Page 98 of An Empress of Fire & Steel

The Cold Moon had almost reached its full potential, meaning she would ascend.

Reading the space between them, he pulled back too.

“Good night, Clearwater.” Torin’s voice was low and suggestive, like he wanted to beg her for one more kiss.

It was impressive that he had refrained from kissing her again, especially when Emara was seconds away from pulling that uniform over his head.

“Good night, Blacksteel,” was all Emara said before she opened the door and made her way inside.

After taking a few moments to recover from the intensity of the night, she wriggled out of her dress. Torin would have undoubtedly, impatiently, ripped it from her body if he had come inside. Having washed up and taken the pins out her hair, she noticed a familiar folded square hovering over the swaying gold flames.

She found herself moving quickly and grasping the warm letter between two fingers. She opened it, and her heart exploded.

Emara was unsure how many times she read it over. But every time she did, the same overwhelming feeling lay deep in her heart. She told herself she had to shut it down. But somehow, it still swarmed around her chest. Cosying into bed, she folded the letter back to its original square and floated to a world of unplagued dreams, clutching it for dear life.

I am a droplet of water.

I am an ember of fire that burns.

I am the gust of air that gives breath.

I am the grounding grains of earth below my feet.

I am the spirit that my soul calls on, like the ancestors before me.

In my magic, I trust.

In my element, I trust.

In my House and Coven of Air, I trust.

In myself, as Empress of House Air, I trust.

Emara had been chanting the same spell that bound her to the crown of House Air since this morning. Even when she had been training with Torin, she had chanted in her head. Every punch, every kick, every squat, every sequence, every turn, her mind was focused on the verse.

After training, she had then watched Torin spar with Artem. Both of them had turned into animals in the height of their combat session. A few of the other hunters had come to see the show out in the harsh conditions, and a show it had been. Both males had been unbelievably quick in their sparring dance and unswervingly brutal, trying to best their opponent with every move they made.

No weapons were involved, only limbs, and in the end, Torin had taken advantage of a split second of weakness in Artem’s stance. He had swept his feet before delivering a knockout blow to the face, their bodies crashing down to the plains of the open mountain. The ice-cold wind had battered against their training gear as Torin pinned his brother to the dirt below. As soon as the fight was over, they were both laughing, and Torin helped Artem to stand. In an instant, the fierce fighting had been replaced by friendship and jest.

Torin had won, and she was sure Artem would never live it down—until the next time.

But that felt like days ago as Emara sat in her room, awaiting the sun to fall behind the mountains before the ceremony could begin.

Lorta and Kaydence had been and gone in something that felt like a blur. They had bathed and cleansed her. Lorta had brushed out her flowing curls from the night before, leaving them tumbling loosely down her back, and Kaydence had arranged flowers of vervain, acacia, and aspen in her hair, the flowers of her House.

Her coven.

They had dressed her in nothing but a modest white dress that was flowing and free against her body. It was the complete opposite from what she had worn the night before, but it comforted her. It felt right. They had washed her feet in lavender and lemongrass oils before smudging in an enchanted balm that would protect her soles as she walked barefoot on the rocky terrain. No shoes were to be worn tonight, only her flowing dress and the flowers of her coven in her hair.

Now that she was alone and the preparation finished, it felt like time had slowed. It had felt like hours since the maids had left her, and she didn’t know what time of day it was. The sky outside was beginning to take the form of a moody oil painting, confirming she didn’t have much longer to wait.

As nerves attacked her stomach, Emara chanted the words that connected her to the element of air again as she looked to the golden flames of the magical fire, grounding herself somewhere in the witchcraft. She recited the same words over and over until they were carved into her mouth and mind—and quite possibly, her heart.

A flicker in the flames sent a few embers into the air, and a sealed, folded letter floated in the pit.Leaping off her bed, she took the letter and peered at the seal. Ripping it open, she read:

Emara beamed as gratitude swarmed in her eyes at Naya’s letter. For the first time in what felt like forever, her heart felt more whole. The truth of how much faith Naya had in Emara was humbling yet staggering, and it felt like she could see something more than what Emara could. She supposed it was in Naya’s nature to see the best in everyone. It was what made her beautiful and inspiring, along with her strength and determination to make the world a better place.

Emara folded the paper and stuffed it into a hidey hole in her satchel, along with every other fireletter that lay there.

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