Chapter Forty-three
WILDER
T he aftermath of battle always tasted like ash on Wilder’s tongue, no matter the outcome.
As he walked the blood-drenched fields and heard the cries of the wounded, the fact that the midrealms’ forces had won felt hollow.
They had secured a victory, but only just, and the price to be paid was steep.
In the wake of war, there was always a jarring contrast between the joy of the survivors and the reality of the dead. That thick, putrid stench of death, of blood, shit and vomit, soured the air, all while kegs of ale were being split open and shared among the living.
Wilder was used to the blood and gore, but it had been a long while since he’d seen it on such a grand scale in terms of human losses.
There was always an element of disassociation when it came to slaying monsters, but when it was fellow soldiers screaming in agony, when it was their blood coating the fields, it was hard to maintain that same level of detachment, even as a Warsword.
He scanned the grounds for Thea, but there was no sign of her. His chest tightened as he thought of his last words to her, of how he’d been unable to kiss her when he wanted to. He steeled himself against the thought. He’d see her soon enough, and when he did, he’d do a lot more than kiss her.
But for now, there was work to be done. He set about finishing off those who lay dying in the fields with cold efficiency. There was nothing to be done for them, and a swift death was a mercy he’d gift to any fellow man.
The various units of the midrealms joined together to gather and burn the dead. Wilder watched the thick columns of smoke drift into the gold hues of early dawn.
The battle had lasted most of the night, and now a red sunrise bloomed on the horizon. A medical tent had been set up at the edge of the war camp; Wilder headed there to see what he might do to help.
He was alarmed to find Farissa there. The poor alchemist was half drowned, attended to by a fussing Audra. Wilder’s brows shot up. He’d never seen Audra fuss before. But when it came to Farissa, apparently she was willing to make an exception.
‘What happened?’ he asked, pushing aside the tent flap and entering the cramped quarters.
Both women shot him looks of surprise.
‘You don’t know?’ Audra demanded, surveying him critically.
A pit of dread opened up inside him at her words. ‘What happened?’ he repeated.
Frowning, Audra made quick work of explaining what had happened out by the Veil – how Farissa had been thrown from the boat, leaving Wren at the mercy of the swarm of shadow wraiths.
Wilder’s breathing went shallow. He’d been the one to encourage Thea to let her sister go out into the madness.
He’d told her that everyone had a part to play.
‘Another unit of alchemists is already being rowed out to patch the rest of the Veil,’ Audra said.
But Wilder didn’t care about the alchemists at that moment.
‘Have you seen them? Thea? Wren?’ he asked, unable to keep the edge from his voice.
Audra blinked at him for a moment. ‘Not in the flesh,’ she said at last, lowering her voice. ‘But their storms have graced the skies.’
His knees almost buckled. ‘I —’
‘If you don’t mind, Hawthorne. I’m trying to make sure Farissa doesn’t die.’ And with that, she pushed him from the tent, the flap falling down in place between them.
Wilder paced the war camp, searching for any sign of Thea. But he couldn’t find her amid the pandemonium. Audra’s blasé attitude told him not to worry. If there was something to fear, the librarian would be the first to let him know. Of that he was certain.
He continued to search the grounds, and while he couldn’t find Thea in person, she was there, in the tales of the surviving warriors…
‘She must have slayed at least five reapers,’ one man was saying across a campfire.
‘I saw her carve out a dozen hearts,’ said another.
‘She was fearless. She could hold her own beside the Warswords. Saw it with my own eyes.’
Pride pricked in Wilder’s chest. He had seen Thea in action himself, but it was another thing entirely to hear her becoming a legend in the eyes of hardened warriors and Guardians.
Their conversations faded to whispers before a heavy blanket of awed silence fell across the camp – and Althea Zoltaire herself walked among them.
She moved with her chin held high, her shoulders pushed back, blood still dripping from her blade – his blade. She was covered in the filth of battle, but it only made her look more formidable.
Every warrior who was able stood to attention.
And to Wilder’s shock, they raised three fingers to their left shoulders.
He’d never seen anything like it in his life.
She was not a Warsword, not yet… But she had the respect of one.
Behind her, Cal and Wren followed, both looking shaken and overwhelmed. But Thea… Thea took it all in her stride, as though she was exactly where she belonged.
‘Where walks death, so does Althea Zoltaire,’ someone called.
Murmurs broke out across the camp. And it was only as Thea’s gaze met Wilder’s that he realised what they were calling her…
The Shadow of Death.
When at last she reached him, it took every ounce of willpower not to gather her in his arms and hold her tightly to him.
Upon closer inspection, she was bruised and battered, red welts and cuts peppering her exposed skin where wraiths had managed to lash her with their darkness.
But there was a fierce tempest in her eyes, and Wilder was willing to bet that were it not for the fate stone around her neck, there would be no hiding the power that surged through her now.
‘Are you alright?’ he asked, his voice suddenly raw. He knew there was no way they could talk privately here, and there was little chance of getting back up to the castle to their rooms.
Thea nodded, but there was a questioning gleam to her eyes, and the prickle at the back of Wilder’s neck told him there was something she knew that he didn’t.
Despite her obvious exhaustion, Thea joined in the celebrations around the war camp, seeming to realise that this was her chance to solidify the respect she had gained in the heat of the battle.
She drank and joked and commiserated with the men, soon joined by Cal and Kipp, with Wren having left to check on Farissa.
Wilder still didn’t know what had happened after Farissa was thrown overboard.
Where Wren had ended up or what had happened to cause those violent storms over the forest.
Wilder himself stayed on the outskirts of the festivities, noting that Terrence was circling overhead once more, reminding him of the half-wraiths captured to the west of the castle and the horrific fate that awaited them all.
He knew Artos and the other rulers well enough to understand that an example would be made of the poor creatures, no matter the part they had played in the attack.
Nearby, a keg groaned as the last of its contents was emptied into an overly large tankard. Wilder expected to see Torj, but it was Vernich who came to stand at his side.
‘That’s some apprentice you’ve got, Hawthorne,’ the Bloodletter muttered somewhat begrudgingly before he took a long draught of his ale.
‘Oh?’ Wilder said.
‘I might be a bastard, but I’m not so short-sighted as to deny when someone has talent…’ Vernich sighed. ‘She had my back out there.’
‘She would have anyone’s back.’
‘So I realised.’ The words were tinged with a note of regret, though the older Warsword said nothing of the sort; that wasn’t his style.
‘My own apprentice, however, is gravely injured,’ he said instead.
‘Shame.’
‘Osiris is calling for witnesses. So we can explain to his uncle what happened.’
‘Tell him it was a battle. People get hurt,’ Wilder said.
‘He’s a silent benefactor of the guild. He’ll need a bit more detail than that.’
Wilder didn’t reply, merely followed Vernich’s gaze to where Thea was telling a group of captivated warriors some heroic tale that involved Cal. It wasn’t long before men all around them were raising their cups, toasting to Callahan, the Flaming Arrow.
With his chest still heavy, Wilder forced himself to his feet and went to find the rulers of the midrealms. For the war was not over when the battle was done.
* * *
The celebrations lasted well into the evening, and it felt like a lifetime before Wilder found Thea again, swaying on her feet.
‘You need to rest,’ he told her, his voice low, positioning himself to catch her should she fall.
He expected her to argue, as she so often did. But it seemed his apprentice, his love, had learnt when to accept defeat. She nodded, gazing up at him blearily, and that was all he needed to see to show her to the tent he’d snagged on the outer perimeter of the camp.
She stumbled inside, the shock of the day finally wearing off, leaving her shaking and cold.
Wilder followed her into the tent, which seemed too small with him inside it as well, but he didn’t mind.
He wanted to be close to her, wanted to hold her through the night.
They still hadn’t exchanged more than a few words, but perhaps that was for the best, given what he knew. Given what he had to do next.
But first, he would allow them this comfort.
They didn’t speak. They simply wiped the dirt and blood from their bodies and curled up on the bedroll together, Wilder enveloping her body with his, waiting for her tremors to subside.
He must have fallen asleep at some point, because he woke to Thea tracing the contours of his face, her lips brushing against his.
‘I need you,’ she whispered.
‘You have me. Every part of me belongs to you,’ he told her, seizing the kiss, her mouth parting beneath his, allowing his tongue to slip inside and brush against hers. He drew back for a moment. ‘But tell me exactly what you need, Thea, and it’s yours.’
‘Remind me that we’re alive. Promise me that as long as we’re together, and our friends are unharmed, that’s all that truly matters.’
A chasm opened in Wilder’s heart as the words washed over him. Somewhere deep inside, he knew it wasn’t just the battle that had her shaken. There was something more, something she hadn’t yet told him. But he wouldn’t push her – not when she needed him most, not when she asked this of him.
The reassurances wouldn’t come from his mouth, but from his body. With his body he could offer her comfort.
With the rest of the camp around them, Wilder was mindful to peel their clothes away in silence, to clap his hand over her mouth as his teeth closed over a nipple, as he dragged a finger down her centre.
In the blue-tinted light within the canvas, he could see the bruises marring her skin. He kissed every one of them with reverence, along her collarbone, her ribs, and beneath him, Thea arched into his touch.
He exhaled shakily.
This woman… My woman… He had fallen for her long ago, but what he’d failed to realise was that when it came to love, it wasn’t a single fall, but many, over and over.
It was there in the grander gestures: slaying monsters, fighting furiously and making heartfelt declarations.
But it was in the smaller, quieter moments that he felt it the most deeply – that shift at the very heart of him, where he fell for her beyond reason.
His throat closed up as it hit him. He would forever be falling for Thea.
And so, in the dim light of the tent, their breaths mingling together, her fingers gentle in his hair, Wilder sat upright and pulled her into his lap, her thighs either side of him.
He kissed her, long and slow and thorough.
Only when they were both breathless did they break apart.
Celadon eyes met silver as Thea slowly, torturously, slid down the length of his cock.
It was her hand that clamped over his mouth this time to stifle his guttural moan.
The smile tugging at the corner of her mouth nearly broke him.
Then her lips were on his as she rode him, rolling her hips against his. Wilder met her movements from beneath, driving himself into her, trying to put everything he felt into each thrust.
Thea gasped as he hit that deep spot inside her, and he reached between them to circle her clit how she liked. Her head tipped back in pleasure, and he kissed her breasts and dragged his teeth over her nipples.
She burned so bright for him, and he burned with her, fucking her, loving her with all he could give her.
‘Wilder,’ she moaned, a curse, a prayer, a warning.
The taste of his name on her lips would forever be the end of him, and as he sent her beyond the point of no return, her climax reaching its crest, he hurtled over the edge with her.
* * *
Wilder woke before dawn, before the rest of the world. For a moment, time stilled as he watched Thea, as he studied her fierce beauty, softened by sleep. He memorised the way her lashes kissed the tops of her cheeks, the way her lips parted slightly and her chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm.
Then he dressed in silence, steeling himself with each piece of clothing, each piece of armour.
He looked at Thea one last time. ‘I love you,’ he whispered, knowing that there was no going back from what he was about to do.
He forced one foot in front of the other and left the tent while he still had the strength. Tears stung his eyes, but he kept walking.
No matter where he went, he would carry Thea with him. She was a part of him now, always.