Page 60 of An Empress of Earth & Darkness

The fight for the Blacksteel Commandership was over, and Torin had been victorious.

Oaths were recited, knees were knelt on, and warriors held their palms to hearts in the sight of Thorin that they would honour and obey their newest leader. Emara witnessed the newest commander stand before his brethren like a god. He stood in front of his men, power radiating from him even as blood dripped from his body. Even the ones who had not chosen his corner now did, knowing that they would receive punishment for not selecting his side.

They now had to bow to Torin.

And that included the former commander. A slight awe crept into her chest to acknowledge that she was proud of Torin for not murdering his father. His heart was so much bigger than anyone could have ever imagined. And now his soul would not be tarred with the memories of killing Viktir.

It was wise of him to know that Viktir’s biggest punishment would not be death, but to be ranked under his son and to be dealt the hand that the commander gave him.

And Naya, thank the Gods for Naya. Torin could have been forced to end his father’s life had it not been for her.

When it was over, Torin fled from the ruins, avoiding anyone who tried to congratulate him or even speak with him. Healers had run after him, but he had shrugged them off, telling them to attend to Viktir first. Naya had hugged Emara until she couldn’t breathe, tears streaming from her eyes, and even Gideon had embraced her.

Artem Stryker, being himself, announced an honorary service for Torin’s commandership, which of course meant that he would order wagons full of ale and there would be a few days of revelry for anyone who celebrated the new commander.

As the preparations for the service began at mid-morning, all magical factions that stayed within the Tower pulled together, making pastries, shining glasses, and dressing tables in fine lace that needed a little flair. As letters were sent to clans across the kingdom, as maids polished every oil lamp, as everyone buzzed around prepping the Tower for the commemorations, Emara felt numb.

She couldn’t find Torin.

She had searched the Tower all over to find him. His room, the library, the rooftop, the stables, the infirmary, but nothing. No witch had seen him for healing, no cook had seen him for eating, no hunter had seen him for sparring. He was nowhere to be found. Marcus declared he hadn’t left the grounds, as he had not passed the foyer doors, so that meant there was only one place left.

The Commanding Office.

A strange feeling passed through Emara as she stood outside the large oak door to the office she had entered a few times to speak on political matters with Viktir. She hated the place. It was cold and dull, and there was nothing pleasant about it.

Her knuckles rattled on the door before entering, wondering how many times Torin had dreaded coming through this very door.

“Enter,” Torin commanded in a voice that didn’t sound like his own.

She opened the door slowly and halted when she saw him.

A darkness festered in the room. The poor lighting hid Torin’s face as he sat in what used to be his father’s chair, sprawled out, his feet on the wooden desk in front of him. His hand rubbed along his brow, his knuckles still bruised, but at least he seemed to have had them cleaned up. He tried to smile at her with a weary grin that didn’t reach his eyes, and he placed down a paper that he had been reading on the desk.

Emara flicked her wrist in the direction of every candle and, one by one, a flame ignited, adding light to the dim walls and allowing a glow to soften Torin’s fierce features.

“Did no one ever tell you that reading in the dark was bad for your eyes?” Emara tried her hardest to find humour in the moment, but an overwhelming sadness took over as she glanced upon his injured face.

“Well then, I guess it’s a good thing that I have such a talented witch to light my candles.” His smirk was small and almost non-existent.

Defeated.

She took a few more steps into the room. “They are throwing celebrations for you down in the main hall to honour your victory. I have never seen so much liquor.” She chewed on her lip. “Breighly even organised for the La Luna sugar spice and rum recipe to be served for you as a toast to your triumph.”

“I know,” was all he said as his fingertips drummed a short beat on his temple.

She glanced around the room, not knowing what to say to him, and he took his feet from the desk and planted them on the ground.

“Can you come over here?” he asked as he looked at her through dark lashes. “Please,” he added, and the weakness to his voice almost made her knees buckle.

Emara strode across the room and flung herself against him. She wrapped her arms around him before he pulled her into his lap, and she nuzzled her face into his neck. All she could feel emerging from her soul was the healing energy of her magic; it took over everything else. She pulled back, placing her hand on his injured brow and allowing her magic to aid his bruised skin. His eyes didn’t falter from her face as his skin knitted back together and he twitched slightly in pain.

She could have lost him today, but the Gods had spared him, and for that, she would thank them every night and day. He had been the better fighter. Torin pulled her against his solid frame once he had had enough healing.

It was over. He had lived. He seemed to relax against her, his muscles softening as she stroked the back of his neck. They sat in silence for a moment more. She could feel his fingers intertwining in her midnight locks, threading through the strands as if he took comfort from it somehow.

“You won,” she whispered as tears threatened to course down her cheeks.

“I was always going to win because it was going to bring me back to you,” he breathed into her cheek, and his lips found her skin as he scattered a few kisses over her face. “I was always going to come back to you.” He embraced her a little tighter.

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