CHAPTER 2 Torj
CHAPTER 2
Torj
‘I pledge my sword and my life to the protection of the midrealms’
– Warsword oath to the Furies upon the Great Rite
B ONE CRUNCHED BENEATH his knuckles. Torj Elderbrock withdrew his fist only to drive it back into his opponent’s nose with another satisfying crack.
A garbled moan sounded as blood sprayed across the tavern floor.
The crowd around the makeshift fighting ring in the Laughing Fox groaned in unison as coin exchanged hands and pints were refilled. Only moments ago, Torj had been among them, almost drowning in drinks. Lots of drinks. And toasts, countless toasts, to the lightning-kissed, storm-blessed, silver-haired Bear Slayer.
‘Had enough yet?’ Torj asked his rival.
In answer, the man took a messy swing at his face, missing by some distance and losing his balance.
Torj sighed, unsatisfied. He’d started the brawl because the bastard had groped one of the Fox’s waitresses. He’d kept fighting because he liked it, though he felt sorely underchallenged.
When he was moving, when his fists were flying, he could forget. But in those quiet moments in between, the past would rush back to him and he would be right there, on the battlefield, five years ago.
Pure, unadulterated power hit him. The sheer force of it was utterly terrifying. Bolts of lightning sparked in his very blood and the taste of rain kissed his lips. A storm, furious and wild, surged in the air around him, channelling through him and his war hammer as he leapt from the fortress wall and into the bloody maw of death itself.
The strike of the hammer with his Furies-given strength shattered the hold of darkness, the impact singing through his bones, along with more storm magic than he thought ever possible. He couldn’t contain it—
The drunkard landed a hit to Torj’s jaw.
Revelling in the contact, the Bear Slayer surged forth, the crowd going wild around him as he lifted his opponent up by the front of his shirt, the fabric tearing under the strain. The man whimpered and kicked out, and Torj dropped him like a sack of grain with a noise of disgust.
As he exited the ring, several patrons clapped him on the back and offered him more drinks, but he waved them off. Needing a moment, he leaned against the bar, pushing a stray lock of hair from his brow. Five years ago, it had been as golden as the sun; now it was as silver as the moon. His hand came to rest on his tattooed chest, the ink marred by a web of lightning-shaped scars from that same fateful day. He rubbed the old wound, still feeling the echo of that power beneath his skin.
Five years since the very essence of her had been seared into his flesh.
A lot could happen in five years.
The first time he’d seen her after the shadow war was three months after the final battle. Their band of unlikely companions had reunited within these very walls over roast boar and tankards of sour mead. Cal Whitlock, Torj’s former apprentice, had just passed the Great Rite, joining the ranks of the Warswords. Thea Embervale had just captured her Tverrian stallion – a Warsword rite of passage well worth celebrating. And Kipp Snowden...Well, Thezmarr’s chief strategist had been doing what he did best: making a nuisance of himself. Even Torj’s fellow seasoned Warsword, the once brutal and moody Wilder Hawthorne, had embraced Torj like a brother.
Despite all they had been through, Torj thought there was hope at last. And when Wren Embervale’s gaze lingered on him from across the table, he was sure of it.
So when she ducked away from the revelry, he followed.
He should have left her to steal a moment to herself.
He should have given her time.
He should have done a lot of things.
But he hadn’t been able to stop himself from approaching her in that quiet corner...
Three months after the shadow war Four years, nine months ago
‘What is it that you want, Bear Slayer?’ Wren demanded.
‘I’ve made no secret of what I want.’ Tension corded every muscle as the words spilled forth, words he’d been holding in since the moment he’d seen the fiery alchemist. ‘You,’ he said. ‘It’s always been you.’
A delicate pink flushed her cheeks, her stormy eyes darkening with the unmistakable haze of lust, her tongue wetting her lips. She leaned in, her hands coming to rest on the broad plane of his chest, his heart hammering wildly beneath their heat. Had she ever touched him before? Not like this. There was no forgetting the force of her.
‘Then let’s get a room,’ she murmured, her attention dropping to his mouth. ‘Let’s settle this thing between us.’
Desire coursed through him like a current of fire, hot and demanding, rising as he closed what little gap remained between them, pressing her to him. He nearly moaned at the feel of her. For how long had he imagined this very moment? Taking her in his arms, taking her to his bed? He breathed in the heady scent of her, spring rain and jasmine—
But then, her words registered. ‘Settle?’ he asked.
Wren fixed him with a challenging stare. ‘Yes. There’s clearly an attraction here. I’m not fool enough to deny it, but you’re a Warsword. And I’m the woman who poisoned your former Guild Master. Our paths don’t align.’
‘Says who?’
‘Says me,’ she replied.
Torj felt the world slide out from under him as he stepped back. ‘Wren...’
But she shook her head, a muscle feathering in her jaw as she seemed to fight something within. ‘I have nothing left to give you, Bear Slayer.’ Her words were raw, her anguish bleeding through.
Torj’s heart broke for her. She had lost a sister and her two closest friends in the most violent way only three months before...He sometimes woke in the middle of the night, his mind echoing with the cry that had fallen from her lips as she’d seen their heads on spikes.
‘I know you’re hurting,’ he said gently.
‘You know nothing about me or how I feel,’ she told him, her voice hard. ‘If what I offer isn’t enough, then this is where I leave you.’
Torj nearly choked on the shock. ‘And what is it that you’re offering? So there is no confusion between us?’
‘One night.’ She didn’t look away, didn’t blush as she spoke the words.
Torj went incredibly still. ‘One night in your bed?’
‘Whose bed doesn’t matter.’
Torj sucked in a breath. Of all the ways he’d imagined taking her, this had never been one of them.
He passed a hand over his face, buying a moment to compose himself.
‘Then this is where you leave me,’ he said, voice low and gravelly.
Wren blinked. ‘What?’
He looked at her, truly looked at her, taking in the loose tendrils of bronze hair framing her face, the freckles scattered across her nose, the jagged pink scar that ran the length of her throat from where they’d faced the darkness together in battle.
He wanted her, desperately, like a dying man longing for a cure.
But Elwren Embervale had taken her heart off the table.
And now, so would he.
‘One night is not enough,’ he told her.
It wasn’t often he forgot his place in the world, but as he walked away, he had to remind himself: she was the heir of Delmira. It was a fallen kingdom, but she was still a queen by blood. And he was a warrior, nothing more.