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Torin chuckled, his eyes sparkling. “She can’t help herself.”

Emara shot Torin a look of disgust and then looked right into the inked warrior’s eyes. “The last thing in the world I would want to do is flirt with Torin Blacksteel.”

She sat back in her seat, her arms tucked in at her chest and a scowl on her brow.

“I like her already,” said the male as he eyed Torin, amusement thick on his features. “I am Artem, of Clan Stryker.” He held out his hand, knocking his elbow into Torin’s chest.

Emara grinned as Torin took the intentional blow and she held out her own hand. “I am Emara Clearwater,” she said. He gave two professional shakes and let her hand drop, narrowly missing Torin’s lap.

“Oh, I know who you are,” Artem said, and his eyes smiled in a way that let his boisterous streak shine through. His jawline was almost square, and it bulked out the frame of his face. Emara noticed that the hunter had a tiny sliver ring curled in his left nostril. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet the witch that everyone is talking about.”

Emara took in a breath, finding it hard to breathe, and blinked a few times.

“Now look who’s flirting.” Torin drew his eyes from Artem’s face and Emara questioned if she saw a flicker of annoyance in Torin’s eyes.

She had to be imagining it.

“I can’t help myself,” Artem said in jest, mocking Torin.

“Well, you had better help yourself, Stryker,” Torin warned with a low smile that dropped his brows.

Her breathing hitched.

A knocking sounded three times, and it had everyone straightening in their seats, turning their attention to the front of the room. The five seats were now full.

From left to right, Emara could identify most of the factions. Murk Baxgroll sat as the leader of the Shifters, probably outweighing them all in mass. The Fae king sat elegantly next to him, contrasting completely in every way possible. The chief commander who represented the hunters sat in the next chair, and a stunning woman, with dark brown hair and even darker eyes, took the second-to-last seat, clad in crimson. Being the only woman on the panel, Emara knew she was the representative of the witches.

The Supreme.

She hadn’t noticed her coming through the door, but as she took in her presence now, a knot of nervousness balled in her stomach. The Supreme was the one who governed the witches, the most powerful of them all. She was the one who was viewed as closest to a deity as modern times would get; the Gods had gifted her the power of all elements.

At the end of the row sat a representative of the human elite faction, or as Emara knew him, the Minister of Coin. She didn’t have to think about what monster slithered beneath his skin.

The monster of gold, slavery, diamonds, and greed, one of the ugliest monsters in the kingdom.

She recalled a memory of when he had visited the village of Mossgrave, when he would come to oversee his minions recruit workers for the gold mines he owned. He would entice poor families into signing up their sons or daughters to work the longest and harshest of hours by giving them a little profit, and they would treat him like a king. The workers would probably die in the bleak conditions of the mines before their families ever saw the benefit of their work. That’s one thing her grandmother had disclosed to her—the horrors of the elite mines.

Emara’s blood boiled at the sight of him, sitting there in an emerald-coloured tunic only mass riches could buy, covering his fat, overfed stomach. He dripped pretentiousness. Even the pocket watch, dangling on a chain from his tunic, was probably worth more than her entire village had earned in one year.

The chief commander stood swiftly, walking forward into the centre of the room, and it took every ounce of strength for Emara to keep her thoughts from going to that dark place where notions of Taymir Solden often lingered. He had been cut from the same cloth as the Minister of Coin.

Elite.

High-bred.

Pigs.

Emara felt Torin’s arm muscles tighten beside her as his faction leader spoke.

“We gather all factions of the kingdom together today in a state of emergency.” He lifted his chin and let the brassy tones of his voice echo through the hall. He placed his hands behind his back and Emara couldn’t help but wonder if all hunters had the same habit. “We are not going to waste time going over old tales of Gods and monsters.” He spun, now directly facing where Emara sat. “We are here today to formulate a plan for our community to endure these dark times and rebuild our faith.” He looked further down the line. “As it stands, we have lost an empress of each witching coven, resulting in us being in the weakest position the magic community has been in for a long time.”

Emara couldn’t help but tighten her muscles. Her lungs almost caved in. The back of Torin’s finger flicked against her leg, prompting her to breathe. She did. And it was a gentle reminder that he was there, her coach.

“Many lives have been lost, not only in the covens, but in our Shifter community.” He gave a grave nod to Murk Baxgroll who didn’t move an inch, his feral face stony. “In our Fae community and also in our human community.” He acknowledged every faction without a mention of the hunters. “We must take action against the evil of the Underworld, and we must pull together to combat our greatest enemy. A summit has not been called upon to recite the talks of previous wars. We are at war. We know another great war is inevitable. It is not a question of if, but of when.”

Murmurs of agreeance spread through the room, and with it came a stale, eerie atmosphere that lingered like a thick mist.

Emara shifted on her seat, and Naya Blacksteel’s calming hand rested on her forearm, draining the thoughts of battles and carnage out of her mind.