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Her heart seized, her entire body tensed.
His stare pierced her very soul.
Slowly, Hawthorne blinked and he turned back to his companions. ‘There’s more, but I won’t discuss it here.’
‘What do you mean, not here?’ Vernich snapped. ‘I thought that was the whole fucking point —’
‘Not here.’ Hawthorne snatched up his reins and without another glance in Thea’s direction, led the others away into the black mountains.
Thea’s legs went completely liquid, her hands trembling at her sides. He’dseenher. Hawthorne had seen her and hadn’t said anything…Why?
Her mind still churning, she forced herself to her feet. When she was sure the Warswords were gone, she darted towards the narrow, rocky path that led back to the fortress. Her fate stone beat against her chest like a war drum as she scrambled across the cliffs and down the rugged mountainside, past the thick walls and the gatehouse, to the doors of the north tower. Panting, she threw herself inside, at last out of the wind and rain. Wringing the water from her bronze and gold-streaked hair, she gave herself a moment to process what had happened; what she’d seen and heard.
It was true.
After years of absence, Wilder Hawthorne had returned to Thezmarr, and he carried the hearts of monsters with him.
CHAPTER TWO
‘You reckless fool,’ her sister, Elwren, hissed as soon as Thea halted before her in the upstairs halls.
Thea met Wren’s glower. She and her sister shared the same eye colour: an unusual shade of celadon; as well as similar dark, strong brows. Wren usually used hers for scowling at Thea. They also shared the same bronze tresses, though more gold threaded Thea’s from more time spent outdoors. They were two sides of the same coin, but where Thea was all sharp lines and muscle, Wren was the softer, more beautiful of the two. Two decades of fortress life had only confirmed that fact; fortune looked upon those with pretty smiles and skirts, not broken fingernails and threadbare trousers.
But now, any semblance of Wren’s gentle nature was long gone as she yanked Thea out of earshot from the others and pulled off Thea’s sopping cloak, brushing away the larger chunks of dried mud.
Thea batted her hand away, already irritated. ‘Will you stop? I’m the eldest, it should be —’
Wren snorted. ‘Thea, you are one of the few cases that prove older is not always wiser.’
‘Then you’re lucky I’m here to make you look good. Stop complaining.’
Shaking her head, messy bun bobbing, Wren passed Thea several pieces of parchment, which she took with a grimace. Morewomen’swork. Poisons and potions, rather than blades and blood. Another reason to curse the laws, to resent the prophecy they’d been taught to fear:
In the shadow of a fallen kingdom, in the eye of the storm
A daughter of darkness will wield a blade in one hand
And rule death with the other
When the skies are blackened, in the end of days
The Veil will fall.
The tide will turn when her blade is drawn.
A dawn of fire and blood.
Twenty years ago, after that deadly prophecy had been uttered, women had been forced to surrender their blades. Thea, only four years of age at the time, had seen bits of it unfold from a grate in the cellar, had watched the women rage as they were stripped of their right to protect the midrealms.
It hadn’t stopped Thea carrying her dagger.
Nothing could.
Her attention drifted down the hall to where the trophy room was located. Even as an adult, she longed to visit, to gaze upon the names of champions. Talemir Starling, for one – the Warsword called the Prince of Hearts, who was undefeated in dual sword wielding and, who according to the tales, had carved out more monster hearts than one could count.
Another name had always fascinated Thea. Six years ago, she’d discovered the name of their warden, Audra, there too, underKnife Throwing Champions of Thezmarr.The stern-faced librarian had been the only woman warrior to surrender her weapons and stay on at the fortress.
‘I covered for you with Farissa, told her you had one of your nosebleeds,’ Wren was saying.
