C H A P T E R T H R E E
here was no time for stealth. Thea ran, a blur of shadow in the night, her boots pounding againstT the damp earth of the woods, a thin line of blood trickling down her cheek. The branches of the trees scratched at her exposed skin and tore at her clothes as she wove between them, the wind whipping through her braid.
Someone had fired an arrow at her, and she knew there had been no archery training taking place.
It was no wayward shot. Had she been a half second slower, it would have hit her between the eyes.
But that was not what destiny had in store for her. The comforting beat of her fate stone against her breast bone steadied her short, shallow gasps.
Made of jade and tied to a black leather string, it had been presented to her as an infant by a seer.
Back then, they carved out destinies; sometimes the marker was a name, sometimes it was a symbol, or a number. All signifying a future that would come to pass in no uncertain terms. Rare as fate stones were, they were not sought after. Not by those who wished to live their lives in peace.
Twenty-seven. The black number was a promise from the god of death himself. At the age of twenty-seven, Enovius would come for Thea, but not before having his fun. For death could find her the minute the clock struck her name day, or it could wait until the full year, until the moment before she turned twenty-eight. Thea’s fate stone offered her a window of time, no details – a curse she would wish upon no one.
On she ran, mud flicking up on the backs of her legs, fear spurring her on. Not for her life, no, she would not die today. Instead, she feared for her place in Thezmarr, her home. She had known the risks when she’d accepted the dagger and practiced with it time and time again, but the consequences had never felt so close as that arrow.
Lightning flashed, illuminating the Bloodwoods before her for a split second. There was nothing ahead but gnarled trunks and an eerie emptiness.
Soon, the torchlight glimmered before her. Keeping close to the base of the stone walls, Thea made for the staff entrance, her breathing ragged.
Thank the gods, Thea thought as the handle turned. Pausing at the larder, she brought her piece of jade to her lips. ‘And so we test the fates again,’ she murmured before ducking into the dimly lit room. Inside, the air was cool and meat hung from the ceiling on giant hooks. She moved past these, noting that the trap door to the cellar below was ajar.
Wincing as the kitchen door creaked, Thea peered within. The warmth of several stoves and the
mouth-watering aromas of dinner in full swing hit her in the face. With no servants in sight, she crept past the work benches and bubbling pots, suppressing the urge to swipe a freshly baked roll from a basket on the side. Cook had likely counted every single one.
Just as she neared the door, Thea froze.
For in a tattered armchair before the blazing hearth sat a massive figure, a large dog at his feet.
Thea’s gaze went from the dozing animal, to the half-braided leather belt in enormous hands, and to the grey eyes that met her own. ‘Malik.’ The giant man who grinned back was the very same who had gifted her his dagger on his deathbed. Only, he hadn’t died. His now smiling expression was one she’d come to love on what had once been a fierce, scarred face.
Malik was a retired Warsword. He had sustained a near-fatal blow to the head on the battlefield and hadn’t spoken since. Amongst other details, Thea had heard Guardians and shieldbearers alike prattle about how the famous warrior had fallen from glory and was now a simpleton, but she knew better. Not long after the dagger gifting, she had been in the corner of the library, reading a difficult passage aloud to make sense of it. There, she met Malik for the second time. His hulking frame had appeared from behind a shelf, startling her out of her skin.
But he’d approached with a broad smile and sat down in a nearby chair, as though he wanted to listen to her. That interaction had shown her he loved the words, but perhaps could no longer understand them on the page. She had read to him ever since.
Now, he lit up with amusement as he surveyed her wet, dishevelled state and the scratch on her face. ‘Can’t stay,’ she told him. ‘You won’t tell, will you?’ Malik just smiled and turned his attention back to the belt he was braiding. ‘Thanks.’ With a grateful squeeze of the gentle giant’s shoulder, she made for the south-west tower.
By the time Thea had changed into a dry tunic and made herself presentable, the evening meal was underway. Crackling fires blazed in generous hearths on either end, while torches in sconces cast their flickering light across the thick pavers.
At the heart of the hall loomed the Furies - giant sculptures of the three mighty swords wielded by the first ever Warswords, those who were gods. The stone shapes rose from the ground up into the hall’s ceiling, where the hilts broke through the rafters above and into the night’s sky.
Beneath their shadows was a table that overlooked the rest, where the Guild Master, Osiris, sat in his high-backed chair like a king. On either side were the Warswords of Thezmarr, several commanders and the heads of the staff, including Audra who wore a severe expression, her eyes keen as a hawk.
A few steps below, two long oak tables ran the length of the hall, where warriors of every rank and fortress workers were already digging into the pots of stew and trays of roast potatoes.
Thea was careful not to make eye contact with anyone at the head table as she hurried to where her cohort sat.
Elwren reluctantly made room for her on the bench, spearing her with a furious gaze. ‘Should I even ask?’ she said between clenched teeth, eyeing the cut on Thea’s cheek. ‘Probably not.’ Thea reached for an empty plate and the tray of potatoes. ‘You could have at least covered up that scratch with the cosmetics I prepared for you. Doesn’t
exactly look like you were in bed with a nosebleed and a headache.’ Thea ignored her sister as she bit into her dinner, stifling a moan of delight. ‘You missed a fascinating transcription shift, Althea,’ Ida, one of their friends, said from across the table, tucking her dark cropped hair behind her ear. ‘“Fascinating” and “transcription” aren’t generally two terms I’d put together,’ Thea replied around a mouthful of gravy-soaked bread. ‘Shut up.’ Wren thrust her chin to where Osiris was getting to his feet.
Thea straightened in her seat. It wasn’t often that Osiris addressed the entire hall.
Osiris was a man of average height who was dwarfed by the warriors he surrounded himself with. His head was shaved and he wore the leathers and boots of the Thezmarrian commanders; the uniform suited him despite his lean build. He scanned the tables before him with sharp eyes, somehow able to pierce everyone in the crowd before he spoke. ‘Tonight, we welcome home one of our most revered Warswords…’ he began.
Whispers burst out and spread across the hall like wildfire, many people craning their necks to get a glimpse of the famous warrior seated to Osiris’ right.
Thea’s skin prickled as she recalled the silver eyes that had locked with hers on the clifftop.
The Guild Master cleared his throat. ‘Wilder Hawthorne has been abroad for several years defending the midrealms. Tales of victory and valour follow him everywhere he goes —’ The bloodied hessian sack flashed in Thea’s mind. ‘But above all else, he has wrought the justice of Thezmarr upon those who would see it crumble.’ Thea’s gaze fell to the warrior in question.
Hawthorne’s hood was pushed back off his face and in the candlelight's glow, she drank in his chiselled jaw, his slightly crooked nose, his dark brows and several faint scars marring his sun- kissed skin. His expression was just as fierce, just as unforgiving as it had been earlier.
It was said that the Warswords were chosen by the Furies themselves and imbued with their power. When they emerged from the Great Rite, the warriors were presented with gifts from the kingdoms: steel from Naarva, a stallion from Tver, a vial of healing springwater from Aveum, armour from Delmira and poison from Harenth.
Thea knew from the stories that Hawthorne had been the youngest to ever attempt the Great Rite, the youngest in history to become a Warsword, and that he’d been the last one to do it.
For now, she vowed silently.
But there was no spark of youth about him, only the cold, relentless brutality of a killer. He didn’t get up or speak, he simply leaned back in his chair and cast his cutting stare across the hall. Despite his apparent savagery, the defiant gleam in his silver eyes sent a bolt of energy through Thea, warming her from within. She angled towards him, a featherlight shiver washing over her.
Osiris lifted his cup. ‘To Hawthorne’s return!’ There was a flurry of movement as the rest of the assembly rushed to echo the toast.
All the while, the Hand of Death watched on, enemy blood still staining his boots. ‘How many monsters do you think he’s slayed?’ Thea didn’t take her eyes off the warrior, the rancid wraith heart flashing in her mind. ‘Who cares about monsters?’ Samra snorted. ‘What about women? Look at that jaw, those shoulders… Look at the size of him… He can slay me anytime.’ Ida laughed. ‘Oh keep it in your pants, Sam.’ ‘Why should I? The men never do. And I’m surprised Hawthorne can at all, he must be hung like a
—’ ‘Sam!’ Thea snapped. ‘Shut up. He’s a Warsword of Thezmarr, show some respect.’ Samra rolled her eyes. ‘Just because you’ve taken a ridiculous vow of celibacy, doesn’t mean the rest of us have to ignore the feast in front of us.’ ‘I took no such vow,’ Thea replied bitterly, her body tensing. ‘I just —’ Wren’s hand found her arm and squeezed it. ‘It wasn’t your fault Evander turned out to be a
prick.’ ‘A complete moron,’ Ida chimed in.
A guilty pause followed before Sam nodded. ‘A world-class twat.’ Thea’s chest warmed at their unified front when it came to the stable master’s apprentice, but she waved them off. ‘That was years ago now.’ Sam shrugged. ‘He’s still a twat.’ Thea forced a smile, but her shoulders sagged at the memory. ‘I have no interest in warriors. You already conceal your beauty with men’s clothing and mud… I liked you as an alchemist. But if you’re going to mess around with weapons and run around like a boy… Not to mention tempt the prophecy…’ Evander had told her when she’d confided her dreams to him, the world slipping out from beneath her.
It had ended in a blur of anger and confusion. She had shed her tears on the clifftops with her sister and then put the experience behind her. The only vow she’d ever made had been to herself, one that had seen her dedicate herself to the way of the Warswords as best she could. As for lovers, there had been others since, fleeting moments in the dark, but they were all the same. Evander and the rest were nothing but scared fortress boys, not men, and as Wren had told her: ‘A true man won’t cut you down as you fight your battles, nor will he fight them for you. A true man will help sharpen your sword, guard your back and fight at your side, in the face of whatever darkness comes.’ None of them had fit that bill yet.
All around Thea, her cohort talked excitedly. Hawthorne’s return wasn’t the only one being discussed. A popular unit of warriors had returned from dealing with a threat south of the winter kingdom of Aveum, and the women were eager to note the changes in them on the next table over. ‘Raynor’s chest has certainly broadened.’ Samra smirked, wiggling her brows. ‘You’d hope so,’ Ida retorted. ‘There wasn’t much there to begin with.’ Wren laughed. ‘Don’t be unkind. He’s barely twenty. A little young for Sam’s tastes anyway,’ she chimed in, pouring another cup of ale.
Sam flicked her cherry-red hair over her shoulder and put a hand on her chest in mock pain. ‘You wound me, Wren.’ ‘What about you, Althea Nine Lives? See anything you want on the menu?’ The dried blood on Thea’s cheek itched as she narrowed her eyes at the nickname their friends had given her after years of recklessness and close calls with the guild’s laws. Today not included.
Althea Nine Lives. She had always hated it. For one, it made it sound like she were the stupid youngster of the group… Two… She liked to think she had more than nine lives.
She helped herself to another serving of stew, not allowing her gaze to stray to the Warsword at the head table. ‘No. Besides,’ she said, lifting her chin. ‘Why should I be interested in anything other than the brief physical benefits?’ Sam snorted. ‘If they’re brief, you’re doing it wrong.’ ‘It’s just a bullshit distraction. Amidst the work with Farissa and Audra, training and the rest, there’s no room for some simpering boy, not even on the side. I have too much to do, too much I want
to achieve…’ And little time to achieve it, Thea thought. While the others had a lifetime ahead, she had three years and by all the gods in the realms, she wouldn’t squander them. ‘My purpose is singular —’ ‘Ah yes, your purpose…’ Wren shook her head and pinched the bridge of her nose like some long suffering elder. ‘They’ll never let you be one of them, Thea. Not in a million years. Isn’t it time you dropped this and accepted your lot like the rest of us? It’ll only land you in trouble or worse. We still contribute to protecting the realm. There is still honour in the work we do.’ Thea bit back a retort about alchemists and scribes and took her sister’s cup, draining it. ‘You can go back to talking about boys now,’ she said. ‘Or girls,’ she added, with an apologetic nod to Ida. ‘You’re too kind,’ Ida replied drily.
Wren snatched her drink back and refilled it.
But Thea’s attention was already elsewhere… On the Warsword with silver eyes at the head table.
Thea swore at the chill as the young women returned to their sleeping quarters, the hearth cold. With complaints from the others growing louder by the minute, Thea and Wren worked to light the kindling and build up a roaring fire. Thea sighed as warmth spread to her fingers. She stretched out her hands only to pull back sharply as something shot through the air towards her — A small blade used for opening bottles embedded itself in the timber floor by her foot.
‘What in the realms —’ Another came flying at her.
Thea dodged. ‘Sam!’ she shrieked. ‘Enough!’ But she knew better than to stand idle. On her feet now, she leapt from one spot to another as more sharp projectiles rained down, hitting the wall and floor with rhythmic thuds. It was a game they had adapted as children from watching the boys in the courtyard; a Thezmarrian contest to develop quick reflexes. Of course, it was forbidden for girls to play, but Samra had always argued that because they were using alchemy tools rather than the traditional steel stars or daggers, no rules were being broken. ‘I also just like throwing things at Althea,’ she had said time and time again.
When the girls had hit their teenage years, they had also added an element of dance. Ida insisted that some day, they might need to attend a ball, or a wedding and none of them knew how to be light on their feet. Thea had never had the heart to tell her the unlikelihood of such events, thus, the game, ‘Dancing Alchemists’ was born.
Their sleeping quarters, and the girls themselves, bore the scars of the contest from over the years, though it had been some time since they had played. Work and the drudgery of every day had a way of robbing the quiet joys from life. ‘Fuck.’ Thea narrowly avoided a severed toe. ‘What are you playing at, Sam?’ Samra shrugged and threw another pointed tool. ‘You were chomping at the bit for some action, Althea Nine Lives… Thought I’d oblige you.’ ‘Don’t test me… You know what will happen. You’ll regret it.’ ‘Come on… I’ve got three left,’ her friend said, brandishing the knives.
With a frustrated noise at the back of her throat, Wren tried to snatch the remaining projectiles from Sam. ‘Farissa was looking for those!’
But Samra paid her no heed, instead, she flung the blades at Thea, one after the other in quick succession.
A thrill raced through Thea and she danced. It was the most natural feeling in the world. She spun gracefully, ducking and weaving, moving her body like water, all the while swiftly collecting the weapons. It was a skill she had honed deliberately, knowing that against bigger opponents, she’d need to leverage her speed and agility against their strength.
When the last of them left Sam’s hand, Thea gave her a wolfish grin. ‘My turn.’ She flicked her wrist with masterful precision and the small blade was a blur through the air before — ‘Thea!’ Sam shrieked as the knife sliced through the lower half of her cherry-red ponytail, embedding the chunk of hair in the wall behind her. ‘Furies save us,’ Ida muttered, head in hands. ‘What?’ Thea said innocently. ‘You’ve been harping on about how you needed a haircut.’ ‘I’m going to kill you…’ Sam threatened through gritted teeth as she yanked the blade and her hunk
of hair from the stone. ‘I’d like to see you try.’ Sam stared at the severed tresses and then fingered the end of her now cropped ponytail, shaking
her head. ‘You’re insane.’
‘Or incredibly skilled.’ ‘Or both,’ Ida offered. ‘Definitely both.’ Wren confiscated Farissa’s tools from her. ‘You should have known better than to challenge me at Dancing Alchemists,’ Thea argued.
Sam was still shaking her head, but her anger had softened. ‘Classic Thea,’ she muttered. ‘Doesn’t want to be a woman, but she dances better than all of us.’ With the excitement dying down, Thea’s hand went to the thin scabbed-over cut on her cheek, the sound of the arrow whistling through the air echoing in her mind. She had the feeling that Dancing Alchemists had saved her life earlier.
Wren caught her gaze, her eyes full of questions.
Thea shrugged, what Wren didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her, and all in all, it hadn’t been a terrible day.
It wasn’t until she reached for her nightgown and kicked off her boots that the realisation hit her.
Thea’s hands froze at the buttons of her tunic, her dinner turning to lead in her stomach, cold suddenly washing over her despite the glow of the fire.
Her dagger was missing.
And she knew exactly where she had left it.
