Vows & Ruins (The Legends of Thezmarr #2)

Chapter One

THEA

F or the past three weeks, the blood-spattered training ring had become Thea’s home, just as the rage coursing through her had become her anthem.

Girl. Alchemist. Shieldbearer. Woman. Guardian. Apprentice. Wraith slayer. Heir.

Each marker had burned hot and bright, and faded in her wake like ash as she strived for the only name she cared about: Warsword .

The fate stone resting against her heart was a stark reminder of just how little time she had left to achieve that dream. Two and a half years. A blink of an eye in a lifetime. A drop in an ocean. She had to make it count.

Thea flipped her blade in her scar-flecked hand, revelling in the weight of real steel, in the way it carved through the air at her will. She moved in a predatory circle around her opponent, ignoring the throbbing pain in her ribs and the strange tingling sensation of two bruised, swollen knuckles.

‘You can’t dance around me all day, Thea,’ prompted Torj Elderbrock, the Bear Slayer, his own blade raised.

Desperate to shed the restlessness within, Thea struck, whirling lightly on her feet, aiming a precise slash at Torj’s exposed side, the silver glinting in the early morning light.

He blocked easily. The ringing impact of his sword against hers vibrated up her arm, a reminder of the Furies-given strength the Warsword kept in check during their sparring sessions.

Little did he know that he wasn’t the only one trying to contain his abilities.

Almost no one knew of the magic that stalked beneath Thea’s skin, of the chaos she could unleash.

The unbroken lightning was a song as she sparred.

Like a cyren call from the ancient deep, it lured her to the greater power she could summon at her fingertips.

Neither the comfort of the steel in her hand nor the persistent ache of her muscles could quell that crackle of magic surging through her now.

‘Come on, Thea!’ Kipp called enthusiastically from the sideline, shoving his auburn hair from his eyes with a grin.

Cal whistled his own encouragement from where he stood, bruised and bloodied from his own sparring match. ‘You slayed a fucking shadow wraith. You can take him.’

‘It was a reaper, actually,’ Thea called back.

At Cal and Kipp’s encouragement, guilt bloomed amid the sea of anger. They’d tried to talk to her over the last few weeks, but there was so much she couldn’t tell them, so much she didn’t understand herself.

Thea twirled her blade and adjusted her stance, readying herself to attack again, her Guardian totem strapped to her right arm, the crossed-swords symbol glinting in the sunlight as she delivered a swift upward cut to her temporary mentor.

Temporary , because her sworn mentor, Wilder Hawthorne, the Hand of Death and the most infamous warrior in all the midrealms, had abandoned her.

Their time together was a heated blur, culminating in the discovery of who she truly was…

A lost heir of Delmira. A storm wielder .

And then he’d drawn the line between them.

After unleashing her storm magic atop the cliffs and passing out, Thea had awoken in Hawthorne’s bed to find him staring at her, his expression unreadable. For the briefest of moments, time had slowed between them, as a piece of a lifelong puzzle slid into place.

And then, mere minutes later, he’d disappeared without so much as a word.

She hadn’t seen the bastard since.

No amount of training, no matter how hard she pushed herself, could douse her fury.

It boiled within her, tangling with her raw magic, threatening to spill out into her life like a flood of flames.

She wanted to be a Warsword more than anything.

And he was sworn to guide her. To help her prepare for the Great Rite.

He’d left her when she needed him most.

There was also the other fire he’d lit within her. The longing, the need for him raged equally as hot, even now. No matter what she did to stamp it out.

She hated him for it.

Exhaling, Thea parried and struck again, this time feinting right and raining down a succession of brutal slices.

‘Good,’ Torj allowed, knocking her sword aside.

But she’d anticipated that. She drew a steel star from her boot and, with a flick of her wrist, sent it flying.

It cleaved through the air and pinned Torj’s sleeve to a nearby tree.

‘I said swords only this time,’ he grunted, his ice-blue eyes darkening in annoyance.

‘I have to use whatever advantage I have,’ Thea countered. She had honed a unique set of skills throughout her years of secret training, and she would use any and all of them to get what she wanted.

Torj’s muscles rippled as he removed the throwing star from his now torn sleeve as easily as though it were a piece of lint. ‘If you want me to keep training you with the others, you have to listen .’

Thea knew she was being unfair, that it was more than generous of the Bear Slayer to step up and take her under his wing alongside his own apprentice, Cal, and their inseparable friend, Kipp.

But Torj didn’t know her secret. He didn’t know the kind of devastation she could wreak upon the realm.

He didn’t know that training her was dangerous .

Where the fuck is Hawthorne?

Torj seemed to sense the cause of her agitation and gave a heavy sigh, no doubt fed up with her foul mood and endless questions. ‘He gave his word. He’ll be back when he can. He knows your training is his responsibility.’

‘Does he?’ Thea muttered.

‘Yes.’

‘He’s got a funny way of showing it.’

‘Enough whining, Zoltaire,’ Torj retorted. ‘If you’ve got time to complain, you’ve got time to spar with more than one opponent.’ He motioned to Cal. ‘You’re in. Kipp, you too.’

Thea rolled her sore shoulders, lifting her chin in defiance. Good. She wanted the challenge; she needed it. It was the only thing that kept the storm at bay.

Her friends grimaced as they approached, weapons in hand.

They had been on the receiving end of her renewed training obsession for weeks now and all three of them bore the injuries to prove it.

But it was Thea who never gave in. It was Thea who insisted they continue, even when they were bleeding and broken on the ground.

If she couldn’t train with Hawthorne and she couldn’t talk with Wren, she would hone her rage into a weapon of its own.

Her sister’s name echoed through her like a bell. Thea hadn’t seen it coming, the betrayal, and the tightness in her chest hadn’t loosened since. It had only grown more taut, serving to fuel that tempest brewing inside her.

Thea took a deep breath and eyed up her opponents, determined to master the new strikes Torj had shown her.

The golden-haired Warsword gave them a nod, and Thea launched herself into an attack.

Her footwork was exact, the distribution of her weight flawless.

Since the initiation, she had hardly put her sword down, had scarcely spent a second that wasn’t training some part of herself for battle.

It showed.

Sweat-slicked and aching, she whirled her sword overhead again and struck Cal first. Her friend raised his shield just in time, while Kipp circled at her back.

She ignored the strained look on his face, the one that told her he didn’t recognise the snarling warrior before him as she advanced, striking with all her strength, carving, slashing and dodging as Cal came to Kipp’s side.

She told herself that this was good , that they needed her at her hardest and fiercest if they were to improve as well. The midrealms needed more elite warriors, now more than ever.

Kipp’s long-limbed, wiry build worked against him, and while Cal was lean and muscular, he didn’t have the Furies-given strength or agility of a Warsword. Not yet.

And so she didn’t hesitate. She didn’t go easy on them. She beat both of them back, forcing them to yield more and more ground to her.

Thea forgot her pain and exhaustion. Her anger, her magic and her ambition roiled into one powerful driving force as she duelled the pair.

She lost herself in the rhythm of the fight, until the rest of the world faded away, until Torj’s words of warning sounded distant, as though directed at someone else.

They sounded like, Stop, Thea – I said stop!

But the challenge had her in its thrall.

That’s enough, Thea —

She barely registered the storm clouds gathering overhead.

Zoltaire, that’s an order!

She hardly noticed the sweat dripping down her face, or the horrified expressions of her friends. Raining down blow after blow, dirt clouding at her boots, wind whipping at her face, she sparred.

She lived for the clang of the steel. She could feel its song in her soul. A balm to the lightning coursing through her veins —

Her sword met another.

The impact rattled her bones and sent her sprawling back. Something was different.

Blinded by the need to win, by the desperation to be worthy of the Great Rite, she scrambled up and lunged again, seeing nothing but red.

Again, her attack was powerfully deflected.

Only this time, she understood why. Her grip faltered and her weapon buckled as it met the other.

Naarvian steel.

A Warsword’s blade.

It blocked her blow effortlessly, locking her sword in place and dragging it to the ground.

A second blade pressed against her neck. A cold kiss. The promise of blood spilt.

Somewhere in the distance, lightning sparked.

‘You were given an order, Alchemist,’ sounded a deep, commanding voice.

Thea would have known that voice anywhere. It had pulled her back from the brink of death, had whispered her name against her lips, had broken her heart in more ways than one…

Silver eyes met hers and Thea’s breath caught.

The Hand of Death towered above her, his powerfully built frame clad in black armour that dripped red.

Against all reason, despite all her fury, that rich timbre skittered along her bones as Wilder Hawthorne leant in close and murmured, ‘Or should I call you “Princess” now?’