Page 28 of Silver & Smoke
‘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 ghostedacross 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 withyou?’
‘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.
