Page 76 of Forging Darkness
“What do we have here?” His words hiss around the giant fangs his lips can’t conceal. “A few lost Halflings. How fortuitous. I was in the mood for a midnight snack.”
Tinkle is chattering in my ear, but I don’t hear what he’s saying. We haven’t quite reached the cave, but there’s a familiar green radiance that chills my blood and sends my heart racing.
It’s not the same cave, I know that. We’re not even on the right continent. But it doesn’t stop my body from reacting, my brain from remembering the second Forsaken that appeared from the shadows that night. Silver and I fled the cave, slipping and falling down the mountain, only making it as far as the bottom of the ravine before the creatures snagged us with sharp claws. Silver’s blood dripped to the snow when the Forsaken shredded her coat and sank its maw into her shoulder. And worst of all, the horrible game they forced on us for their amusement.
Wind freezes the tears to my cheeks. Snowflakes like small razors cut into my skin.
“What’s it going to be, little Halfling? Are you going to fight me for the chance to save her, or trade her life for your own?”
Silver’s eyes shine with wetness, but it hasn’t spilled over yet. She isn’t fighting against her captor anymore, and her body shudders from more than just the cold, but she hasn’t given up hope yet. She thinks I can beat him, when I know I can’t.
We’re standing at the entrance to the cave. Tinkle is going on about something being in there, but not being able to pick up exactly what. He paces a few inches back and forth on my shoulder, but I’m as rooted as a tree. My mind is trapped in a fog of memory until the object of my musing steps from the darkened abyss, materializing in front of me as if summoned by my thoughts.
“Hello, Brother.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
My head slams into the ground, and I get another mouthful of grit. Arms shaking, I push to my feet, spitting out sand and blood.
After four straight days of training with Thorne—aka, Emberly gets the stuffing beat out of her first thing in the morning—I know when I start to get the upper hand, he’s just going to turn up the heat. Which means I’m going to bleed harder, ache more, and suffer longer than I was a few minutes before. Thorne’s version of “training” makes me want to curl up in a corner and raise a white flag, except the stupid pit we’re in is round.
Sparring with Steel and Deacon wasn’t a cake walk, but this is next level.
It doesn’t help that the training pit is ringed with Fallen and Forsaken. Like Pavlov’s dogs, more than one of them starts drooling every time Thorne opens a new wound. Saliva drips from their chins, and their fangs grow to monstrous lengths.
The Fallen, however, are interested in me for a wholly different reason. Their eyes fill with desire as they size up a new vessel—especially the female Fallen. Whether it was Thorne’s intention or not, he’s put me on display for my enemies. Their hungry eyes search for weaknesses to exploit, and they’re finding plenty.
We’ve been battling for more than an hour, and all Thorne has to show for it is a healthy glow and a single scratch on his cheek.
I, on the other hand, look like I’ve been thrown into a wood chipper. Even in my full battle armor I drip blood from multiple shallow wounds and scratches along my arms and legs.
Thorne doesn’t bother with armor when we battle. He’s shown up at my door each morning in athletic gear and zero protective outer wear—not that he needs it.
The wounds littered across my body are either from the twelve-inch dagger he fists or the ends of his wings. He’s trying to teach me to use my wings in combat as well, but he never issues verbal instructions or commands. He teaches by example.
Who knew there’d come a time when I missed being yelled at by Deacon?
Thorne side-swipes me with his wing and my shoulder takes the brunt of the hit, but I remain standing. Frustration shines in Thorne’s eyes at my weak attempt at a block. I saw his move coming, but I just couldn’t make my body respond fast enough.
I’m done, I know I am, but they don’t believe in conceding fights here. Sparring only stops when one opponent is dead, or almost there.
A fist slams into my jaw, whipping my head back.
I didn’t see that one coming.
Like a slow falling tree, I topple to the sand.
Timber!
From the ground the sky looks fuzzy. Two sets of identical orange clouds float above me. I blink and one disappears.
Is it over yet?
Thorne’s foot collides with my side, sending me flying through the air, and I know it’s not. I smash into the two-foot high barrier that surrounds our designated fighting zone.
I can’t breathe. Can’t move my legs.
My head flops to the side, and I look down my torso. There’s a dent in the side of my armor about the size of the toe of Thorne’s shoe.