Chapter 20

N o hunter spoke as Emara made her way through the gardens to an old sparring room that lay open on the outskirts of the Tower. The stonework had crumbled and the old ruins were used as a training facility, often where archery or axe-throwing would take place instead of the sparring room.

But not today.

The morning dew had just descended across the shrubberies, and in the sky, clouds of orange, yellow, and gold began drifting their way across the kingdom to wake her. The setting was a contradiction to what was about to take place here, a history that should be etched in a palette of storms and chaos. This would be a battle that should be fought in harsher conditions—something more fitting than a calm sunrise and pretty songbirds.

It felt wrong. It all felt wrong, and Emara's stomach hadn't stopped rolling. But the sun's presence was mere moments away, and maybe the Gods would rise with it and protect Torin. Her heart was pounding in her chest as she kept her eyes on the ground. One foot in front of the other; that was all she needed to do. Breighly Baxgroll trailed behind her, quiet and pale and so very unlike herself as she blended in with her empress maids. Artem was nowhere to be seen, but the possibility of him being with Torin was high. She wasn't sure if she was unsettled not to see Torin beforehand or if she was secretly relieved to have a few moments to gather herself.

There was nowhere to sit, but it was evident that a marker had been etched into the gravel, a marker of where the challengers where to stay until one of them had taken their last gasp.

Emara's darkness tugged at the strings of her magic, and as she walked through the space, she could feel the dark magic push through her veins, urging for release. Air was swirling inside her like a possessed spirit, her stomach matching the motion. Fire was heating her palms, but she pulled it back too before it ignited all through the gardens. Emara felt a Light presence with her, not from Lorta or Kaydence who walked beside her, but from something more regal, more ancient. Spirit was here, the ancestors also coming to this momentous occasion. And the minute this fight began, she knew the element of earth would urge her to heal, to help.

But there would be nothing she could do.

If Torin was hurt, or worse, she wouldn't be able to go to him. He would bleed out on the ground. The darkness, like a spider, crept in through the cracks of her walls and began forcing its way out. She pulled it back, knowing how busy the clearing was. If she had an outburst of darkness right here, she would reveal her blood.

She halted, noticing everyone looking in her direction. She couldn't go down this route. The darkness was taking her mind to a place of defeat. She couldn't be there. She had to stop herself from getting lost down that rabbit hole of despair. She had to have faith in the Gods to protect him and faith in her ancestors on the Otherside to treat him well. Even if she was drowning in fear on the inside, she would never show that on the outside. She would prove today why she was Torin's equal.

She was strong, unyielding, and powerful.

Her coven would expect nothing less, and neither would the other witches who would hear of this day. The clans would expect nothing less. By now, this event would be the talk of the kingdom, and all eyes would be on her to see if she crumbled.

A hand on her shoulder sent an unnecessary shiver down her spine as she turned to see Marcus Coldwell's dark eyes gazing upon her face. He bowed quickly. "Empress of Air."

She nodded, separating herself from the girls. "Marcus, you know to call me Emara."

"I know, but I still like the sound of Empress of Air. " He smiled kindly.

She couldn't even falsify a smile as she stood watching him.

He held out his arm for her to take, and Lorta and Kaydence moved into step behind her. Breighly walked off to the left, giving them a little space to talk. Marcus gave her arm a quick rub. "I thought you would need someone to hold onto as the Blacksteels are preoccupied."

She gripped his arm tighter. A few more hunters arriving had her stomach somersaulting. "How do you hunters always remain calm in the face of death?"

They took a few more steps past the can. "You're going to be okay," Marcus said on a low breath. "He is going to be okay. I know it."

She closed her eyes for the briefest moment. "The Gods know I have prayed for it enough."

Marcus took a breath. "Me too." There was a silence between them, and a bird's song could be heard from the trees that surrounded them. "When they come out"—Marcus's eyes were hit by the first light of the sun, and it was like Emara could see his lovely soul behind the darkness in them—"we must choose a side. We all must choose a side to stand at so that when the victor wins, he can see all who did not stand with him."

Emara's heart slammed up her throat as her fingers tightened around Marcus's grey tunic. "Why are hunters always trying to discover a problem with each other? I thought they were supposed to be the peacemakers of this kingdom."

A small chuckle left Marcus. "We do not worship the God of Sun and War to always keep the peace. That is where our role is often contradictory, Emara."

Emara thought over his statement before asking, "So the clan will be divided entirely today?"

Marcus finally reached his stop, where the edges of the decaying brick lay, and he looked around himself before he spoke. "‘When the successor to the commandership is announced and the clan stands apart, he can see who stood with him and who stood against him.' It is the first rule of commandership to set a precedent in their punishment. It defines his leadership. He needs to demonstrate how harsh he can be by punishment, exile, or intense labour. It's the way of the warrior."

"It seems all so pointless." Emara's head shook, and she could feel the ends of her hair brush along her lower back in her thin gown. "If Torin is victorious, he must ask anyone who stands on his father's side to bend the knee to him and then he will punish them? How does that make sense? Surely, that will make him unpopular among the clan."

"The clan understands the consequences of what side they choose. How we endure the punishment is our way of honouring and respecting our commander. It's tradition. The men would never respect him if he didn't punish the ones who choose the opposite side. And the clan needs to respect their leader. The first thing a commander must do is crack the whip. And anyone who stands on the opposite side from Torin will receive his wrath should he win."

Emara flinched at the thought. "Then that means you must choose a side too."

"It does."

Emara's brow pulled tight as she remembered the details of how Viktir Blacksteel had taken in a young Marcus who had just failed the Selection process in his father's eyes because he hadn't made the top one percent. He had been a relation of Viktir's, and Emara wondered if the current commander had once had a heart. Viktir had trained him, given him a home, and Marcus had willingly pledged an oath to serve Clan Blacksteel instead of his own.

The Coldwells had always been clan rivals to the Strykers, who were by far the biggest clan in the Helmsbrook area, and they often fought over territory and hunting jurisdiction.

For a brief second, Emara wondered who Marcus would choose.

A whistle sounded, startling Emara from her thoughts, and she glanced around to see Aerrick Stryker move into a space in the ruined threshold. All heads turned to witness Viktir Blacksteel stride through the garden as the clan parted for him. His wrists were bound, his boots laced tight, and his face was unreadable and stern. A knot tightened in Emara's stomach as she noticed that he had taken no chances on the vital killing spots. A thick leather gilet lay over his torso, the collar coming around his neck like a guard's uniform, protecting one of the main arteries in the body.

A second later, the crowd that had gathered parted again to reveal Torin Blacksteel.

Emara couldn't look at him, not when his eyes had wandered all over her face last night in a way that told her his soul knew hers. Not when his lips had told her own that he would rather die than stop kissing her. Not when his hands had roamed every inch of her body like he may never worship it again. She couldn't look at his face because if she saw fear, she would burn the entire Tower to the ground with Viktir Blacksteel in it.

Kellen came just behind Torin, then Artem and Gideon, their arms linked with Naya's. Her face was so horrifyingly pale it sent shock waves through Emara's bones. Her lavender-ringed eyes confirmed that she, too, had not slept at all, and the puffiness of her cheeks suggested that she had cried all night.

Emara suddenly felt like she was looking at Callyn's grave again, numb and disbelieving of what her senses told her. This felt similar, only Torin had not been slaughtered in front of her. This wouldn't be the same. It couldn't be.

She gripped Marcus tighter as the sickness rose from her stomach.

Her heart was still so sore about Callyn. And when she thought of her, which was every day, a sharp ache reminded her of the emptiness that her death caused. That dizzying grief that almost flattened her and took control of everything.

Marcus patted a hand over hers.

When she looked up from the floor of the gardens, the two men fighting for the Blacksteel honour stood at either side of the marked-out battle ground. It was then that Emara could see Torin, also clothed in full black leather that was harsher than the regalia he hunted in. It was thicker, more resilient to weather the weapons he might face today. The two swords strapped across his back formed a deadly X at the back of his strong neck, and just as the new sun began peeking from the earth, beams of light hit them, and they glistened.

In that moment, Torin and Viktir were a mirror of destruction, and they had never looked more alike.

The chief commander made his way to the middle of the markings and spoke to the crowd. "As the sun rises in the east, we must choose between north and south." The chief looked at the crowd, his strong features twisted into something that Emara hadn't witnessed before. "As chief commander of the clans, I am the only person here who has the validation to remain impartial in this challenge. Everyone else must choose to stand in the south with Viktir Blacksteel or in the north with Torin Blacksteel. And you must choose before the sunlight hits above the trees behind us."

A few people moved quickly; it was clear they had made their decision overnight.

Emara didn't even have to question where she would stand.

She let go of Marcus's arm, who looked at her with a void in his eyes. He had an impossible choice today. Viktir had once saved his life and Torin was like his brother. It wasn't going to be easy for him at all. Emara gripped his hand and whispered, "Choose what future commander you want to stand behind when the Dark Army comes for us in full force."

He nodded once, his dark eyes pained, and she left him behind to choose his side.

As she walked across the clearing, she noted that Gideon and Kellen were already standing at Torin's back, as was Artem. Naya Blacksteel moved too, her head down and eyes on the ground. Kellen put out his arm, wrapping it around his mother; she was so petite against his frame. The youngest Blacksteel stood like the rest, his chin in the air and his shoulders back.

Turning away, she noted Sybil and Rhea in the crowd that backed Torin. In fact, most of the earth witches that resided in the Tower stood in support of the second-in-command.

The Tower's guests split evenly until there were only a few left standing. Breighly moved and joined Lorta and Kaydence by Emara's side, and Emara noticed Roman Baxgroll, the only other wolf present, drifting through the crowd to stand beside his twin.

Emara's eyes fell to Marcus, who was now one of three men still left to choose.

With his head bowed under the pressure of his decision, Marcus Coldwell shifted his weight between his feet. He ran a hand over his face, his dark skin glowing with the sun's reflection. He blew out a breath and looked up at the Gods' sky.

"Come on," Gideon Blacksteel whispered beside her, his eyes on his friend. "Come on, Marcus."

Gideon's leg shook impatiently as they all awaited his verdict.

Marcus Coldwell's dark eyes found Torin, and a sympathetic frown pulled around his mouth. "I am sorry," he mouthed. "If you are victorious, I will follow you through any battle. But the Gods do not allow me to choose you today."

Torin didn't react, the mask of a warrior cemented to his face. He watched Marcus move to stand by his father's side, and Viktir gave a taunting grin.

Gideon hung his head and let out a breath through his teeth, his fists balling.

Everyone had chosen their camp.

"When I sound my horn, both challengers who have laid claims to Commander of the Blacksteel Hunting Clan must step forth. All others must not interfere by hand or by magic until one submits or is killed, rendering the other triumphant. The opponents must only have two weapons on their person, and if their weapon falls out of the designated zone, that weapon is disqualified. The person who is announced successor at the end of the duel is immediately instated as the commander of the clan. Are the rules clear?"

In unison, both Blacksteel men announced, "Yes, Chief."

As the commander stepped out of the battlegrounds, his eyes drifted over both men and said, "May the God Thorin wield you best at war. May Rhiannon bless you with dreams in the afterlife. May the God Uttara bless you if your soul reaches the stars or if you make it to a new dawn, and may the God Vanadey bless the soil your body will rest in."

Hearing those traditional words sent a shiver skating over Emara's skin.

The horn broke through the air, startling Emara, and her heart broke free into her mouth. Naya Blacksteel slid her hand into Emara's, and she could feel the shake of her body as her husband and first-born son drew their weapons.

They were in perfect synchronisation, and Emara wondered how many times they had fought each other. Torin had been trained by Viktir, and you could see it now as both men assessed the other, their movements almost identical.

Torin was the first to attack; he advanced on the commander and took a few swipes at him. Viktir blocked every blow, his footwork precise and his sword work meticulous. Clashing metal rang through the air, and Emara wished that this was only a lesson in weaponry like the one she had first witnessed between the Blacksteel brothers before the Blood Moon.

Torin pulled back, having failed to hit his target, but in the same breath, Viktir took a stab at Torin's chest.

His heart. The most vital killing point.

Emara gasped, and Naya pressed her hand to her mouth, stifling a cry.

Torin dove, narrowly escaping steel on his skin. As Torin ducked to the side, he brought his sword up, aiming to make a mark of his own, but Viktir blocked the hit with both of his weapons, twisting them up to create a shield. Torin advanced again, giving no time for Viktir to regain his balance properly. He was relentless as he forced his father back, swinging one sword right and then left. Sheer muscle and force swung forward in a skilful battle, but Viktir blocked the blows until he had reached the end of the fighting space. Torin had backed his father into the corner of the space. Emara's heart squeezed, and her throat dried up.

Rapidly, Viktir swung up his sword, clattering off Torin's hand, and it sent Torin's left sword through the air. As soon as the weapon hit the ground, Emara closed her eyes, hearing the gasps that broke through the crowd.

Viktir was going to strike like a caged viper.

"Don't lose focus," she heard Gideon whisper. "Don't let it rattle you."

Torin took a step back, rolling the only sword he had left in the palm of his hand before his fingers flexed around the hilt, bringing it back up to his eyeline.

Viktir gave off a triumphant smirk as he lazily swung both swords before taking up another fighting stance. He lunged like an animal at Torin, ready to stab him with not only one sharp point, but two. Steel clashed on stee as the weapons collided.

Torin moved like the wind, and as quick as Emara could see, he had pivoted, rolled to the ground, and came up behind his father. Emara held in a breath as Torin lunged forward to aim for his spine. Viktir must have sensed his move as he veered to the side, but it wasn't enough to escape Torin's blade. A tear in the leather gilet was all Emara could see before she noted the commander was bleeding. She heard a hiss from Viktir's support, some people now shifting nervously in the crowd.

Gideon shifted his weight, his eyes on the battle. His hands never left his weapon belt; it was like he wanted to be in there, helping his brother.

Viktir stumbled slightly as Torin powered a blow in his direction, and the clash of steel rang through the kingdom. A shout of pain came from Viktir as he stretched to block his son's sword, his wound now gaping even more. Two more swipes came from Viktir, trying to injure Torin, but he was unsuccessful.

Torin darted forward, spying a weakness in his father's stance, but Viktir met his one sword with two, locking him in.

It was a trap.

Emara's breathing hitched as both Blacksteels stood eye to eye.

Torin kneed his father in the gut and then delivered an elbow to Viktir's jaw. It bought him enough time to free his sword and disarm one of Viktir's. The weapon fell to the ground with a heavy thump and Torin kicked it aside, then corrected his stance.

Naya gasped behind her hand, and Breighly let out a sharp curse.

"Evenly matched again." Viktir sneered.

"This isn't an even match, old man." Torin's cocky grin pulled across mouth as both men circled each other. "It hasn't been an even match since I returned from the Selection, bigger and better than you, and you know it."

"Always talking yourself up, Torin." Viktir sniggered as his fingers gripped the hilt of his only sword. "But do I need to remind you in front of everyone that I was always the one who beat that stupid smirk from your face?"

Viktir lunged forward, going for Torin's throat. Leaning back as his father's sword almost severed his head, Torin twisted and kicked out into Viktir's stomach. The commander stumbled back, losing his balance. Torin was on him again, and he swung his sword with a roar, every muscle in his body engaged as he propelled Viktir's final weapon from his hands.

Viktir wasted no time, and stuck his boot in Torin's knee. He wobbled, hissing as his body tensed in pain. Viktir seized the moment and tackled Torin to the ground.

Emara let out a squeal and covered her eyes. Air lodged in her throat. All she knew was that Viktir had landed on top of Torin. She could feel his brothers both taking a step forward.

It was then that Naya let out a desperate cry, "Not my boy. Please, Rhiannon, not my son."

The scream rolling up Emara's throat was hideous, full of fear, rage, and darkness. But she couldn't scream, not when Torin was fighting. He would know it was her.

Finding courage from deep within, Emara peered at the fight again.

Viktir's harsh hands began pummelling into Torin's face. "Does this bring back any memories?" he spat venomously. "Putting you back in your place."

The only answer Torin gave back was a grunt as the blood spilled from his mouth, his head snapping from side to side by the force of his fists.

"Come on, Torin," Gideon shouted. His entire body was now jolting with anxiety. "Get the fuck up!"

All the hairs rose on Emara's arms and neck as she took another step forward. She had never heard Gideon's tone so brutal, and it added to the fear that was now vibrating up and down her spine. "Get up, Torin," she whispered. "Get up. Please."

Out of nowhere, Torin's huge fist broke through the air, and he took a swing at the man on top of him.

Viktir's head snapped to the side as Torin's fist battered his cheek. Torin was quick to roll onto his side as the commander fell on his back. He straddled his father as the blood ran down his head and into his eyes, and it was then that Emara could see how bloody his face was. His mouth was split open, ruby-red blood running down his chin, and his left eye was almost closing over.

Artem Stryker's booming clap pounded through the space in support of his violent comeback, and Emara considered it to be one of the loudest sounds she had ever heard. "That's it, Tori-boy. On your feet, sunshine. Get up. Come on."

She could feel the nerves waving from Artem too. The inked warrior always wore some sort of cheeky grin, but not right now. In any other circumstances, his nickname for Torin would have made her smile.

Torin forced himself up and onto his feet, but Viktir's arm shot out, grabbing his ankle and pulling. The crowd broke into a frenzy as Torin tumbled back down on top of the commander.

Torin used the extra force of gravity to his advantage and whacked his head into Viktir's face.

There was a horrific crunching sound, and blood burst from Viktir's nose. The crowd sucked in a breath. A rumbling groan broke from Viktir's throat, but Torin had stunned him enough to allow himself to land another punch. And another, and then another. He hit him again and again, his fists bursting skin, beating bones…

Emara could feel the sick in her stomach swirl again, around and around like a portal.

"Finish him, Torin," someone roared from the crowd, and suddenly, Emara felt like she was back in the pits.

Torin leaned over his father's limp body, gripping one of the swords that lay glistening in the morning sun. The twinkle of the blade shone lethally as he got to his feet and pointed the steel at his father's heart.

Everyone who watched took a step forward, even the chief commander.

Emara took a moment to consider that this awful tradition could be over soon if Torin drove the sword through Viktir's heart. But he hadn't moved. Torin's face looked tortured, his brows pulling into a scowl as his burst eyebrow bled all down his face.

Emara wanted to go to him, but she rooted her feet to the ground, her magic urging her to heal him. The sword in Torin's hand began to shake. He roared and jabbed at the man lying in a pool of blood again.

But the blade did not enter flesh or bone.

"Fucking do it, you coward. Stick your sword through my heart." Viktir's cruel voice breached the morning air. "Go on then, do it."

Torin's hair rustled on his brow as he shook his head. "I do not need to see your blood spilled on the ground to know that I have won," he spat in return. "Submit your title to me and this will be over. Forfeit your commandership. You do not need to die."

Viktir spat blood onto Torin's leg. "Push that fucking blade into my flesh, you weak cunt."

Torin hesitated, and Emara could see how torn he was about finally killing his father. "He never hesitates," Kellen whispered to Gideon.

"I know," Gideon replied lowly.

Viktir let out a vicious laugh as crimson blood coated his teeth. "You are unworthy of the Blacksteel name if you cannot finish what you started."

Torin's blade pieced into the commander's chest a little further, pushing him back into the ground. "And you were unworthy of the Gods granting you a wife and sons, but here we are, watching your shameful fall from leadership." Torin regained his stance. "Submit to me."

"Submit, Viktir," came a shout from the crowd.

"Renounce your commandership," another bellowed from his side, and Emara wondered if they wanted him to stay alive.

If Torin didn't kill him now, then Viktir could regain strength and come back for him. Was the darkness in her veins edging her away from compassion?

"Stand," shouted another. "Get on your feet, Commander."

No! This couldn't be happening. Why was Torin not ending his life?

"No life needs to be taken today," a hunter from Torin's corner said. "He is sparing your life, you ungrateful prick. Submit."

"I never asked him to spare it," Viktir growled.

"That's my decision, not yours. I won." Torin let his sword stray away from the commander's heart. "Because if I pierce your heart with my blade today, I am no better man than you. I would be just like you, and I refuse to be that man." Torin's jaw flexed, and his eyes fluttered shut for a second longer than they should have. "So I am going to give you one last opportunity to surrender your commandership over to me and I will let you live out the rest of your miserable life."

Naya stepped forward. "Viktir, by the grace of the Gods, lay down your pride this once. Do you really want your boys to see their father killed by their own brother?" Naya's voice broke. "Your own son? Is that what kind of human you have become? Will you really let your own flesh and blood push that sword through your merciless heart? Because if so, then you are no better than the darkness that breathes in the underworld."

A moment passed between Naya and Viktir, a moment that no one else would understand. A stale silence darkened the air, and a small cloud must have drifted over the sun because the surrounding area dropped in temperature. A cool breeze tugged at the crowd as everyone watched Torin standing over his commander.

"Please surrender, Viktir," Naya pleaded. "Please."

Torin raised his sword to his father's heart once more. "You have five seconds."

Viktir pushed the blade aside. "You are a fucking coward," he roared as he got to his feet, stumbling, his legs not able to support his weight. "A disgrace."

"Four seconds." Torin's back muscles flexed under his armour. "I need to hear the words."

"I concede." A defeated exhale spat more blood onto the ground before Viktir's green gaze found Torin's. "You'd better exile me to the farthest part of the kingdom you can think of, boy, or you and the people who stood in your corner today are not safe."

Torin took a few strides towards his father. "The people that stand in my corner are the safest people here, and do you want to know why? Because under the oath they will take before me and Thorin, they are protected from punishment by anyone other than me." He spat looking down on him. "You underestimate how much I have noted your abuse of power, Father. I have observed carefully every single time you pulled rank or pushed your authority around like a dead weight. Don't you forget that I learned from a very cunning and deceitful commander that you do not give a person who defies you any room to negotiate." He pulled back, and Emara watched Viktir wipe the blood from his nose. "You see, my commander taught me to always find someone's weakness. Find something that someone wants so badly, and then when they defy you, you strip that person of what they want." Torin took a few steps back, and the power that radiated from him captured the attention of everyone in the crowd. "You only threaten the ones I love, the ones who stand by my side, so that I'll send you off to some foreign land where you can live the rest of your shameful life in the shadows. But I am not afraid of your threats, and I will not be part of your manipulations anymore. I am the Commander of the Blacksteel Hunting Clan. I command you to stay in the Tower as part of my clan."

A few whispers blew around the crowd.

"You are a laughingstock," Viktir hissed. "First you couldn't slash your blade through my throat, and now you will not exile me? Commandership is going to come down on you like the Gods are throwing bricks on your head."

"No, Father, I will not exile you." Torin squared his shoulders. "Because only then, by not allowing you to disappear into the shadows of the kingdom, will you receive your punishment. I will see it on your face every day. Your hatred to watch me in command. Your utter embarrassment to take instruction from me, to be at my mercy. Why would I allow you a few moments of pain over a lifetime of shame? Why would I grace your body to bleed out before you go over to the Otherside and have no punishment for what you have done to my family? You are mine until the Gods take you. And there you have my first command, Father . You are fucking mine."

A warm breeze blew through the crowd, and that was when Emara finally caught a breath.

"The Gods have spoken." The chief commander walked forward and removed the commander's badge from Viktir's chest. "Torin Blacksteel, first of his name, I now pronounce you the Commander of the Blacksteel Hunting Clan." Aerrick moved across to Torin, but his gaze was on the Tower in the distance as the badge was pinned on his chest. The chief's eyes found his crowd. "Bow before your honourable commander."

Tears spilled from Emara's eyes as she dropped to one knee in her gown, and everyone else did the same, bowing their heads before their new commander.

Torin Blacksteel.