CHAPTER 14 Torj
Torj
‘A Warsword’s strength represents that of the midrealms, and the favour of the Furies themselves’
– The Midrealms Chronicles
TORJ TOLD HIMSELF that he had only left the gift to make Wren laugh, not to stake his claim on her from afar.
But as she entered the ballroom the next night, wearing another gown that hugged every inch of her curves, he knew she hadn’t worn the undergarments, and the very thought drove him to the brink of insanity.
For the briefest of seconds, her mask of indifference slipped, and she shot him a coy smile from across the room, one that sang with challenge, before she schooled her features back into a neutral expression.
He tried to avert his gaze, tried to keep his eyes off her, but she was mesmerizing, and she left him utterly unfocused, even from a distance.
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ Thea said at his side, catching him staring at her sister across the ballroom.
‘Probably not,’ he agreed, feeling the bond grow restless in his chest.
‘Lord Pendelton pledged his two hundred bannermen to Lucian this afternoon,’ Thea told him.
‘You mean to Wren?’ he asked, with a lift of his brow.
‘To Lucian’s cause, which currently aligns with our cause,’ she replied wryly.
Torj wasn’t sure how much Thea knew of Lord Lucian and his history, so he simply said, ‘Sounds about right.’
Thea made a noise of agreement. ‘So between Lucian, Lord Briar and Lord Pendelton, we have one thousand bannermen to add to our ranks . . . It’s not insignificant.’
‘No, it’s not,’ Torj murmured, not taking his eyes off the dance floor. ‘Not when last I heard, some of the royal armies don’t even amount to those numbers. Some because they lost so many in the last war, some because the people have a deep distrust for royal military . . . We need him.’
‘We do,’ Thea allowed. ‘But we don’t need you here, watching this horseshit display. Why don’t you go get some fresh air? Or better yet, some rest? You’re looking a little peaky, Bear Slayer.’
But Torj Elderbrock was a glutton for punishment, so instead of returning to his quarters like Thea wanted him to, he stayed.
And he watched.
Resplendent in a shimmering royal blue gown, Wren was dancing with Darian.
Even knowing the whole story now, Torj couldn’t breathe watching them.
Each turn was a fresh knife between his ribs – her delicate hand lost in Darian’s grip, those aristocratic fingers possessively splayed across the small of her back, claiming territory that had once been Torj’s alone.
His chest burned at the very sight, black spots swimming in his vision. The bond between them thrummed with a discord that set his teeth on edge.
He shouldn’t have come. Furies save him, he shouldn’t have come.
To watch his soul-bonded moving in perfect rhythm with another man was a special kind of torture. Darian’s lips ghosted across the curve of her neck as he murmured something that made her shiver, and Torj tasted copper – he’d bitten his cheek.
Green eyes snapped up, meeting his.
For just a heartbeat, something raw and desperate flickered in Wren’s gaze before she turned away, pressing closer to Darian.
Torj could stand it no longer. He slipped away. He didn’t know where he was going, only that he had to get out.
He found himself in the grounds shortly after, with Wilder and Cal, and the bannermen who had rallied at their lord’s call.
There were small groups from all over the midrealms and the scent of leather and sweat lingered in the night air.
Some of the men ran drills while others were busy inspecting weapons, watching on warily as the trio of Warswords crossed the grass.
Looking at those practising in pairs, Torj was taken back to the first time he’d ever sparred with Wren.
Trying to train her while she wore leggings that clung to every curve had been a cruel twist of fate.
‘You’re with me, Embervale.’
‘You can’t be serious.’
‘I’m always serious.’
‘You really want me to spar with you?’
‘Unless you’d rather someone else’s hands all over you?’
A smile tugged at his mouth at the memory. They’d never stood a chance, had they?
‘Come on, Bear Slayer,’ Wilder called out, shucking off his armour and twirling one of his swords. ‘Seems like you’ve got energy to burn . . .’
But Cal pushed him aside. ‘Allow me,’ his former protégé said. ‘I’ve been waiting for a chance to best him since the last time we sparred.’
Torj bit back a sigh. He knew what his friends were doing, and it was a commendable effort. Usually, he’d launch himself straight into the distraction of physical exertion, but . . . he was tired. A word that was not normally in his vocabulary.
‘What’ll it be, Elderbrock?’ Wilder teased. ‘Your former protégé or the Hand of Death?’
Feeling the interest from the other soldiers around them, Torj stripped away his armour, trying to ease the ache from his shoulders by rolling them before he picked up his hammer.
‘I don’t give a fuck which one of you I beat,’ he muttered. The familiar weight of the iron weapon should have been comforting – it had been the one constant in his decades as a warrior – but his grip felt wrong, unsteady. He flexed his fingers, willing them to still.
Cal moved to the centre of a cleared space, spinning his sword in a showy way that reminded Torj of Zavier’s fighting style. Any other day, Torj would have rolled his eyes at the younger Warsword’s antics. Today, the display only heightened his irritation.
‘Come on, then,’ Cal called, dropping into a ready stance. ‘Show me what you’ve got.’
Torj didn’t need the invitation. He lunged forwards, putting more force behind his first strike than necessary.
Cal parried, but the impact made him step back.
Good. Fighting was simple. Fighting made sense.
Each clash of their weapons drove thoughts of the betrothed couple in the hall further away – of what was happening there, of who was sitting beside whom, of hands touching across fine tablecloths – of a ring gleaming in the candlelight—
The flat of Cal’s blade slapped Torj’s exposed arm.
‘Look alive, Bear Slayer!’ Wilder called from the sidelines, not bothering to hide the note of surprise in his voice.
Torj tried to focus, but he felt dazed, as though the world around him were moving too fast and his reactions were too slow.
He managed to block another of Cal’s strikes, but his dominant arm seized beneath the weight of his hammer.
The muscles locked, then spasmed, sending shooting pains up to his shoulder.
This war hammer clattered to the ground, and before he could recover his balance, his legs betrayed him too. He went down hard, the grass doing nothing to cushion the impact on his knees.
The grounds fell silent. He could feel every pair of eyes on him – the soldiers who had stopped their own practices to watch, the captain who’d arrived with a missive in his hand only moments before, and Wilder, who had been observing from close by.
Torj’s face burned. He’d rather take another dozen doses of whatever poison was working through his system than endure their stares for one more moment.
Wilder’s boots appeared in his line of sight; a hand extended down to help him up. Torj’s jaw clenched.
‘I don’t need—’
‘I know you don’t need it,’ Wilder cut him off, voice low enough that only Torj could hear. ‘Take it anyway.’
For a moment, Torj considered stubbornly pushing himself up alone. But his arms were still trembling, and his damn pride had taken enough of a beating for one night. He clasped Wilder’s forearm and let his friend pull him to his feet.
‘Don’t tell Wren,’ he murmured.
‘What happens during training stays in training,’ Wilder replied. ‘For now.’
The captain with the scroll came forwards then, looking flustered.
‘Warsword Elderbrock, Warsword Hawthorne and Warsword Whitlock,’ he greeted them, touching three fingers to his shoulder in a respectful salute.
‘Lord Lucian’s spies have intercepted enemy plans.
Drevenor will be the next target of Silas’s assault. He defers to Thezmarr for instruction—’
‘And I told him the instruction,’ Wren snapped as she caught up to them from the manor, fire blazing in her green eyes. ‘We need to save Dessa and the silvertide roses. We need to return to the academy.’