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Vernich paced. ‘We haven’t seen the bastard in years, as if I’d —’
Another set of hooves thundered against the mountain and a spray of water showered the clearing amidst the rain.
A thick silence fell as a third rider joined the others. Dismounting from his great stallion, subtle notes of rosewood and leather tangled with the scent of rain in his wake.
As he came into view, Thea didn’t know what detail to take in first. His towering build was a wall of muscle wrapped in black armour, giant twin blades peeking out from behind him. Wet, dark hair was swept up in a knot at the back of his head, a neat beard lined his fierce jaw…
The nape of Thea’s neck prickled. She knewofhim, of course.
Although he had been gone for years, there were few who hadn’t heard of Wilder Hawthorne, the youngest Warsword of Thezmarr, the last of his kind to have passed the Great Rite.
The one they called the Hand of Death.
Power rippled from him in waves.
Thea froze as it thrummed outward, the force of it strange, unexpected… She’d never been this close totruemagic before, not many common folk had. Magic in the midrealms had become unpredictable over the centuries. It had faded from the people and was now a gift only possessed by those in the royal families and bestowed upon Warswords during the Great Rite. But it manifested in other ways, in places, in spells, in monsters.
Thea could only imagine what it was like to have that sort of force at one’s fingertips, to revel in that kind of strength —
The Hand of Death’s power pulsed from him now, calling out to her.
Hawthorne turned to his fellow warriors, surveying them critically.
Neither spoke.
‘Good,’ he said at last, his voice rich and deep. ‘You’re here.’
‘Not that I appreciated the summons,’ Vernich replied tersely.
Hawthorne ignored this. ‘We have much to discuss.’
For the first time, Thea’s gaze went to what he held in his right hand. A hessian sack. A sack that dripped red.
Torj noticed it too. ‘Grim news?’
A muscle tensed in Hawthorne’s jaw. ‘It’s always grim news.’
‘Tell us then.’
‘I’ve come from the Broken Isles,’ he said, his voice low and deep. ‘I slayed a new swarm of shadow wraiths there. I planned to return to the fortress immediately with the report, but a reef dweller stalked my ship all the way to our coast, so I led it further west, towards the Veil. Until…’
He thrust the bloodied sack at Torj. ‘I came upon a wraith far too fucking close to Thezmarr for comfort.’
With a noise of disgust, Torj pulled something black and dripping from the bag.
Thea nearly gagged.
A heart.
‘Where there is one, there are many.’ Hawthorne warned. ‘I have two more of those in another pack. There are more tears in the Veil. More breaches every day by this scum and worse.’
‘Furies save us,’ Torj murmured.
Hawthorne laughed darkly. ‘The Furies don’t save anyone.’
As the words left his lips, he looked up – a thrill raced down Thea’s spine, a quiet bolt of lightning surging through her veins.
Through the brush, her celadon eyes met the silver gaze of the infamous Warsword.
