Chapter Thirty-one
THEA
T here she was, storm magic coursing through the very essence of her. That kernel of power that had been missing for so long was there, blooming to life, begging to be unleashed upon the world.
Thea hardly dared to breathe as she watched the sparks of brilliant white dance across her skin, as much a part of her as the heart hammering in her chest. With her magic now surging in her blood, she realised just how big the gaping hole had been. Just how broken a part of her had been.
Wilder had been right: grief had pulled her apart.
And she’d fought to pull herself back together.
Now, she could feel the power at her fingertips, the ability to conjure and control lightning and thunder.
She could feel the call of the storms beyond the Singing Hare, far away in the distance.
For a moment, Thea lost herself in the song of storms, both within and without. Gods, she had missed it.
As the lightning sang in her veins, hope blossomed. Hope for the war to come. The rebel forces had wanted another storm wielder, hadn’t they? Now, she had that very power at her fingertips. Now, she had something beyond her blades and stubbornness to aid in the fight against the darkness.
And the Great Rite? She had her edge back, and she would take what was hers. Who was going to stop her now?
As the thoughts barrelled through her one by one, she looked up in shock at the man who watched her, the man who had seen her through it all.
They were still touching.
How was her lightning not hurting him? How was it possible that his hands still skimmed across her heated skin? That there was nothing but adoration and admiration etched on that handsome face of his?
‘Do you regret it?’ she asked quietly. ‘Not asking the Furies for immortality?’
‘Not once, not until I met you…’ Wilder said. ‘But then I wonder how my path may have differed, and if things had happened another way, whether we would have met at all. That is something I would regret more than missing a thousand endless lifetimes.’
‘Even with…’ She touched her fate stone, lightning sparking there too.
Wilder closed a hand over hers and she once again marvelled at how it didn’t pain him, but seemed to answer his Furies-given strength in kind.
‘I want you to ask them,’ he told her. ‘For you. Not for us. For everything you have worked for. You deserve more than the hand you’ve been dealt.’
His words felt far away as Thea watched her lightning dance not only across her skin, but his as well, as she felt the thunder roiling in her chest. Her magic… It knew him. She felt the recognition deep in her bones.
Wilder Hawthorne didn’t flinch when she touched him with the might of a storm. He didn’t baulk at her power.
He had asked her where she was, where the Althea Zoltaire he’d known had gone.
Now, she looked up at him and smiled. ‘Here I am, Warsword.’