Page 76 of Elemental Becoming

Rowena notices and gestures toward them as if it’s nothing out of the ordinary.

“The Warlords of the past,” she says, matter-of-fact. “And their families.”

I scan the line again. Some are older. Others younger.

And then I see them. Women.

Standing just as proud, their portraits taking up as much space as their male predecessors.

“There were female Warlords?”

Rowena nods. “In the past two centuries, there were two. The Fire Clan doesn’t care about bloodlines as much as strength. If you prove yourself, you lead.”

She says it simply. Like it’s fact.

I frown, looking back at the portraits.

I always thought of the Fire Clan as patriarchal—especially with Vaerion, the God of Fire, at its center. Where I come from, leadership is chosen through elections. Women hold power as often as men. We are a matriarchal society because of Saela, theGoddess of Earth.

But here . . . the history tells a different story.

My gaze shifts back to Rowena.

Thane has told me about how fierce she is in battle. I’ve seen the way people listen when she speaks, the way they move when she gives an order.

And I know how close she came.

“And you would have?” I ask quietly.

Rowena’s mouth curves, not quite a smile.

“Would have,” she says. “But it wasn’t my time.” A beat. “And I’m grateful Thane stepped forward.”

My thoughts drift to Thane as we walk, the realization settling deeper than I expect. He didn’t just inherit this. He proved himself.

And somehow . . . I’m standing beside him.

A grand portrait hangs along the stone corridor. A family, painted in striking detail.

My steps falter.

I know those eyes.

It’s a younger version of Thane, standing beside his father, the resemblance unmistakable.

Beside them stands a woman.

Dark hair falls in soft waves over her shoulders, her features sharp and elegant—high cheekbones, full lips, smoke-gray eyes that mirror her son’s. There is a quiet authority in the way she holds herself.

She wears deep crimson, the fabric threaded with gold, a fine chain resting at her collarbone. Even in paint, she is stunning, her beauty commanding attention. Not just a noblewoman, but a queen in her own right.

My stomach tightens.

I glance at Rowena. She’s already watching me.

Her gaze shifts back to the portrait, her expressionunreadable at first. Then, with a quiet sigh, she speaks.

“She was the heart of this family,” she says, her voice softer than I’ve heard it. “Our father was the Warlord, but our mother . . . she held everything together. She made people feel seen. Like nothing was too heavy for her to carry.”