Page 75 of Elemental Becoming

“You’re the worst.”

“And alive,” she shoots back, grinning.

I open my mouth to argue, but the words stall.

Alive.

The word lands differently now. For a moment, I see it again—the way her body went still, the way the world seemed to stop around her.

The way I thought—

I blink hard, forcing the memory away.

Lyra is still watching me, her grin softening just slightly.

“Hey,” she says, quieter now. “I’m here.”

I nod, swallowing past the tightness in my throat.

“Yeah,” I say, pushing a piece into place a little harder than necessary. “You are.”

Rowena knocks on Lyra’s door and steps inside without waiting for a response.

“Dinner’s ready,” she says, arms crossed as she leans against the doorframe.

“Excellent! I’m starving.” Lyra says, stretching her legs out infront of her.

“Thane’s still at the Water Clan outpost?” I ask as we step out into the hall.

“Yes,” Rowena confirms. “The strategy meeting is taking longer than expected.”

I nod, trying not to let the hollow pang in my chest settle too deep. The bond feels distant, a faint pulse at the edge of my awareness, just out of reach.

Rowena angles her head towards Lyra.

“Your man is with Thane.” she grins. “I have to say—I love that the two of you are together. It just makes sense.”

Lyra snorts. “Careful. Keep talking like that and I’ll start thinking you’re sentimental.”

I glance at Lyra, catching the faintest flicker of something softer beneath her grin.

“Does that mean you and Sera are our entertainment for the evening?” Lyra asks, bumping her shoulder against Rowena’s, grinning.

“Gods help me,” Rowena mutters.

Lyra cackles, and I shake my head, smiling as we make our way to dinner.

The halls we walk through are unfamiliar to me. They feel older than the ones near our rooms, their stone walls lined with intricate carvings of warriors and dragons locked in eternal battle. The sconces burn with blue-tinged flame, casting shifting shadows over aged murals—scenes of past wars, great victories, and solemn oaths sworn in blood and fire. The air is cooler here, carrying the faint scent of old parchment and polished stone, as though these corridors have been walked by countless generations before us.

We turn a corner, and the space opens.

The narrow hall gives way to a wide passage, the ceiling rising high above us, vaulted and grand. Banners hang from the arches,bearing the insignias of ancient houses. Tall, narrow windows spill slants of golden light across the polished floors, stretching the corridor into something vast. Almost reverent. Our footsteps echo faintly, a quiet reminder of how small we are against the history etched into these walls.

Portraits line the corridor in gilded frames, their painted eyes seeming to follow as we pass. The faces are stern, regal—former Warlords and their families, their expressions frozen in time. Some wear the armor of their era, others are dressed in ceremonial robes, but each carries the same unmistakable weight of leadership.

Lyra and I slow, drawn in.

My gaze lingers on one—an imposing woman with dark braids, a golden cloak fastened over her shoulder, a dragon’s head sigil embroidered into the fabric.