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“You bastards.” She ground her teeth, dragging her eyes between the two of them, wishing it was a hunting knife. “You can tell your Supreme to come and get me herself.”

“The Supreme doesn’t take commands from anyone,” Easton said with a deadpan expression, a vacancy in his eyes. “That’s why we are here.”

The vile one sneered at her.

He would be the first one she attacked when she had the opportunity.

She pushed out her palm as the magic burned in her veins, showing them a glow of fire. “You have no idea what I can do.”

“You won’t get the chance to show us.” Silas fired out a thin, silvery chain so fast that Emara couldn’t even blink at it. The chain flew towards her, past her burning palm, and wrapped itself around her neck. Emara’s hands flew to where it strangled her, but she was too late. The enchanted metal locked itself around her skin. The further she dug her nails in, the more the collar squeezed against her windpipe, denying her breath.

Something dissolved inside her, and it took her a moment to realise that the thrumming of magic that she normally felt in her blood and under her skin had vanished.

“What have you done?” Emara gagged, wheezing for air.

“The Supreme warned us that you could be a little dangerous,” Silas said. “So she gave us this pretty little collar for you as a precaution.” His eyes crawled all over her, and his tongue slashed out over his lips. Thank the Gods she had gotten back into her night slip, so that she wasn’t naked, but oh, how she wished she was in her training gear. “You do look good on a lead.” He cackled dreadfully. “You would make a cute pet for our witch queen.”

A frightful anger burned and crashed within her, but it wasn’t her magic this time. Not air, not fire, just stark, violent anger.

Magic wasn’t going to save her tonight. It couldn’t.

A moment like this was why she had made the decision to learn how to fight with her fists and weapons. Tonight, she would have to fight with everything else that she had.

Ignoring the squeezing ache across her neck, she dove, flinging her body across the bed. The guards looked stunned.

Had she not felt such gut-wrenching fear, she may have laughed at them.

Hitting the mattress, she rammed her hand under her pillow, the chain now yanking against her skin, stopping the air from entering her lungs. She had already retrieved what she was after as one of the guards pulled her back like a dog on a leash. She let out a strangled scream as the pain of the metal clamped into her windpipe, cutting her flesh.

She managed to stay on her feet. Holding her weapon out, Emara gripped the middle section, igniting the ruby activation on the spear. The double-edged spear elongated, and she heard a curse come from one of the guards.

They hadn’t been expecting that either.

To them, she was just a witch, a helpless woman whose magic was now void.

But Emara had a different kind of magic in her veins, and it burned a fire in her belly to fight, to wield a weapon.

She ducked under the chain to face the guards. Easton was already drawing his sword, but she had time to make another move. Emara swung the spear, knocking the hard metal against Silas’ head.

She had promised him the first strike, and she had delivered it.

The chain loosened in his grip, and she pivoted before she stabbed to the right, where Easton stood. But Easton was faster, and he spun on his back leg, his sword now fully drawn.

She was going to give this fight everything she had.

Recovering from the blow to his head, Silas came at her from the side, but she turned again, swinging her magnificent spear. The Agnes. She hadn’t thought she would have to use the weapon properly so soon, but she wasn’t about to become their pet—or worse.

Her spear cracked against his head again, drawing blood down the silver of his hair, but this time, the guard swung up his arm as she tried to stab him. He caught hold of the pole, yanking it towards him, and she followed. Instead of falling into him, she swung a fist, smashing it against the opposite side of his face. It was what she needed; she was able to step back and create space between them.

Just enough, like Torin had always taught her.

Create enough space to work in, to fight in, to defend in.

“Where did you learn to punch like that, you little bitch?” Silas hissed, wiping his bloody mouth.

“I have an excellent instructor.” She gripped the spear firmly in her hands as she thought of how Torin would have smiled if she had actually admitted that in front of him. With a grin, she looked from one guard to the other and said, “And when he finds out what you have tried to do here tonight”—she spun the metal pole from one hand to the next, displaying her skill as she bent her knees—“he will kill both of you.”

“That’s assuming we don’t kill him first.” The guard on her left—Easton—pounced, and she moved quickly out of the way. It was easier to duck when she was so much smaller than them. Spinning quickly, he was back on her, but she delivered a strong knee to his manhood. Bending over, she then delivered a forceful bash on his nose with the middle of her pole. Emara heard a bone crunch and then a splatter of blood hit the ground. Easton fell and let out a groan, one hand on his nose and the other cradling his bruised balls.