Page 51 of Forging Darkness
Chapter Seventeen
Idon’t just live among the Forsaken . . . I rule them all.
Impossible. There’s no way the Forsaken would stand to be ruled by an angel-born. Unless I’m wrong to assume he’s a Nephilim.
“What are you?” I demand.
“A Nephilim, just like you, of course. You can see with your own eyes.” He splays his hands to show he’s not holding back. I glance at the white aura around him, darkness shooting through it like mini thunderbolts, and I know that’s not the whole truth.
I straighten in my seat. My leg screams at me. I have to tread carefully.
“How old are you?” It’s impossible to guess a Nephilim’s age. Someone who appears to be in their thirties might actually be centuries old. From what I know, angel-born are much more likely to die a brutal death in battle than of old age. I’ve yet to see anyone who could pass for more than mid-thirties.
Thorne, in comparison, seems oddly ageless. The thin white scars on his face contrast the perfection of his marble-like skin, adding interest to his striking features rather than dulling their effect. His eyes carry the weariness of a lifetime of hard living, yet the curves and slopes of his face give him supermodel good looks.
“I’ve seen twenty years.”
So young.
“If you’re their ruler, why were you fighting? You could have been killed.”
“Not likely.”
The smile that twists his lips is nothing short of smug. Steel’s self-assured grin flashes through my mind. My chest constricts, and I take a deep breath through the pressure. I still don’t know what’s become of him beyond Silver’s weak assurance that he lives.
“Once a season for the last seven years,” Thorne continues, “I offer the Fallen the opportunity to challenge me. If they choose to enter the forum and overtake me, they can claim my kingdom and my body.”
This is madness. “You mean . . . ?”
“If I yield or am injured instead of killed, the Fallen responsible will be given my body as their vessel.”
Thorne’s dark gaze remains unblinking as he waits for my response. Seven years. That means he’s been fighting gladiator-style against Fallen since he was twelve? And here I thought I had a rough childhood.
I take two shallow breaths before responding. When I do, the words feel sticky in my throat and come out only a touch above a whisper. “Why would you do that?”
“To prove my worth as a ruler. As you can see,” he indicates himself with a wave of his hand, “I’ve never failed.”
“And the battle lasts until you’ve killed all the Fallen or are defeated yourself?”
“Yes. I’ve bested countless combatants in the pit.”
“If you always win, then why do they keep challenging you?”
“I am one of the most powerful beings in existence. To have control over my vessel is to have access not only to the mortal realm but all my power as well.” He’s not boasting. His tone is too matter-of-fact for that. He’s simply relaying the truth.
“There are many powerful Nephilim, but the Forsaken don’t bow down to any of them.” Not to mention other angel-borns don’t have darkened auras or metal-tipped wings. I want to know what makes Thorne—and me—so different.
Something flashes in Thorne’s eyes—a spark of interest I’m not wholly comfortable with. A satisfied look settles on his face, softening his stone-like features.
He’s pleased that I’m suspicious, but why?
“You’re right, the Forsaken do not bend the knee to Nephilim. I’m sure you know by now that you and I are something more than our angel-born brethren.”
He lets his statement hang in the air. My body strains forward with anticipation, mentally urging him to go on. The weight of the unanswered questions that are a constant pressure on my shoulders might finally start to lessen. I can’t help but gobble up the bait he’s dangled in front of me.
“What do you mean?” I prompt when the silence lengthens.
“What do you know of your sire?”