Page 62 of Elemental Becoming

“Amara,” he says. “This is my father, Lord Eryndor Caelum.”

I turn fully to the man before me. Not just as Thane’s father or the former Warlord of the Fire Clan, but as he is now. Distant. Worn. The Sadness of the Heart draped over him like a heavy cloak.

I incline my head. “It’s an honor to meet you, my lord.”

For a moment, I wonder if he will respond. If my presence means anything to him at all.

Lord Eryndor’s eyes shift, just enough to meet mine. They are hazel, almost golden. Once, I think, they must have burned with fire and purpose.

But now, they are dull. The light in them has faded.

But for this moment, he sees me.

I smile, hoping—willinghim to speak. Not for my sake, but for Thane’s. Because I know how much it would mean for his father to say something. Anything.

A long breath passes.

Then, almost lagging, “Hello, Amara.”

His voice is rough, gravelly, like it hasn’t been used in a longtime. The sound of it settles into the room.

My breathing stalls. Across from me, Thane goes still.

But I see it; the way his hand tightens against his knee, the way something in him locks into place. He doesn’t let it show, but I know what this moment means.

Lord Eryndor’s hazel-gold eyes remain on me, dull but working to focus. He blinks, as if pulling the words through layers of distance. His lips part.

Then, in that same rough, worn voice, he murmurs, “Spiritborn . . . ?”

The word is barely more than a hoarse whisper, but it lands, like something distant and half-forgotten stirring in the depths of his mind.

He exhales, the effort visible in the rise and fall of his chest. His brow pulls tight, grasping for something just out of reach.

I glance at Thane. He hasn’t moved.

Lord Eryndor’s mouth tightens. “Impossible . . . ”

He blinks again, his expression changing. There is something in his eyes now, a flicker of recognition. Not of me, but of what I am.

Thane leans forward. “What do you remember?”

Lord Eryndor does not answer right away. The effort of speaking is evident in the tension that gathers in his face, in the way his breath becomes labored before it can settle.

His fingers twitch against the grooves in the wood.

Then, with great effort, he rasps, “A child . . . born of all elements . . . yet belonging to none.”

His breath shudders. His eyelids flutter, as if the words themselves take something from him.

“It warns . . . something returns. Banished . . . not destroyed.”

His fingers twitch again, curling into a soft fist, holding there.

“The Unmaking . . . not stopped. Delayed.”

The bond jolts once, and I look at Thane. He still faces hisfather, but his attention cuts to me, a crease forming between his brows.

My pulse quickens. I barely breathe.