Page 99 of An Empress of Fire & Steel

All of which were from Torin Blacksteel.

A horn soared through the evening air, causing Emara to stiffen where she stood. After the horn’s sound fell into the depths below the mountain, a distant beating of drums could be heard. Emara felt her magic prickle under her skin, the constant beat singing to the blood that ran through her veins, inviting her to follow the music—the enchantment.

Two knocks on the door had her heart in her mouth. But no one opened it, they waited outside for her. Swallowing down her most vital organ, she walked to the door and met her guards.

It was time for them to escort her to the ascension ritual.

The protection balm on Emara’s feet had been a Gods-send as she walked barefoot through the mountain range to an open field. It looked down on the entire Kingdom of Caledorna; the view was incredible, even as the darkness of night threatened to swallow it whole. Emara wondered how many witches before her had stood in this exact spot, admiring the kingdom from its breath-taking peaks. As the light of the winter sun slipped away and the sky welcomed the brightness of the Cold Moon, glowing and blue, Emara’s mind wandered to every other faction that made up the magic world, from the Shifters to the Faeries.

Had they all stood here too? Had they seen Caledorna through the eyes of the north mountains?

She thought about the ancient Gods standing atop this very pinnacle, moving and creating the world that she knew today, instilling the magic she had in her blood into the streams of the world.

Her blood tingled.

Turning from the view, the drumming bass still sought out her magic, being the only sound in her ears as it still lured her closer. Her heart hitched in her chest as she witnessed the ritual space for the first time. The other empresses were already there, in the same humble attire as she. Lillian, Kerrix, Sybil, and Rya stood alone in a line without their guards. She walked over to them, not looking back at her own guards.

Not finding Torin’s eyes.

She hadn’t allowed herself to when he had stood outside her door to bring her here. There could be no distractions, not now, not in this moment.

Taking her place beside Sybil, the Earth Witch gave her a nervous smile as transparent fear shimmered in her eyes. Emara took her hand in her own, not caring about any traditions or if etiquette vowed them not to. A sharp exhale from Sybil told her it was the right thing to do, and the healer squeezed her hand to say thank you. Emara squeezed back.

A heart-wrenching pain in her chest drove tears into her eyes.

That is what Cally would have done to reassure her, to prove that the unspoken words were heard through their special bond. Emara pulled back on her sentiment as she looked up to the stars that twinkled in the sky. Was Cally watching her now? Was she here?

I am always with you.

She fought back tears and focused on the white candles that were ablaze in the shape of a circle in front of her. A gust of wind hit her face, allowing her to smell the fresh sea salt that bound the ceremonial ring. To the right of the circle was an altar—too old for this world—draped in golden fabric with black runes weaved through. Atop the altar sat a black witching bowl, and burning inside were sticks of incense in jade, cobalt, white, scarlet, and violet, each symbolising one of empresses. Elemental runes that represented each House were painted in the same colours around the circle. Many witches stood in silence, cloaked in black robes, no colours showing which House they represented, their faces unseen. Not being able to see any of their eyes sent a churning into her stomach so strong that Emara was sure she could vomit any second. She realised members of her own coven would be here to watch her ascend, but she could not see anything that identified them.

Maybe she did need a distraction.

And she found it instantly, finally allowing herself to look in Torin’s direction.

He stood in a line of hunters whose faces weren’t important, and his sapphire eyes were on her.

His brow pulled into a look of concern, and he mouthed, “Are you okay?”

She nodded.

She would dig deep and find the same courage that every other witch before her had done. Like her grandmother, like Sybil, like the current Supreme.

As if responding to her name in Emara’s mind, the Supreme revealed her face in the crowd, as did an elder witch. The Supreme’s gaze wandered over all five of them.

One of them would be her end, and she did not hide the deadly undercurrent that lingered in the dark waters of her eyes. She was a lethal being, and she smiled like she knew it. She was their leader, their queen, and she would guide them through the ceremony that strengthened their faction.

Emara flashed her eyes to Torin, who, for once, was hiding his scowl underneath a professional façade. She looked to Artem and Magin, to Gideon and Kellen. She looked to Marcus as they all stood, hands behind their back, faces stony and unreadable, all of their eyes on her. Every one of them looked like they had been born in the glory of the black cauldron that sat before her, enormous and archaic. It bubbled, but no fire boiled it.

The Supreme walked forward, her cloak decorating the earth behind her, and for a moment, Emara wished she could wrap herself in a cloak like it, protecting her from the frigid temperature. The drums came to an abrupt stop, and the silence in the air felt somewhat unnatural as it drifted through the crowd of witches and guards.

“Welcome,” the Supreme said. “Tonight, under the Cold Moon that is full in its cycle, five new witches will ascend.” She looked over all of them. “You will ascend to become Empress of your Coven.” Her features sharpened, but she gave a proud smile. “Leader of your House.”

The tartness of the fresh air stole Emara’s breath.

“We will begin the ascension ritual with House Air.” The Supreme’s starlit eyes swept over to Emara. “Emara Clearwater, elemental blood heir of House Air, step forward.” She was razor sharp in her delivery, like a queen would be, and Emara did as she was asked.

Her knees wobbled as Sybil let go of her hand, and she stepped forward, making sure her feet did the simple task. A gust of jagged wind ripped at the curled strands of Emara’s hair and sent dark silk spilling over her shoulder as she walked towards the altar.

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