Onyx Storm (The Empyrean Book 3)

Guardians are no longer permitted to dedicate children in service to their favored deity. The decision to serve the gods for life must be made after the age of majority and of one’s free will.

—Public Notice 200.417 Transcribed by Racel Lightstone

“Are you dizzy?” Xaden asks in a low whisper.

“No.” My gaze jumping from one attendant to the next as we walk toward them. They all have different heights, shapes, genders, and skin tones, but their hair color is as uniform as their blue robes.

One of the attendants on the top step claps her hands, and a group of children in light-blue tunics runs out from behind the statue of Dunne to race up the steps toward her. My gaze locks on the last of them, a girl who looks to be no more than ten. The brunette’s silver-tipped braid swings against her back as she scoops up a younger child and is ushered inside.

Breath abandons me as she disappears.

“Violet,” Xaden whispers. “Her hair—”

“I know.” I wobble, and he steadies me with a hand on my lower back.

Never in my twenty-one years have I seen anyone with hair like mine. Does hers always end in silver no matter how short she cuts it? Do her joints fail her? Do her bones break? I need to know. I have to know.

The cavalry captain shouts up at the walls as Tairn prowls above us, and the attendants all draw blades from the belts at their waists, jarring me from my spiraling thoughts.

“He said, ‘I’ve brought them,’” Dain translates from Xaden’s left as we form a straight line on the cusp of what feels like a theater floor. Or a battle briefing stage.

“The blades are cute,” Tairn remarks.

“The hair,” I reply. “Her hair looked like mine.”

“Survive first so you can be curious later. Focus.”

Metal creaks, and a gate rises above the highest row on our left. A moment later, two people step out of the tunnel.

“Xaden’s opponent?” I ask Tairn.

“Not unless he’s fighting an aging general and a high priestess.”

The middle-aged man with graying hair and rich brown skin on the left boasts the same uniform as the silver-dressed guards, and the older, light-skinned woman at his side wears not only the long pale blue robes of the temple attendants but a sword sheathed at her hip.

Her narrowed gaze sweeps over us, then fixes on me as the man calls out in Unnbrish at her left.

“He says he is the commander of the guard and asks if we truly wish an audience with their queen,” Dain translates.

“Tell him we do, and we will comply with their customs to get it,” I answer, sending up a prayer to Dunne that Xaden is ready for this.

Dain translates slowly, and the pair moves down the steps as the cavalry captain climbs to join them. The captain reports, and the commander’s mouth flattens before he draws his dagger and slices through the shoulder straps of the captain’s leather armor.

The green leather falls to the steps, and the captain lowers his head.

“I think that means demotion,” Cat whispers to Aaric’s right.

“In every language,” Aaric agrees.

The commander’s voice booms across the plaza and echoes off the rock as he descends the steps, and Dain translates as quickly as he can.

“‘All we can achieve is death, but to…’” Dain pauses. “Shit, I think he said to provide our strongest warriors, and they will test our worthiness to speak with their queen.”

Xaden nods. “Tell him I’m ready.”

Dain repeats the message, and the commander claps twice. Three bare-armed soldiers step out of the tunnel, and my chest tightens. The woman in the middle has to be the same height as Sawyer, if not Dain, and the bulky men flanking her tower above with the same height difference I have with Xaden. I think they’re twins.

The chill that races down my spine has nothing to do with the gusting wind or the disappearance of the sun behind the storm clouds overhead.

“Maybe we should rethink this strategy,” Cat whispers.

Yeah, I’m with her for once.

“What you call strategy, they call law,” Xaden replies.

My heart beats faster with every step the warriors descend behind their commander and the high priestess of the temple. By the time they reach the plaza, a hummingbird could time its wings to my pulse.

“Costa!” the guards along the walls cry out, and the warrior on the right lifts his muscle-laden arms.

“Marlis!” the rest of the guards shout, and the woman raises her chin.

“Palta!” Another chorus sounds, and the twin on the left cracks his neck.

The commander lifts his hand, and the soldiers fall silent before he speaks.

“He asks if this is our champion or our leader,” Dain translates.

“Close but no. He asked if Xaden is our champion or our prince. Don’t be embarrassed, Aetos. The words sound similar enough.” Aaric steps forward, then replies to the commander in what sounds like flawless Unnbrish.

My jaw drops, but he speaks too fast to understand anything other than “Navarre.”

Whatever he says gives the commander and the priestess pause before she replies, her gaze darting to me again.

“Are you fucking serious?” Dain snaps. “Why didn’t you tell us you’re fluent?”

“You never asked.” Aaric reaches for the pommel of his sword as he turns back to face us. “I told them who I am and that I’d be the one fighting.”

“You what?” My voice rises with my panic.

“I’m the one who needs the audience,” he replies. “I’m not my brother, nor my father, and I won’t hide while someone else—” He draws the first few inches of the sharpened steel.

“No!” I move toward him, but Xaden’s there first, covering Aaric’s hand.

“Prince or not, you’re a fucking first-year and we both know I can put you into the ground. Your tutors are no match for real-life experience.” He forces the sword back into its scabbard. “And no, you are not your father, nor your brother, which is precisely why you will not fight. We need you to live. Your kingdom needs you to live.” Xaden grabs the collar of Aaric’s uniform and pivots, forcing him back into line next to me. “Tell them I’m ready.”

Fuck, I don’t want either of them in that ring.

“Every possible path,” Andarna reminds me. “Even if my kind aren’t here, they may have seen them. May know of them.”

“Do not consider the Dark One,” Tairn chides. “Navarre needs the soldiers from this alliance to defend the borders, freeing the riders to go on the offensive.”

Either way, someone’s fighting.

“Same could be said for you.” Color rises along Aaric’s neck, and he shakes his head at Xaden.

“Tyrrendor is safe in Bodhi’s hands should I fall.” Xaden lowers his voice, and my stomach sours at the thought. “This isn’t about honor. Consider it your revenge. Remember what I did to your brother and tell them.”

Blood runs from my face. Xaden isn’t talking about Halden.

Aaric says something in Unnbrish, glaring at Xaden the entire time.

Xaden lets go of him, then checks with Dain.

“He said you’re the strongest,” Dain admits, then translates again as the commander begins to speak. “And they have chosen Costa as your opponent.”

One of the twins. I look past Xaden to see the warrior already standing in the middle of the plaza next to the priestess. He’s more terrifying up close than he had been walking down the steps. Thick neck. Huge arms. Gleefully menacing smile. He’s a walking arsenal, strapped with weaponry, and the scars up and down his tanned arms tell me he isn’t a stranger to pain. The assumption is confirmed when the priestess scores the back of his forearm with a dagger and he doesn’t so much as flinch.

Blood drips from the spot, spattering the dark stones beneath as the first rain drop hits my face, and the soldiers behind us cheer.

“That wasn’t in my father’s book.” My stomach sinks with suspicion of how those stones became the shade they are and the ever-growing fear that Xaden may have met his match.

“Incoming,” Dain announces, and Xaden turns to face the priestess as she approaches, passing by Marlis and Palta.

The tattoo of Dunne’s emblem inked into her forehead crinkles as she lifts her silver brows at Xaden and holds out her hand. “The Goddess of War demands her payment before you may prove your worth,” she says in the common language.

She must be at least seventy-five years old. How long would it take for such a tattoo to fade to the point it’s unrecognizable? My stomach lurches into my throat. There’s no way—

“Focus,” Tairn snaps like a frustrated professor.

Xaden shrugs out of his double scabbard, then his uniform top, leaving him in a short-sleeve undershirt as he holds out his left forearm. The high priestess draws the blade across his skin, and I sink my teeth into my bottom lip as blood flows, then drops onto the stones beside his boots. This isn’t right. Every cell in my body rebels against the thought of him going out there alone. Xaden can’t read Costa’s intentions—he doesn’t have the edge his second signet gives him. The collar of my uniform feels too tight, the leather too sticky in the growing humidity, its warmth too suffocating. I tear at the top button, then shove my sleeves up my forearms as thunder sounds in the distance, mocking my inability to wield it.

I want my fucking power back now. With them, Xaden isn’t the deadliest in this plaza. I am. He’s only out there because of me, and I should be the one taking on this fight.

Xaden faces me, then holds out his uniform top.

“He’s huge,” I whisper, our gazes colliding as I take the warm fabric from his hands and hug it to my chest.

“I know.” He slides his arms into the double scabbard and buckles it across his chest. “Garrick is going to be pissed he missed this.” He smirks, then cups the back of my neck and presses a soft, lingering kiss to my lips. “Be right back.”

But what if he’s not? Even the best fighters die in combat.

He’s arrogant because he’s the best. At least that’s what I tell myself to slow my pounding heart as he walks toward Costa. The heat of anger swiftly replaces fear as the priestess moves to my side. I understand passing tests—I’d prepared my entire life to face the entrance exam for the Scribe’s Quadrant—but this feels just as callous as walking the parapet on Conscription Day.

“You don’t agree with Dunne’s ways,” the priestess surmises, her voice cracking with age as she looks down at me with dilated pupils. Oh great. Only Dunne herself knows what they’re ingesting beyond those pillars.

“I find it a poor test of character,” I reply.

“And yet character is always revealed in bloodshed, is it not?” The priestess looks my way and crosses in front of Aaric, her gaze appraising him, then Cat before turning her attention to Dain. “They’ll negotiate weapons now.”

“He’s fighting without his greatest one.” I watch Xaden’s back as he approaches Costa and the commander.

“I think you may be right about that.” The priestess glances up at the wall where Sgaeyl stands watch. “Which is why I have decided he should not fight alone.” Before I can question her, she drags the blade over Dain’s arm, cutting through his uniform.

Oh shit.

He hisses in surprise, then grabs hold of the wound. Blood flows through his fingers, dripping onto the stone.

“No!” I shout, reaching for Dain.

“Gods,” Cat whispers.

“All right.” Dain nods.

Xaden turns toward us, lines carved between his eyebrows, and I reach for our bond out of habit, coming up woefully empty again.

“I forbid it.” Aaric moves closer to my side and draws his sword. “I’ll fight in his stead.”

“You can’t.” I shake my head. What is with the fucking death wishes around here?

The corners of the priestess’s eyes crinkle with a soft smile. “See? Character is revealed in bloodshed.” She looks at Cat. “You’re an outsider, dressed differently than the others, yet your presence means they value you.” Her gaze snaps to Aaric, and she tilts her head. “You are the prince of your people, honorable yet foolish to think you could survive our finest. Do you not know what would happen to those pretty green eyes should you step foot on this battlefield? Even if you accepted your death, Dunne has not chosen you to prove your skill this day.”

Aaric’s jaw ticks.

“You are the smallest,” she says to me dismissively, then turns to Dain. “Which leaves you to fight beside your champion.”

“Dain…” Words fail me. If anything happens to him because of my decisions…

“This just got interesting,” Tairn notes.

“This is not interesting. This is terrifying.” I snap my reply.

“I’ve got this.” Dain slips out of his uniform top and hands it to me. “I knew what I was getting into when I agreed to come with you.”

My ribs strain, but I nod. “Be careful.” I add his top to the pile, and he starts toward Xaden, who’s already moving to intercept him halfway.

“Palta!” the priestess shouts, her voice echoing off the stone. The guards clamor in approval as the second twin steps forward, blood already dripping from his fingertips.

My gaze flies to the remaining warrior, Marlis, but thankfully there’s no cut on her folded arms.

“Tell me, did you choose this path yourself?” The priestess brings her weathered gaze to mine.

“My mother—” I start, but then I remember every time Dain tried to get me out of the quadrant, and I face forward as he and Xaden approach their opponents to negotiate weapons. “I chose my life.”

“Ah, then it is good we did not complete your dedication.”

“My what?” What kind of drugs do they provide in the temples here?

“But do you not yearn for temple? Usually the touch creates such longing that you can’t help but return. Or perhaps you now favor another god.” She glances up at Tairn, ignoring my outburst, and then her eyes slide to Xaden. “I still see us among your potential paths, should you decide to take it. Dunne will accept you. It is not too late to choose Her.”

I raise my eyebrows at the woman. “I choose him.” Whether she’s talking about Xaden or Tairn, my answer is the same.

“Ah.” She turns the dagger in her gnarled hand as the raindrops continue to fall. “So be it. Our goddess teaches that while battles may be won by the strongest warriors, they may also be lost by our weakest. Both must be tested today.”

Pain erupts in my forearm, and a second later, she lifts the dagger as fresh blood races down its honed edge.

My blood. Looks like I get to fight after all.