Page 53 of Elemental Becoming

A sudden sharp feeling twists in my chest. My breath stutters, like my body doesn’t know how to hold the weight of being wrong about this. I press my palm against my chest, trying to soothe the ache.

Amara stirs, mumbling something, as her fingers uncurl,then curl again. I still, not wanting to wake her.

My Amara.

I turn my head to press a soft kiss to the top of her head, breathing in her scent. Wildflower and summer.

And the shadows . . .

They didn’t pull away . . . they stayed. They moved with her voice, her touch. The bond.

And in that moment—gods—they knew. They’ve always known.

The bond thrummed through me tonight like a second heartbeat. Memory. Grief trying to speak in a language I’ve never been taught.

But she understood it as if she was born knowing. Amara always understands. She held me, like I wasn’t broken or corrupt. As if I was something worth holding. Not a Warlord. Not a weapon. Just . . . me.

And maybe that’s the worst part. Because now I have to live with what I didn’t see. With what I said to him. What I thought. And with the truth pressing into my bones—he was never the failure.

I was.

And still, she stayed. Amara said nothing to pull me back together. She didn’t have to. I’m beginning to understand what strength really looks like beyond power.

But this doesn’t end here. I’ll have to tell Rowena.

Gods, Rowena.

She’ll act like she already knew. Like she’s not surprised. But I’ll see it—the way her jaw locks, the way her shoulders stiffen like she’s holding the world again. Because that’s what she does. She never breaks.

This might break her. And I’ll have to be the one to say it out loud: we were wrong about everything.

And then there’s him.

My father.

What will I say if we can pull him out of whatever has him? When he looks at me—what’s left of him after carrying this alone?

Will he remember? Will he speak? Or will he be a shadow of a man who made himself into a wall so I didn’t have to?

How do I look him in the eye, knowing I cursed his name for years while he was fighting for me with every breath he had left?

I don’t know if I’ll be strong enough. But I have to try. Because this isn’t just about my family anymore. This curse—this thing that has haunted us, unraveled us, broken us from the inside—isn’t done. I’ve felt it through the bond. Seen how close it came to claiming me . . .

I need to understand what it is. What it wants. Where it comes from.

We’ve been calling it a curse for generations. Amara said it felt gentle, but what if it’s trickery and actually something worse? Something sentient. Something tethered. Something waiting.

I need answers—about the symbols, the curse, what my mother did, what my father carried. What he carries still. I’ll find them. I’ll tear through every archive, every record the realm has tried to bury.

Because if we were wrong about them . . .

What else have we mistaken for truth?

“Mor’kaar?”

Xaroth’s voice moves through me, a deep current brushing the edges of my thoughts.

“Yes, Xaroth?”