Page 8 of An Empress of Earth & Darkness

Exactly how terrible was the underground?

Surely, it couldn’t be more tortuous than her own mind at this point.

Viktir Blacksteel wasn’t only punishing Torin by announcing Gideon as her suitor, but her too. It had been six full moons since that horrendous moment when Torin declared war against his father, and it had taken four full moons to stop the tears from falling down her cheeks every time she thought of it.

The thought of marrying Gideon should feel right, but it didn’t.

He was understanding and patient. Of course, that made her feel worse. He was a good man. He had his flaws, but overall, anyone would be lucky to have him. He had tried so terribly hard with her after Viktir made the announcement to the prime that his second son would marry for the alliance. And just to be a total bastard, the commander had sent out the news by fireletter to every hunting family in the kingdom.

Poor Gideon had done everything he could to help mend the relationship they had once had. Strawberries in the morning with a note to wake up to,. gifts of flowers and dinners of courtship. He was…

Not Torin Blacksteel.

Just before she was taken by Silas and Ethan, the Supreme’s guards at winter solstice, she had given everything to Torin. Her heart, her virtue, her soul. She had chosen him and he had chosen her and would always choose her. He had vowed to protect her with his life. He had vowed to worship her until the sun overtook the moon every morning. Her heart had chosen, no longer conflicted by how she felt about the Blacksteel brothers, one fire and one ice. The heart wanted what the soul truly craved, and after shedding her emotional barrier at the Waterfall of Uttara, she knew in her gut that she craved Torin Blacksteel. His crystal-blue eyes, his golden skin, his inky black hair. The way his soft lips curved into a wicked grin every time he taunted her. His lethal darkness. Her soul knew his. Her darkness knew his, too.

She had seen the pain in his face for weeks after his father’s announcement, the longing in his eyes and the yearning to have her. He wanted to be close to her any time he was on duty or they were in the same room. Fear broke through her heart for him when she started to notice his pain turn to anger and then into nothing.

She knew that was why he had been disappearing so often. It had been too much. Too much to see her every day, knowing they could never be together.

She had understood for some time that he was taking it hard, but after a few moons passed and his behaviour morphed into something so destructive, she’d felt enraged. They had built something together. He had vowed to protect her. He had taken an oath to be her guard and she was supposed to trust him with her life. And here she was, going down into some seedy fighting pit to pull him out of it before someone from the prime noticed that he was avoiding her and he was exiled altogether.

Being an empress, she had to make political moves, and fast. She was running out of time to choose another guard for her trio after Magin’s death, and she didn’t want to have to replace Torin too.

She had been so lucky to have her friend, Sybil, stay within the Huntswood Tower because at this rate, they were practically sharing guards. Artem and Marcus had been taking turns in Torin’s absence to train her with almost every weapon possible. However, the weapon that still called to her was her spear—the Agnes. Funnily enough, the present that Torin had gotten her for winter solstice was currently strapped to the outside of her leg. Unknown to the prime, she had used it a few times on demons in Huntswood or the Ashdale forest when she joined in on the hunting from the shadows.

“Can you see all right?” Gideon asked from behind her, his voice wafer thin as they made their way through a dark, damp tunnel. Both guards having hunter blood meant they could see in the dark much clearer than she could. However, Artem seemed to know the way a little too well.

Emara sparked a flame on one finger and then rolled her hand to make a ball of light, her own beacon. “I can now.”

The flame burned bright in the middle of her hand, steady and composed. It was easy for her now. Natural. But she wasn’t anywhere near discovering half of what she could do, a fact that Naya Blacksteel liked to remind her of every day.

After a while of walking down a tiny path that looked like it could crumble at any given minute, a rowdy crowd could be heard in the distance. It sounded too animalistic for any of them to be human.

“We’re close.” Artem turned to face her and stilled for a second. The light from the small beacon of fire danced up to reach his under eye. “Whatever you do, don’t get involved in any gambling or fighting. Leave that to us. But if you must use your weapon to protect yourself, don’t falter. I mean it, take them out. The men down here are foul. Do. Not. Hesitate.” He looked at Gideon too, and he nodded. “Okay, let’s move.”

Emara snuffed out the flame in her palm and followed Artem Stryker until a murky light could be seen at the end of the tunnel.

The boisterous roars of the crowd were like nothing Emara had ever heard before—and she had been in La Luna on a full moon with the Baxgroll wolves. They could be rather savage in the tavern, but this place did not have the security of the wolves she now called friends. Emara couldn’t see the fighting pit yet due to her oversized hood and lack of height, but she could hear where the noise—grunts of pain and the thuds of punches and kicks—was coming from.

The noise of two men destroying each other for a crowd. For coin. For sport.

A spiral of utter dread worked its way into the pit of her stomach.

As much as she didn’t want to look, she had to know if it was him fighting. Why else would he be here?

Making her way through the crowd, pushing past the heavy muscle and stale ale, Emara saw a space in the thronged crowd, a table littered with glasses but unoccupied. They claimed it before anyone else could.

The crowd erupted as a punch landed properly, forcing her attention to the fight in the pit.

Her heart stopped.

It was him.

The warrior who owned her heart.

Torin Blacksteel.

An overwhelming urge to run to him pushed into her legs, almost taking over, but she rooted her feet to the floor. Almost instantly, she noticed how badly he was hurt. Her heart rate doubled. Tripled. Her stomach hit rock bottom. There was a cut above his left eye that was now swelling in size, shoving down upon his eyelid. Crimson blood poured from his open wound, and instead of wiping it away, he corrected his stance, unfazed by the amount of gore. He was slick with sweat, and his skin looked darker under the gloomy moon lamps that hung overhead in a dark orange glass casing. They swung back and forth like a pendulum as the vibrations from the fight and atmosphere caused the whole place to quiver. He was in nothing but fighting leathers on the bottom. His feet were as bare as his torso, and the only thing that could be spotted on his top half was the tape that bound his hands. His inky black hair was soaking with sweat and possibly blood. As he lunged for his opponent, Emara saw the bruising on his ribs, his back, his arms…

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