Page 45 of Thorns & Fire (The Ashes of Thezmarr #2)

Torj

‘A Warsword must never break. A Warsword is the unyielding shield upon which the darkness crashes’

– The Warsword’s Way

‘I T ISN ’ T ALWAYS enough.’ Wren’s words echoed long after she’d gone, becoming a chant in Torj’s mind that morphed into something darker: you’re not enough.

His room was too small to contain him and the grief that wracked his body.

Torj desperately wanted to leave this place, this godsforsaken academy that had been the catalyst for so much brokenness.

But it was a unique form of torture to be in love with – to be soul bonded to – the woman who no longer wanted you, the woman you were duty-bound to protect.

Torj couldn’t leave. Instead, he took to the corridors outside, pacing the length of the hall, his gaze constantly flicking to Wren’s door. Every tormented thing he’d ever felt surged to the surface, becoming poison in his blood.

You’re not enough.

An echo of storm magic thrummed in his chest, warring with him, threatening to split his scar open anew.

For the briefest of seconds, he wished it would.

Physical pain he could understand; his whole childhood had been governed by it.

But this? This was a wound he couldn’t fathom.

His body was full of fire, and he didn’t know how much longer he could take it—

A cloaked figure stopped outside Wren’s door, and Torj was there in an instant.

‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ he snarled in Darian Devereux’s face, shoving him roughly against the stone wall.

‘I would have thought that was obvious,’ Devereux replied, not a hair out of place, not a flicker of fear in his expression.

‘You have no right to be here,’ Torj said, refusing to loosen his grip.

Devereux’s voice was silken. ‘I have every right to be here. A nobleman of fine breeding and wealth, come to offer the Delmirian princess aid she doesn’t even realize she needs. We both know I am more suited to a place by her side – or in her bed, for that matter – than you.’

A dark laugh escaped Torj. ‘She’ll poison you before you can so much as take off your boots.’

‘Careful, now. You know how danger excites me.’

Torj was trembling. To him, Devereux weighed nothing. It would be easy to lift him from the ground so his feet were dangling, so he could be thrown across the corridor. Torj pictured it in his mind. ‘If you lay so much as a finger on her...’

‘I’d like to do more than that, I assure you. We’ve shared before, haven’t we? We can share again if you wish, brother—’

Torj hurled Devereux across the hall, slamming him into the opposite wall, hard enough that the windows rattled. His body slid down the bricks, dust and fragments falling around him as he hit the floor. With a hoarse laugh, the nobleman collected himself, wiping blood from his chin.

‘There you are,’ he sneered, the expression distorting his otherwise handsome face. ‘You are your father’s son after all.’

Torj hated him. Hated him with every fibre of his being. Hated that Devereux knew the origin of the scars on his arms, knew which bones were weaker from multiple fractures... Knew the ugly truth of it all, and had still become the man before him.

Devereux continued as though nothing had happened. ‘I really think you should be more generous with me after all I’ve done for you... Don’t you agree, Bear Slayer?’

‘All you’ve done for me?’ Torj blinked, his fingers flexing at his sides, yearning to close around the bastard’s throat.

Devereux spat blood on the ground. ‘Yes. You wear that moniker because of me.’

‘Becoming the Bear Slayer cost me my only family,’ Torj managed, rooting himself to the spot before he broke bones.

‘Did it?’ Devereux mused. ‘I thought it made you a legend.’

Torj shook his head in disbelief, hardly able to recognize his childhood friend in the monster staring back at him. ‘No legend is worth that cost,’ he replied.

‘I wouldn’t know,’ Devereux said smoothly. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me...’ He gestured to Wren’s door—

‘What part didn’t you understand?’ Torj growled, blocking him. ‘You’re not seeing her.’

‘Well, that’s not your choice, is it, soldier? Why don’t we ask the beautiful Elwren what it is that she wants? Or are you afraid of what she might say?’

Torj’s fist was already swinging for Devereux’s face, but a large pair of arms braced around his chest and hauled him back. He found himself being dragged away. Only a Warsword could stop him like that.

‘Have you lost your fucking mind?’ a familiar voice said.

‘Cal, let me go.’ Torj struggled against his former protégé’s hold as Devereux approached Wren’s door unhindered.

‘Why? So you can kill one of the most influential figures in the entire midrealms? One who’s funding a good portion of its efforts against the Vanguard?’ Cal shoved him backwards. ‘I don’t fucking think so, Elderbrock.’

Torj was panting, his blood roaring in his ears, demanding an outlet, demanding that Devereux’s smug face meet the justice of his fist—

‘Now’s not the time, Bear Slayer,’ said a weak voice to his left.

Torj glanced sideways to see Zavier bracing himself against the wall, looking pale and tired, with Dessa hovering close by, her hand on his back.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ Torj asked bluntly, surveying the green tinge to Zavier’s face.

‘Too much fire extract with Kipp,’ Zavier muttered, swaying on his feet.

Cal gave Torj another shove, bringing his focus back to the matter at hand: Devereux was knocking on Wren’s door.

‘Can I trust that you’re not going to maim any noblemen this evening?’ Cal pressed. ‘I’ve got to get Zavier back to his rooms.’

‘No promises,’ Torj growled, not taking his eyes off the door, which had opened a crack.

‘What do you want?’ came Wren’s sharp voice from within. The flinty note in her demand made Torj’s heart leap.

‘Bear Slayer?’ Cal snapped. ‘No violence tonight.’

Torj released a shuddering breath. ‘Not tonight,’ he vowed.

That seemed to be enough for the younger Warsword, who wasted no time scooping his charge up in his arms and hurrying down the corridor.

Torj turned back just in time to hear the rest of the exchange between Wren and the noble-blooded prick.

‘I only require a few moments of your time,’ Devereux was saying.

‘At this hour?’ Wren asked.

‘For you? Any hour.’

Light spilled from the room as she opened the door wider and Devereux slipped inside. Torj’s chest seized.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, shoving down the devastation that threatened to burst from him, he took up his station.

He was her guard, nothing more.

The chant in his mind started anew.

Not enough. Not enough. Not enough.