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‘What are you up to?’ he asked, leaning against the monument.
Thea looked around for the Guild Master, knowing he wouldn’t stand for a show of such disrespect, but he was nowhere in sight and Torj was looking down at her expectantly.
‘I’m trying to find Warsword Hawthorne, I need to return some things to him.’
‘Is that so?’ Amusement gleamed in Torj’s eyes.
‘Yes,’ Thea replied, trying not to sound frustrated. ‘No one will tell me where his cabin is.’
‘I can tell you that,’ he informed her smoothly.
Thea blinked. ‘I’d appreciate it,’ she managed.
‘Well, he certainly won’t,’ Torj said with a laugh, but he leaned in and told her the way.
At last, with Torj’s instructions memorised, Thea buttoned up her cloak and lit a torch. Bracing herself against the wind, she went to find the Warsword’s cabin.
Taking the hidden trail beyond the training arena, Thea navigated the spindly forest. It was different to the Bloodwoods south of the fortress, many of the trees were already bare for the upcoming winter. In the near distance, the mountains loomed beneath the glowing orb of the moon and soon, she heard the roaring of the falls.
She must have walked through the dark for over half an hour, repeating the directions she’d been given in her head before she saw the soft glow of candlelight up ahead filtering through small, square windows. Tendrils of smoke coiled into the crisp night air from the chimney, drifting dreamily up into the sky as she approached.
Suddenly nervous, Thea stood on the small porch, raising a fist to the door and knocked loudly. She waited, straining to hear any noise from within the cabin.
It was silent.
She knocked again. Her stomach was churning. What if she woke him? What if there was someone in there with him? Or what if he wasn’t in? Could she leave his clothes on the front step? She stepped back, trying to decide what to do —
The door flew inward; the frame filled by a huge figure.
Wilder Hawthorne gripped a white towel slung low around his hips, and in the other hand brandished a dagger.
Her dagger, Thea realised, before all the thoughts emptied out of her head.
He was naked, save for the towel, and he was dripping wet.
Water sluiced down his body, following the carved paths of his broad chest, down the ridges of his abdomen, a ragged scar there, and lower, to the V-shaped grooves that disappeared beneath the fabric of his towel. Droplets clung to the darkdusting of hair across his torso and Thea couldn’t look away. His body… Well, it had been made by the gods, honed by —
‘What are you doing here?’ he growled, lowering the weapon.
Thea’s mouth had gone dry. She had to clear her throat before she found her words. ‘I came to return your things – your cloak and your shirt. Do you always answer the door like this?’
‘Do you always show up to places uninvited?’ He made a disgruntled noise. ‘How’d you find this cabin?’
‘Torj told me how to get here.’
‘Of course he did,’ Hawthorne scoffed, still holding the towel that hung dangerously low. He didn’t exactly invite her in, but he stepped back and left the door ajar, so she entered.
As her shock subsided, she studied the tattoo that she’d glimpsed before, the pattern that trailed from his left hand all the way up his arm and shoulder, and down the same side of his powerfully built back. Upon closer inspection, she saw it was an extensive artwork of black whorls and a language she didn’t recognise – except for one section. A line of text that ran parallel to his spine: it was the same text engraved on the blade of her dagger, the dagger now in his possession. It took all of Thea’s willpower not to close the gap between them and run her fingers down the words.
‘What does it mean?’ Her cheeks flamed as she spoke. ‘The text on your back, I mean. It’s the same as the inscription on my dagger.’
‘Still insisting it’s your dagger…’
‘It is.’ Thea waited, watching as Hawthorne faced her again, still in his gods-damned towel, twirling the aforementioned dagger between his fingers. He looked from the steel to her, considering – always considering.
‘It means:Glory in death, immortality in legend. It’s written in the ancient tongue of the Furies – the original Warswords.’
Thea forced herself to swallow the lump in her throat. ‘Are you going to get dressed?’
