Chapter Three
THEA
T hank the Furies he’d walked off. If Thea had stood out there in the rain with him any longer, there was no telling whether she would have fought him again, fucked him, or both. Her heart hammered in her chest, in time with the pulse of heat between her legs.
Wilder Hawthorne had looked as fierce as ever, his sharp jaw lined with a dark beard, his sun-kissed skin covered in dirt from travel. He was just as he had been when they had fought the reaper together: formidable, deadly… Hers .
She pushed the thought aside. He had never truly been hers. But when she’d had him beneath her, her blade pressed to his throat and all that hard muscle against her, not a single sane thought had remained in her head.
Suddenly, she’d been taken back to the hours before the initiation test, where she’d gripped that arrow as Hawthorne fucked her against the tree, his beautiful, tattooed body bare in the dappled moonlight.
Pleasure, and something deeper, had rolled through her as he’d moved inside her, as he’d moaned her name against her lips.
‘Once was not enough, Thea…’ he had groaned after wringing a shattering climax from her that left her trembling. ‘Not nearly enough.’
Now, as she gathered her belongings, she stewed in her anger. How dare he? How dare he leave her high and dry, only to swoop back in three weeks later with such commands? And living together? What in the midrealms was he playing at?
She winced as she sheathed her blade with more vigour than she intended, peering down at her swollen knuckles. Dislocated , Hawthorne had declared.
Truth be told, she couldn’t even remember during which sparring session it had happened.
The past few weeks had blurred into one long streak of swordplay, archery, strategy meetings and endurance training as she had tried to forget everything else.
She’d gone about life as an official Guardian of Thezmarr as required: committing to training, drills and learning the art of war.
She was the first woman warrior of the guild in over two decades, and she wouldn’t waste the opportunity.
To be part of Thezmarr was more than a lifestyle; it was a culture, a religion.
Flexing her fingers tentatively as she started back towards the fortress, she hissed at the pain, noting the restricted movement and the mottled blue-and-green discolouration.
As the rain subsided and the noon sun hit its peak, her instinct was to find Cal and Kipp and partake in whatever drills they were now trying to master, but…
Gods, she hated it when Hawthorne was right.
If the swelling on her knuckles continued, or the tug of pain in her ribs worsened, she’d be of no use to anyone, least of all herself.
Usually she’d go to Wren for this sort of thing.
The Master Alchemist, Farissa, had taught her sister every healing trick in the book, and the Furies knew Wren had tended to more than her fair share of scrapes over the years.
But those days were over. Instead, when Thea reached the fortress, she made for the library.
Malik, the former Warsword and Hawthorne’s brother, was there in his usual armchair by the fire.
‘Hello, Shieldbreaker,’ Thea said as the giant man looked up from the leather belt he was braiding and beamed at her.
Malik’s dog, Dax, wagged his tail from his spot at his master’s feet.
Thea dropped into the chair beside them and held out her injured hand. ‘Don’t suppose you can do something about this?’ she asked.
Malik stared, his gaze going distant for a moment before he took her small hand in his much larger one, shaking his head slowly.
‘It was worth a shot.’ Thea sighed. ‘Guess I’ll have to go to the infirm—’
There was a loud pop . Followed by blinding pain.
‘Fuck!’ Thea shouted, rearing back. ‘Furies fucking save —’
Another pop sounded. And a garbled scream escaped Thea as more agony lanced through her hand.
But then came the relief.
Thea’s fingers were tingling, but that initial pain had vanished.
She moved her fingers cautiously. They were still stiff, still aching, but the range of movement wasn’t nearly as restricted.
Malik gripped her hand gently, stopping her from flexing.
‘No moving them for a while, huh?’ she asked.
Malik shook his head again, getting to his feet and rummaging through the basket of kindling by the hearth.
Thea felt a bead of sweat drip down between her shoulder blades as she sagged back into the chair. ‘You could have warned me,’ she muttered.
Malik ignored this, returning to his chair and holding out his palm.
Thea reluctantly returned her hand to him, watching as he set a straight stick against the line of one of her injured fingers and bound it with the leather he’d been using to braid. He did the same for the second injured finger.
When he was done, Thea lifted her hand up, examining the ludicrous strapping. ‘What in the realms am I meant to do with this?’
Malik grinned.
‘Your sense of humour needs work, my friend,’ Thea huffed, but she gave his arm a grateful squeeze all the same. ‘Suppose it’ll force me to work on my weaker sword hand.’
After Hawthorne had left, after he’d promised that they’d work things out together and then abandoned her in her moment of need, it was Malik Thea had turned to. He had been her one constant since earning her Guardian totem, even after she’d realised that he’d known who she was all along.
‘You once told me: beware the fury of a patient Delmirian,’ she’d said to him. ‘I know now that I’m a Delmirian… But I don’t know what the rest means, Mal. I’m certainly not the patient type, am I?’
Malik had reached for the dagger – his dagger – at her hip, and tapped its grip twice.
For whatever reason, it had given her comfort in a sea of rage. As had the foreign words etched along the weapon’s blade: Glory in death, immortality in legend . She’d vowed then and there that with her brief remaining years, that was what she would strive for.
Now, Malik the Shieldbreaker watched her from his armchair, fondness in his gaze. His expression was so different, so open compared to that of his Warsword sibling.
Thea raised a brow, her fingers throbbing dully. ‘In case I haven’t mentioned it recently… Your brother’s a complete arse, by the way.’
Malik looked delighted.
* * *
Hawthorne’s return had brought with it a near insatiable fervour to win, to prove him wrong, to beat him.
Which was why Thea found herself wandering the corridors she knew Wren frequented.
Her sister had been trying to meet with her for weeks, insisting that they learn to train their magic, but Thea had been too angry to face her.
But though Wren was the last person she’d admit it to, Thea was actually desperate to harness her power.
At night, with only her fate stone for company, she would close her eyes and imagine the keen edge storm magic would give her against her opponents, against whatever obstacles awaited her in the Great Rite.
It had already helped her defeat a rheguld reaper ; what more could she do with such abilities at her fingertips?
Tentative hope blooming in her chest, Thea arrived at her sister’s quarters and pounded on the door.
It swung inward almost immediately and she was confronted by a familiar pair of celadon eyes.
‘Thea!’ Her sister rushed forward to grasp her arms and pull her inside.
Instinctively, Thea jerked out of Wren’s grip and was met with a pained expression.
‘I thought…’ Wren ventured slowly. ‘I thought this might mean you’d forgiven me…’
Still tense, Thea cleared her throat. ‘One step at a time.’
‘Alright,’ Wren said, before forcing a note of brightness into her words. ‘What can I do for you?’
Thea licked her lips. ‘I… I want to know more about my – our – magic. I want to learn how to control it, harness it.’
Wren was beaming. ‘I’ve been waiting for this day for so long!’ She reached for her cloak on the hook by the door.
Thea bit her tongue, refraining from pointing out that the day would have arrived sooner had Wren not deceived her so thoroughly. ‘Where are we going?’
‘To see Audra.’
‘Now?’
‘Absolutely.’
From Wren’s confidence, Thea deduced that her sister and the librarian had conversed on the subject numerous times before, but she quelled her annoyance.
It didn’t matter, so long as Audra knew how to help her.
With her guidance, Thea would be the first storm-wielding Warsword to walk the midrealms.
Wren was already impatiently tugging her down the hall. She skidded to a stop outside another door, rapping her knuckles against the timber.
‘What?’ Audra snapped as she yanked the door open, before her eyes fell upon the two sisters. ‘Oh. It’s you.’
‘We’re ready, Audra,’ Wren told her eagerly. ‘Thea wants to learn —’
‘Well, don’t just stand out there, get inside. Quickly.’ Audra ushered them into the room, her grey dress swishing around her ankles, her ceremonial daggers strapped to her waist as always. She rounded on Thea. ‘It’s about time.’
Thea folded her arms defensively over her chest. ‘So, you have known all along.’
Audra didn’t seem fazed by her accusatory tone. ‘I only suspected,’ she answered calmly.
‘You didn’t think sharing those suspicions might be worthwhile?’
‘The longer you didn’t know, the longer you were protected. Delmira was not looked upon fondly in its final days. And when Wren discovered the truth, I thought it was her place to share that with you, not mine.’
Wren shifted awkwardly before reaching for Thea again. ‘Thee, you have to forgive me. I did it for you .’
Thea scoffed. ‘Whatever helps you sleep at night.’
Audra cleared her throat. ‘This would go easier if you worked together .’
‘You should have told her that before she lied to me, before she used alchemy on me for years on end. And all that time, Wren, you told me not to think about who our family was. That they were awful for abandoning us, when you knew who they were.’