Page 211 of The Edge of Darkness

Opting for the latter, I stopped, and watched her as she climbed. She took the steps slowly, her hips swaying side to side, and dammit I couldn’t keep my gaze from lowering to her ass.

Next to where I’d stopped, stood a few witches, who had taken note of our approach and now stared at me like I was the harbinger of some strange plague they were afraid to catch. Shrugging off their beady stares, I focused on Nivelle again.

The chamber fell silent the moment she reached the top of the dais. Every eye was turned on her, every ear listening. Oh yes, she was known to all of them—I could see it in their faces. Known, and respected.

I wondered what her role really was on these isles for every single witch and Dionach in the room to fall so obediently quiet and attentive to her.

“Brethren,” she said, calm, but authoritative. “I’ve come at the request of Torin, and the fae.” She paused, letting the room fill with deep murmurs at the mention of the fae. “A few weeks ago, I was visited by a High Lord and his mate. They brought with them news of an impending war. Many of you are familiar with the fallen god and the wars of Old. But for those who are not, I speak of Lyceius, who was once the god of light—a god who fell from his ways and descended into darkness, turning his power against himself and this world. And he is coming to wage war again.”

She turned, addressing the entirety of the chamber as she explained. “The fae have a prophecy that speaks of a chosen one—a human who will rise from the blood of the gods and defeat Lyceius, ushering in peace and prosperity for this world . . . something our kind was not granted on Skotos. The chosen one herself, the High Lord’s mate, has asked us to fight alongside them, to help spare as many lives as possible, so that this war does not ravage the innocents like it has in the past.

“I have come to know the chosen one—the Euryphaessa, as some call her.” Whispers circulated at the use of the word—a word I was beginning to think originated from the witches. “My brother, Silas, is her Dionach. We have spent these past weeks with her and her mate’s court, in the mountains of Calledan, a place the High Lord has offered us in exchange for our aid.”

Next to me, a few of the witches gasped. Some of them even glanced in my direction, probably wondering if I was the High Lord Nivelle spoke of.

“Gracious Torin has accepted the High Lord’s offer. When the war is over, we will be granted leave of these isles, and will be free to choose a place of our own within the mountains of the fae realm. In exchange, you are to assist the fae with any and all defenses, and fight beside them, protecting any and every life as if it were your Dionam’s. These are your orders as given by Torin.”

As she spoke, I watched her closely. She was several hands shorter than even the shortest Dionach. And she was so petite. A complete contrast to the beings she stood before. But there was a power within her that was more than just magic. It was in the way she held herself—the squareness of her shoulders as she addressed entire squadrons of warriors, the unwavering strength in her voice as she gave them their orders. She was more than just a small witch who lived alone in a cottage under gloomy skies. She was a warrior herself. Maybe not with a blade or an axe, as one would picture a warrior to be, but a warrior of the heart. She would fight to the death for who and what she stood for, and to me, that was the most attractive attribute of all.

“You are to take these orders to all the others and await the signal to move out. In the meantime, if your wardeness has orders for you to be elsewhere, you are to report to your duties, as charged. Your wardeness will alert you when the time comes.”

A blonde-haired Dionach approached the dais. “How are we to travel to the fae realm?”

Another called out from somewhere behind, “Where will we be stationed?”

Nivelle hesitated.

Niall had not given her the specifics of the task to come.

But he had told me.

The moment I stepped up onto the first stair, she spun, her eyes meeting mine with a silent threat.

Fuck her threat. She needed help whether she wanted it or not.

With each of my heavy steps, her face grew redder, and when I crested the top of the platform and towered over her, she glared at me with that same, silent challenge.

I graced her with a small smirk, then lifted my eyes to the rest of the room, which had grown slightly restless at the sight of me climbing the stairs.

“My name is Roirdan. I am the High Lord’s commander. What Nivelle says is true, and you are greatly needed if we are going to win this war with as little casualties as possible. As far as tactics go, we have reason to believe Lyceius will aim the majority of his forces along the northern border of Calledan, but he may also try to push legions into the neighboring territories and the human realm—to spread us thin. Some of you will be at the front lines with the rest of us, and some will go with smaller battalions to guard the outlying territories.

“At my Lord’s command, you will fly into Calledan. Our wards will be temporarily lowered for your entry. You’ll take up camp in the mountain pass with the rest of the fae armies, and we will move as one when the time comes. As far as provisions go, food and shelter will be provided. All you need are your weapons of choice and your brutality.”

A few wings stirred in the crowd. Several heads nodded.

“In the meantime, train, rest, and be ready to move out at a moment’s notice. Nivelle, here”—I placed my hands on her shoulders and turned her toward the audience—“will commune with Torin on your behalf.”

She donned a close-lipped smile and allowed my hands to remain on her—most likely for appearances sake. Shrugging me off and undermining me would send the opposite message of unity. So, I took full advantage of it and stepped closer to her. I told myself it was to uphold that sacred sense of unity and show everyone that we trusted one another. But part of me was selfishly doing it because we were in a subterranean chamber full of hundreds of males that I didn’t know, and I had an overpowering urge to assert my claim over her in front of them.

Below, closest to the dais, the witches who had come to hear Nivelle address the Dionachs watched the two of us with curious eyes—eyes that looked somewhat envious. And . . . eyes that did not have markings between them like Nivelle’s did. In fact, there wasn’t a single witch with markings of any sort, other than her. Only the Dionachs had them on their temples, and even theirs were starkly different from hers. Theirs were a mark of their kind, more elegant, and curving to the shape of their face—varying slightly on each being, but the same, in essence.

Nivelle’s were . . . simple, harsh marks.

Like a brand.

After enduring a long moment of scrutiny from the other witches, Nivelle turned and stared up at me. “Let’s go,” she said.

“After you.” I stepped to the side, gesturing toward the stairs.