There was no one else she would have meant.

My father—

The way he went still. The way he listened. The way he tried to speak.

Gods.

What if he wasn’t failing? What if he was holding it back?

What if he was the shield? The anchor?

The one holding it all back while I spent nine years hating him for not being strong enough to stay.