Prologue

T he smell of blood and stale alcohol was always a prominent feature in the fighting pits. Below the city of Huntswood, where the darkest of souls came to play when the sun went down and forbidden business had to be taken out of sight, ancient tunnels carved their way for miles. It was where the seediest of illegal trades were done in secret passages, and exchanges that couldn't be dealt in the Huntswood Markets would find a sale there. The fighting pits were only a small part of what went on underground, and that's where Torin Blacksteel was tonight.

It had been where he had spent his nights since the last new moon. Since he had finally come to his senses and realised that there were no happy endings for guys like him.

A warrior. A man who had too many scars. A hunter who had to obey his commander above anything else.

It was bloody down here, and brutal. But it was better than being in the Huntswood Tower. That was a fact.

Roars could be heard from men who had just bet their last coin on the losing side of the fight, and the cheers of the bastards who had just won a fortune circled through his ears as he waited in the shadows. Binding the throbbing cuts on his knuckles, he rolled his neck, welcoming the pain from last night's fight. Taking a step from the darkness of the underground pits—a playground for feral beasts—he watched as another fighter geared himself for battle close to the blood-stained ring. There was very little light in the pits, just a few moonbeams that had been trapped in casings hung against the carved-out stone in every corner. Torin could see that the male preparing himself and entering the ring was most definitely Fae—probably around two-hundred years old, since the pompous pricks never aged. His pointed ears peeked through his long braided hair of silver, and his violent eyes were rimmed with something darker.

"Rumour has it that the big bastard worked for the king's court years ago," he overheard a man say as he moved through the crowd.

And given the sheer strength and size of him, it made sense; but since noticing he only had one eye and tallying up the scars on his body, Torin assumed the Fae had been fighting in places like this for a long time. Probably longer than Torin had been alive. The fact that he was still going and hadn't had any injuries that stopped him fighting altogether meant that the big fucker had won most of them.

It was a shame Torin was about to change all that tonight. He might never fight again once he was through with him. Only the hardest bastards fought in the pits. There were no rules, just knockouts. Sometimes even death was brushed under the rug in the blink of an eye.

Men that fought down here had nothing to lose.

But Torin wasn't in the mood to lose tonight. He wasn't feeling generous, nor was he feeling kind. He was feeling…nothing.

He was empty.

Torin had been emptied of everything the minute his father changed the treaty in his name. The treaty that saw a future with Emara Clearwater as his wife.

The heart-crushing throb that soared through his chest too often these days returned. He shut it down at once. He wouldn't let himself feel anything because when he did, it was soul splitting. He couldn't let himself think of anything other than getting through the day as Emara's guard without talking to her or seeing her. Come nightfall, all he wanted to do was fight like an absolute animal and forget everything about her.

It was the only way.

He stopped himself from moving through the shadows of the crowd as a memory of her face on that dreadful day invaded his mind. Even her name rattled through his bones, shook his heart. He loathed when a memory of her laugh would slip through the ironclad armour he had built around his mind or when he thought of her soft mouth on his before sleep found him. Or when the recollection of her watching him spar with the glitter of darkness in her eyes overwhelmed his heart.

No one had ever looked at him the way Emara Clearwater did. When she looked at him, she saw every part of who he was.

And fuck, did that hurt like a bitch.

He was still guard to the Empress of Air; there was no getting away from that oath. He supposed that was the true torture of his father's punishment. He still had to be in her life, just not the way his soul longed for. But he and Artem had worked out a pattern to combat encountering her more than his broken heart could handle. Stryker and Coldwell took her training sessions. Torin only really needed to be there to oversee any changes in her schedule and to take the night shift when he wasn't down here spilling blood. Anything that required her to be present as the Empress of House Air, Gideon stood in to meet the requirement .

Her betrothed.

Torin pulled back on a flinch, which he knew was an instant mistake. No fucker flinched down here. It was basically the only rule.

The pain in his heart tingled again, reminding him he wasn't numb anymore, but the fact that Torin only took post when there was little to be said sickened him. It gutted him that he couldn't be the one she talked to about her day. He couldn't wipe her tears or comfort her sorrows. He couldn't touch her skin or feel her warmth. He couldn't encourage her not to let the darkness in, and she did, every night. Darkness, like her air, formed around her, circling her like a serpent, only building stronger each day. And Artem was convinced it was because she had a broken heart too. Ever since that ruthless day, he couldn't even look at her without being unable to breathe. His future had been torn to shreds, smashed, and blown into the wind like mere dust.

Viktir would get his day. He just had to pick the right moment. Whether it be tomorrow or in five years' time, his commander would pay for what he had done. His father would suffer slowly.

Torin ran a hand over his jaw as it tightened.

Nevertheless, he couldn't think of Emara anymore. Not like that. Not in the way his hands wanted to fight for. Not in the way his very soul sought for. Gideon could make her happy. He could be the man she needed in her role as empress. He had to give her that fighting chance. Someone loyal and reliable, someone balanced.

Someone who wouldn't be ripping apart the world she had just built for herself.

His love for her was forbidden.

So, he had found himself here to somehow take the edge off of the feeling that destroyed his heart. Banishing all the overwhelming feelings, he liked to pretend they were all fully gone.

He made his way over to the dingy bar that had one swinging oil lantern above it, wax seeping out, spilling all over the floor. No one cared to clean it up.

"Rum," he ordered over the shabby den they called a watering hole.

"None," The keeper croaked back at him.

Why was there never any fucking rum down here? It truly was a cesspit. It seemed cheap whiskey or ale that smelled like horse piss was all that was on the menu tonight.

Whiskey it was, then.

He knocked it back faster than the keeper had slid it to him. The man had about three teeth left in his mouth, and hair that had been oiled to his head swept down his dirty, fat, turkey neck. He was pale, as though the sun had never graced his skin, and his eyes were dark, like a nocturnal creature of the pits.

He really was the definition of unsightly.

A ding from the bell sounded, indicating that it was time for the fight to begin, and he welcomed it. He was here to fight until he couldn't fight anymore. To fight until he couldn't feel anything.

Torin turned away from the bar before flicking a coin over his shoulder to the old mole rat, and the crowd parted for him to clear a path to the ring. Swaggering closer to the fighting pit, he could still see the last fight's blood in the ring.

He caught his opponent's gaze, and a cruel grin pulled over Torin's lips.

He would show no mercy. The gambling men of the pits never did like cowards; it was like flinging a broken bird into a nest of hungry wolves. They would be devoured. Savaged.

However, Torin had a feeling this Fae in the ring wouldn't be so cowardly. He watched him move and strike like a trained war snake, practising his hook as he smiled at him. He was fast, he'd give him that, but Torin was faster.

Hearing the roars from the crowd, Torin could no longer make his opponent wait. He ducked under the rope and squared his shoulders, lifting his chin. The sounds of the crowd married with the bell and ignited violence in his veins. It sent an urge for sheer war through his soul. All that was left to do was picture his father's face instead of the Fae's so that each blow could mean something.

It was show time.