Page 90 of Elemental Becoming

I press my hand against the sheets where he’d been, wishing I’d held onto him just a little longer.

We still haven’t had time together—just us, uninterrupted, without duty pulling him away. There’s always something. A meeting, a crisis, a responsibility that demands his attention.

I rub sleep from my eyes. I suppose this is what it means to be with the Warlord.

But when I look over at his pillow, I see something.

A note.

And a flower.

A single Evening Primrose rests there, its pale yellow petals unfurling at the edges, catching the low morning light. The centers burn gold, just as I remember—delicate, but so sure.

They grow wild in the fields beyond my village.

I used to watch them in the evenings, swaying in the breeze like tiny lanterns in the grass.

I haven’t seen them in months.

A lump rises in my throat as I take it in, the sight pulling me back—to dusk-lit hills, to the cool brush of petals against my fingertips as I wove them into braids. My mother once told me they were a symbol of resilience and quiet strength, blooming in the dark when others had already closed.

Thane brought this flower here.

When could he have possibly returned to my village to find it?

I pick up the note, unfolding it carefully.

Good morning, Amara, darling.

I’m sorry I couldn’t stay.

Duty called me to the outpost for a few hours, but I’ll see you tonight at the ball.

His handwriting is bold and sure, but I trace the ink as if I could pull more from the words . . . more of him. All that he didn’t say in the note.

The flower says it for him.

If he left for only a few hours and still plans to return before the ball, then he flew on Xaroth.

Setting aside the flicker of disappointment still lingering beneath everything else, I reach for Calryx.

“Feel like flying together?”

Her response is immediate. “Always.”

“I’ll be there shortly—I just want to check on Lyra.”

“Your Warlord secured the saddle before he left with Xaroth.”

A small smile pulls at my lips.

After getting ready, I stop by Lyra’s room. I push the door open without knocking and lean against the frame as she blinks up at me, still half-asleep.

“I’ll be back in a few hours—we’re getting ready for the ball together, remember?”

She groans dramatically, rolling onto her stomach. “If I’m awake by then.”

“Don’t forget to take those herbs,” I add, pointing to the nightstand where a small sachet sits beside a glass of water. “They’ll help with the hangover.”