Page 61 of Elemental Becoming

Then, his father’s eyes drift to me.

There is no curiosity or judgment. Just a flicker of acknowledgment; a labored nod, as though anything more would take effort he cannot afford to give.

I offer a small smile. I’m not sure he sees it before his attention slips away again.

Thane moves to the couch to sit beside his father, settling into the space the attendant left behind. With a small motion of his chin, he gestures for me to sit across from them. As I do, Thane picks up the plate, balanced with fruit, eggs, and bacon, and cuts a piece of the food with careful precision.

Then, gently, he offers it.

I hold my breath.

For a moment, nothing happens. His father’s fingers keep moving against the worn wooden arm of his chair. Over and over, they follow the same familiar path, tracing grooves so deep they’ve darkened with age.

Without looking at Thane, he opens his mouth and takes the offered bite. His fingers never stop moving.

A swell of emotion nearly overtakes me.

It is a small thing. It shouldn’t feel like anything at all. And yet, sitting here, watching Thane patiently feed the father who once ruled these halls—it feels fragile. Something so pure andbeautiful.

Thane doesn’t rush. Doesn’t falter. He offers another bite, and another. His father takes each forkful with great effort, but he doesn’t resist.

The attendant returns, her steps light as she approaches. She pauses, taking in the scene. Then exhales, soft with relief.

“That’s great,” she says warmly. “I’m so glad you got him to eat.”

She smiles at Thane, a genuine expression of appreciation. Thane looks up at her, his own smile small but real. Quieter than the ones I’ve seen before. Unguarded.

His father finishes the last of his breakfast, the plate nearly empty. Thane reaches for the glass of juice and holds it out.

His father stares at it for several long moments, his expression unreadable. The silence stretches.

Thane does not rush him. He simply waits, the glass secure in his grasp. It’s a patience I’m not used to seeing from him—so different from the sharp, relentless focus he carries into training and sparring. There, he pushes, demands, never allowing hesitation to linger.

But here, with his father, he does none of that. He only waits.

After a long moment, his father lifts his arms with considerable effort. His hands close around the glass, his fingers trembling slightly as he brings it to his lips.

Thane gives a single, almost imperceptible nod.

His father doesn’t notice. Or if he does, he gives no sign of it. He drinks in measured swallows, gaze distant, as though each one requires more effort than it should.

When he finishes, he holds the glass away from him, wordless, his hands trembling with the effort. Thane takes it from him, just as quietly, and sets it back on the table.

He exhales softly, then speaks. “Hello, Father. It’s good to see you.”

No response. His father’s gaze remains unfocused, somewhere far beyond the room.

Thane doesn’t falter.

“I want to introduce you to someone.” He gestures toward me. “This is Amara Thalor. The Spiritborn. Bonded rider to dragon Calryx. Wielder of all four elements.”

A pause.

“And my lady.”

The words settle between us, heavy enough to feel. My heart stirs at the way he said them, each title carrying its own gravity—but it is the last that lingers. Not just a statement of fact, but of choice.

Thane looks at me, his eyes twinkling with a kind of ease I haven’t seen before.