Wilder Hawthorne
S omeone had hurt her. Badly . Whatever codes of duty and honour Wilder was bound by, they splintered in the face of that.
His hands were still stained with her blood.
That alone was enough to undo him. He wasn’t sure when he had crossed the line, or at what point the infuriating alchemist had become someone he’d break rules for…
And break rules for her he had, for it was not just her blood on his hands, not now that he’d delivered swift and brutal justice to Vernich Warner.
As his fists had collided with his fellow Warsword’s face, splitting skin, fracturing bone, Wilder knew it was reckless, as reckless as the alchemist was…
But he didn’t care. Vernich deserved what he got.
He scoffed at the notion of that bastard as someone’s mentor, then at the image of himself as a mentor. It was yet another reason Wilder was against the whole idea of masters and apprentices. Warswords were inherently selfish, the lot of them. And one way or another, they always let you down.
And Althea had been let down in the most violent way.
Though, if the state of Vernich’s face was anything to go by, that wouldn’t be happening again.
Wilder longed to deliver the same savagery to that prick, Sebastos Barlowe.
It had only taken one look at the smug shieldbearer’s face to know he’d been responsible for the stab wound to Thea’s ribs.
And that nepotism alone had allowed him to go unpunished.
But she had been right. He wouldn’t take her vengeance from her, and her vengeance would come eventually, he’d make sure of it.
With the fire crackling heartily in the living room, Wilder stood at the basin in his cabin, scrubbing the blood from his hands with soapy water.
As he worked, he tried not to relive how Thea had fallen into his arms, her face drained of colour, her body limp, almost lifeless.
The fear that had gripped him, that still sat like a stone in the pit of his gut, was unlike anything he had felt before; a desperate beast clawing him raw from within.
When he’d treated her wound and given her the dried iruseed, that terror had ebbed away for a moment, replaced by something similarly primal. In the dark recess of that broom cupboard, his body had come alive in her presence, and he’d wanted nothing more than to care for her, to protect her.
Muttering a curse to himself, he took a hard brush to his fingernails, scrubbing roughly to get rid of the blood beneath them, taking no care for his split, bruised knuckles.
A heavy knock sounded at the door, sparing him from his thoughts.
‘Heard you gave our Bloodletter a beating and a half,’ Torj Elderbrock said, pushing past Wilder into the cabin and settling into one of the armchairs.
‘Make yourself at home,’ Wilder muttered, closing the door behind him.
‘I come bearing gifts at least,’ Torj replied, waving a dark bottle at him from his seat.
Wilder gave a heavy sigh. ‘Fine.’
‘There’s the warm welcome I was after.’
‘Perhaps it’s time you lowered your expectations.’ Wilder fetched two glasses from the cabinet and sank into the armchair beside his comrade. ‘What brings you out here, anyway?’
‘Came to make sure you weren’t in the same state as our esteemed brother in arms.’
Wilder snorted. ‘Please. He didn’t even land a blow.’ He motioned to the bottle in Torj’s hand. ‘Did you bring it for decoration, or are you actually going to open it?’
‘Thirsty are we?’ Torj laughed before removing the cork with his teeth and splashing amber liquid into each glass.
Wilder fucking hated the fire extract everyone bought from Marise, but knocked it back in a single swig anyway, the liquor burning his throat and warming his belly instantly.
‘Looks like you need it, brother.’
‘Give me a real pour next time.’
Torj chuckled again and refilled the glass, a more generous dram this time. ‘So what was this thing with Vernich about?’
‘As if you don’t know,’ Wilder grunted, nursing his drink. ‘Heard you were there at the end.’
‘You mean with the shieldbearers? Thought you didn’t care about their training?’
‘I don’t. But it’s hardly a good look for the guild when two end up half dead thanks to a Warsword’s lessons.’
‘No,’ Torj agreed, sipping his own drink thoughtfully. ‘I tried to intervene, but you know what they’re like. That fucking code of theirs doesn’t allow for —’
‘I don’t care what it doesn’t allow for.’
‘You saying I should have done more? That I should have forced it out of them? Humiliated —’
Wilder made a frustrated noise. ‘I don’t know.’
Torj let him stew for a moment before he said, ‘Attacking Vernich was a mistake.’
‘No shit.’
‘Now he knows you care for the lady shieldbearer.’
‘I don’t.’
Torj laughed darkly. ‘You can’t play that game with me.’
Wilder took a long sip, letting the liquor ease his temper. ‘It doesn’t matter. She’s nominated you to be her mentor after the initiation.’
‘Has she now?’ Torj raised an eyebrow. ‘My popularity never ceases to amaze me.’
‘I feel the same way about your idiocy.’
‘You say idiocy, I say charm,’ Torj replied. ‘Why wouldn’t you take her on yourself?’
‘You know my thoughts about that whole dynamic.’
‘I do. Not that it matters. You’ll have an apprentice whether you want one or not. Why not choose the one you… like best?’
‘It’s not that simple.’
‘Isn’t it? Fuck, Hawthorne… Starling really did a number on you. You ever going to tell me what happened out there? What did he do that was so terrible? I only ever hear good things.’
‘He left, Torj,’ Wilder snapped. ‘That’s all you need to know. He fucking left when he shouldn’t have. When he’d made vows not to. And for what? Some —’
‘He’s hardly the first Warsword to leave Thezmarr,’ Torj cut in. ‘In case you haven’t noticed, there’s only the bloody three of us left.’
‘And look at the state of the realms. All sorts of monsters are slipping through the Veil. Darkness gathering on the horizon… We need Warswords more than ever before.’
Torj topped up their glasses. ‘All the more reason to take on an apprentice. And perhaps not beat the current Warswords to a pulp.’
A beat of silence followed. ‘He fucking asked for it.’
Torj clinked his glass to Wilder’s. ‘Of that I have no doubt, brother.’
The fire crackled and the two men stretched their legs out before it, talking of other things for a time. The bottle was soon empty, the warmth and the liquor making Wilder’s eyes heavy.
But when Wilder eventually drifted off to sleep still in his armchair, it wasn’t monsters and Warswords he dreamed of.
It was Althea Zoltaire, with vows of vengeance on her lips.