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Emara’s heart skipped a beat every time a faction of the prime entered the large sparring room. The floors were polished, and the training equipment had been put away, out of sight. She had been in this room many times before to learn of the Dark God or for combat. But she had never been in this room to attend a summit meeting with the hierarchy of the magic community.

Dark wooden chairs mapped out rows down the long sides of the room, creating a rectangle in the middle of the space that had been designed to allow the prime to sit at the top of the room, in large throne-like chairs.

Emara took her seat beside Naya Blacksteel, who had some healers who worked for the clan sitting beside her. Moments later, Gideon and Marcus took the seats beside them, looking focused and wearing hunting attire, their weapon belts secured against their waists.

A few days had passed since her conversation with Gideon in the garden, and she hadn’t really seen him around the tower, not even at mealtimes, and she worried that he was avoiding her.

She couldn’t blame him, of course. She would be avoiding her too if he had said the same things to her.

Naya, however, had practically joined herself to Emara’s hip, informing her of who each clan member was as they arrived and what their importance was. Not to mention, she had Emara’s head swarming with knowledge about witchcraft, and she had also been instructing her in practice. Just soft magic, like lighting a candle and shutting the door with her predominant element. But it was a start to helping her control and summon the elements that she had.

Naya leaned in and said, “We will take the hearing one step at a time, my love. I am sure you won’t have to do anything, with Viktir having already informed the prime about the Uplift. But if one of the faction leaders speaks to you, acknowledge who you are by using your full title, and always bow before and after they are finished talking.”

Emara swallowed down some sickening trepidation at the thought of being asked anything, but she nodded.

“Looks like the Baxgroll wolves have arrived,” Gideon said to Marcus, looking over his shoulder as the Alpha strolled into the room. “It looks like most of the factions are starting to arrive.”

Emara watched as the Baxgroll pack filtered into the room, the Alpha standing tall, with his eldest son at his side. Murk gave his pack a nod before he took his seat at the head of the room. The king of wolves’ dark gaze found where the Blacksteel Clan was sitting, and he acknowledged them with one prolonged nod of his head—no smile—and Gideon mirrored the gesture, showing respect.

One elegant-looking male glided through the entrance, wearing a cerulean robe, and Emara noticed he had guards on either side of him, dressed similarly but in a lighter blue. The crown perched on his head was topped with stars that swirled like they were in a galaxy of their own. The shimmering diamonds glistened as he gracefully stood at the front of the room. His pointed ears protruded through his winter-white hair, and his features were sharp and proud, with an ancient regalness. His shoulders squared, revealing his royal tunic, which was the same colour as his cape, but with grand gold and silver details embroidered through the fabric.

There was no denying who that was.

The King of the Fae.

Faeries were a species that Emara had read about in stories since she was a little girl. As she looked around the room, she realised that she could have said that about everyone here.

A few of the elite representatives in one of the front rows were looking rather uninterested, representing the human faction. Nothing about them looked like a normal villager or city worker, with their expensive shoes and warm furs slung around their necks.

Viktir Blacksteel appeared with an older man who wore his full battle attire—a dark tunic and leathers with a metal crest pinned to his shoulder, with the initials CC.

Chief Commander.

Viktir looked to be engaging in polite conversation as he guided his commander to sit at the top of the room, in one of five chairs that crowned the seating arrangement.

As the minutes passed, the last of the magical factions filtered into the room and nested into their seats.

A head of inky-black hair finally strolled through the room towards her, and her lungs squeezed.

“You saved me a seat.” Torin Blacksteel plunked himself down into the chair beside Emara with a cheeky grin. “How nice of you,” he said as he scanned the room, his eyes narrowing in on who were present.

“I certainly did nothing of the sort.” Emara looked around the room too, holding her hands together tightly, trying not to show her nervous shaking to the warrior beside her.

“Don’t worry.” Torin turned to face her. “I won’t tell anyone that you are being nice to me.” She found it hard to breathe as she watched a sinful smile devour his face. “I promise.”

“I think it would be nice if you found a seat elsewhere.” She turned her head to look at anything else but his eyes. His ocean-blue eyes.

“There’s no other seat I would rather sit in.” He nudged her with his shoulder, and she rolled her eyes. “Plus, I will keep you right should they need to speak with you.”

“I don’t think you would be the first person I would choose to keep me right in a formal meeting like this. You can’t even be here on time.”

He laughed, a gentle chuckle that was husky and hearty. “I am the best kind of person to have on your side in a meeting like this. Maybe you should re-evaluate your thoughts.” He clasped his hands together and she watched his movement through the side of her eye.

“Maybe you should re-evaluate your seat,” she nipped.

A deep voice came from beside Torin; it reminded her of silk and honey. “Do you both realise that your conversation is full of flirtatious undertones?”

Emara looked over at the male sitting two seats down. She hadn’t even noticed anyone else around her since Torin had taken his seat. He always had a way of doing that. Sitting beside Torin was the heavily inked male from the dining room, a smirk on his face.