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The sun had gone into the earth twice since Emara’s eyes had closed. They still hadn’t reopened.

Torin had not left her side, not even to eat or drink. He had even slept in the chair he sat in now, no matter how uncomfortable it was. But he was back on home soil, and that was something to be thankful for. The tower, despite being a training facility, was still one of the best infirmaries in the kingdom.

Sybil and his mother had been the healers assigned to her. They had created a portal to bring her back here to heal properly. She would be safe here.

He stifled a laugh of rage that crawled up his throat. She wasn’t safe anywhere. He had thought she would have been safe in a palace filled with witches, but he had been wrong. He’d thought she would be safe, protected by hunters, but he had been wrong again.

By now, rumours had spread to every part of the kingdom. The prime had found out about the deception and dishonour that had taken place under the roof of the amethyst palace. Torin’s jaw ticked, and he straightened his spine against the back of the infirmary chair.

He wondered when the prime would congregate to battle this one out. He knew his father was leading investigations into the hunters who had betrayed their oath, and the chief commander would need to address it soon.

Their world was no longer as straightforward as the Light Gods against the Dark One. Cracks were starting to form in units that had been so polished and controlled for years. Factions were unsafe from the inside, never mind the lurking darkness of the underworld. There was evidence of hunters, witches and the elite now having dabbled with the dark side. Were the Fae involved and just missed exposure, or was their faction as clean as it looked?

One thing Torin couldn’t wrap his mind around was the clans. How could his brethren have turned to Veles—or Balan, or whoever the fuck ruled the pits of the underworld these days? How could they have turned their backs on their oath, their blood?

Torin looked over to where Emara lay on the bed, so still and so silent, her bold and beautiful face drained of colour. Her head was still wrapped in a white bandage in the efforts to stop the bleeding from her injuries, poultices and white ash gelling into her wounds. Something strained in his heart. Her skull had been bleeding from two areas, one from the impact of being smashed into a mirror, and the other wound from when she had landed against the watchtower floor from the Supreme’s final effort to kill her.

She had been so courageous and heroic in her efforts to save herself, to save him. Every part of his heart hurt with how fortunate he was that she was alive, but in the other part of his heart—the dark half—craved to be so unbelievably violent to whoever had hurt her. He knew they were dead. He had killed the majority of them, but that didn’t really take away the urge to lash out again.

Thorin knew how many hunters had really betrayed the oath to their Light God, Thorin’s wrath on them all.

A huff of breath left his chest.

He should have been there to protect Emara. He shouldn’t have left. He had made that call, and she could have died because he was hungry for violence.

He should have been there to stop any of this from happening to her.

A bottomless pool of guilt swarmed his heart, threatening to drown it entirely. If he had just—

Movement came from her wrist, and she squeezed his hand, causing his chest to stop rising.

His eyes darted to her face. “Emara?” he said, his voice so desperate that he didn’t recognise it.

Her head tilted to the side, her knee pulling up, ever so slightly ruffling the blanket which had been draped over her.

He was out of the chair in an instant, cutting through the space between them. He ran a hand over her forehead gently, and she responded.

“Mother,” he called. “Mother!”

The full kingdom must have heard him roar.

Emara hadn’t opened her eyes yet, but he could tell that she was fighting something in a dream as she roused, not fully in reality yet.

“It’s okay, I am here. Emara? Can you hear me? I am here.”

She stirred again, the white pillow showcasing all the knots and dried blood still in her hair. Her eyes drifted open, blinking once and then again. Her lips parted before she flinched, like the acute pain of her wounds found her instantly.

“Clearwater, it’s me. Can you hear me?”

An acknowledgement came in the form of a groan. He let out a short, raspy laugh. Torin dropped to his knees beside the bed, putting his hand on hers. “Can you see okay?”

She nodded, shifting to her side to see him.

“Don’t move too much,” he advised, putting a protesting hand out.

“Stop bossing me around,” she groaned out. A taut smile graced her lips, and he could have lunged over the bed and kissed them.

Torin found himself smiling for the first time. “You know I like to be the boss.”