CHAPTER 58 Wren
CHAPTER 58
Wren
‘Let the seeker of forbidden lore tread carefully’
– Arcane Alchemy: Unveiling the Mysteries of Matter
T IME EBBED AND flowed like the streams that cut through Drevenor’s grounds. Wren’s days were punctuated with the masters’ teachings and scare tactics, training, and the more menial tasks appointed to novices of the academy. Peaceful hours in the gardens became a thing of the past, and instead she laboured over her studies with Zavier and Dessa, both in her rooms and in the poisons dungeon.
As the Gauntlet drew nearer, the Master Alchemists became colder and harder towards them. Wren figured it was because they knew not all of the novices would be returning to study in these halls. She understood. It was hard to get attached.
The glass cylinders in the foyer grew fuller with pieces of black garnet, and Wren’s team was in close second place behind Selene Tinsley, Alarik Wingate, and Gideon Sutten. Not even their near-death experience had slowed their influx of points.
Wren pushed herself harder than ever before. She ran drills with Dessa every morning, and was no longer last in the fitness classes. Begrudgingly, she admitted that the exercise helped. She felt stronger, her head was clearer, and she was able to keep her magic in check far more easily.
‘You’ve improved a great deal,’ Torj told her in the privacy of his rooms, where he was teaching her more complex manoeuvres of self-defence. In the dimly lit confines of his chambers, the air was thick with anticipation as he took Wren’s hand, guiding her stance with a searing touch. She ignored it, as she ignored the fact that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. ‘Remember: understand the surroundings. Come to grips with your limitations. Find a solution.’ Torj tapped her ribs, where she’d left herself vulnerable.
Wren clicked her tongue in frustration. ‘Why am I still leaving my left side exposed? Why am I failing to—’
‘You’re still learning,’ Torj said gently. ‘You’re too hard on yourself.’
‘If I want to be the best, that’s how it goes.’
‘Everyone has to make mistakes in order to learn,’ he replied, shifting behind her and placing his hands on her hips.
Wren stifled her sharp inhale at the sudden contact, at the sheer brand of his touch.
‘You have to trust your body.’ His voice was low, resonating with authority. ‘You’ve got strength. You just need to follow your instincts.’
Her breath caught as Torj’s hands lingered on her, his touch igniting a spark she couldn’t deny no matter how hard she tried. With each step, their bodies brushed, sending shivers down her spine and conjuring memories of him stroking himself in her rooms.
‘Where’d you go just now?’ he murmured. ‘You’re not concentrating.’
‘It’s a little difficult,’ she ground out, wiping the perspiration from her brow.
‘I know it’s hard, but you’ll get there. You just need to focus—’
‘That might be easier if you put a damn shirt on.’ The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.
Torj blinked at her. ‘What?’
‘You heard me, Warsword.’ But her voice betrayed the pounding of her heart. Their eyes locked, a silent understanding passing between them as they danced on that same line they had been skirting for weeks, somewhere in the shared space of unspoken desires.
Slowly, a grin spread across the Warsword’s face. ‘You’re saying you can’t concentrate because...’ He gestured to the muscular expanse of his chest, amusement gleaming in his eyes.
‘Well, it’s not helping ,’ Wren bit out, her cheeks flaming. ‘Don’t let it go to your head.’
‘Would I ever?’ Torj teased, though she noted he didn’t reach for his shirt as requested. ‘Come on, Embers. Try again.’
As the lesson progressed, the air crackled with tension, their bodies moving in sync, each touch lingering a fraction longer than necessary. Torj’s hands traced the curve of Wren’s waist, sending her pulse racing, as she fought to focus on the techniques he imparted. Was he trying to drive her mad? She drove her elbow back, hitting his side.
‘You’re a quick learner, you know,’ Torj murmured.
That bond between them tugged at the centre of Wren’s chest.
‘Not as quick as Thea,’ she answered.
Torj’s hands dropped. ‘You compare yourself to her a lot, don’t you?’
‘Doesn’t everyone?’
‘I don’t,’ he said. ‘You’ve always been your own woman to me. And certainly not one I’d want to cross...’
Wren’s cheeks flushed. She dropped her head to hide the emotion welling in her eyes, but her attention snagged on the network of scars marring the inked flesh across Torj’s chest.
‘We all have our own battles to face,’ he told her quietly.
‘We do,’ she agreed.
A hushed sense of intimacy washed over them as Wren’s fingertips delicately traced the web of scarring, her touch featherlight yet laden with grief. She had done this to him, marked that perfect skin with her own ugly violence. The ridges beneath her touch told the story of the battle they’d waged and the wounds he had endured, each line a testament to the price of survival. A kaleidoscope of emotions flooded her heart – a mingling of desire and sorrow, and a river of unspoken words.
The ever-present storm in Wren’s chest awoke, searching for the remnant they shared from the final stand at Thezmarr, the one that had fused them together amid the darkness.
Torj stared down at her as she touched him, and in the soft glow of flickering candlelight, their breaths intertwined, a quiet song of longing and regret echoing in the air. In the silent language of touch, Wren felt the weight of Torj’s past, their past, his scars not just of flesh but of heart, too. She could feel his beating in time to her own, as though it were her own.
‘Torj...’ she murmured, at last allowing herself to look up at him, his name a tangled knot of yearning and frustration.
A broken breath shuddered out of him and he pulled away. ‘We can’t.’