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‘True.’
For a moment, Thea looked inward. It had been a long time since someone had asked her that question sincerely. She couldn’t tell the Warsword of her fate stone, he’d only just warmed to her, she didn’t want him to think she was a waste of his time. So she searched beyond that. ‘I don’t like staying still,’ she admitted slowly. ‘I have always felt a restlessness within, and whenever I have fought or wielded a blade I’ve felt more at home in my own skin than any other time.’
‘I can see that about you,’ he replied. ‘You crave freedom, adventure…’
‘Who doesn’t crave those things?’ Thea asked.
‘Everyone is different.’
‘What about you? Why did you want to be a warrior? A Warsword?’
The Warsword in question adjusted his grip on the reins, seeming to mull his answer over before speaking. ‘My brother,’ he said eventually. ‘My brother was a Warsword. And I wanted to be just like him.’
Was.The word echoed painfully between them and Thea’s heart fractured for him. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to lose a sibling, couldn’t imagine life without Wren. She didn’t push the topic further. If Hawthorne wanted to talk about his brother, he would in his own time.
After that, they rode in companionable silence and Thea found that unlike the initial leg of the journey, this part was moving too quickly. Time was fickle like that, something she knew all too well.
When the second dusk fell on their return journey, Hawthorne didn’t leave her to look after the horses and the fire – he took her with him, deep into the nearby woods and showed her how to track hares through the undergrowth.
‘Usually you’d start with much larger game,’ he explained. ‘But we wouldn’t manage to use an entire deer, and I’ve never been one to kill more than I need. So we’re starting with the harder targets.’
‘Good,’ Thea said. ‘I like a challenge.’
In the fading light, he showed her how to move without snapping twigs and rustling the leaves, an invaluable skill not only for a hunter but for a warrior, for a future Warsword. She watched him with a ferocious intensity, drinking in every kernel of knowledge he offered. How many monsters had he slayed in the name of the midrealms? How much dark magic had beenwielded against him? What marks had it left on that warrior’s body of his?
Thea had sought out tale after tale about Thezmarr’s elite over the years. She knew most of the stories by heart. She knew of Thezmarr’s resilience, of its Warswords’ duty-bound code, but she had never spoken to one, had never ridden alongside one, and here she was… hunting game with the Hand of Death himself.
‘You’re staring,’ Hawthorne said pointedly.
Thea started, cheeks flushing. Shehadbeen staring. ‘I’m studying,’ she replied, making a point to mimic his last step.
‘You truly care about this, don’t you?’
‘Have I, for one moment, acted in a way that’s made you think otherwise?’ she countered.
Hawthorne’s head tilted. ‘No. It’s just… been a long while since I’ve seen this level of dedication, and stubbornness,’ he added. ‘A long while.’
She was about to question him further when he raised a tattooed finger to his lips.
Thea followed his gaze to the small clearing up ahead, where a large hare stood on its hind legs, munching on some foliage.
Ever so slowly, the Warsword’s hand went to his quiver. There was no sound as he nocked an arrow to the longbow and drew the string back, his muscles shifting beneath his creaking leathers.
The arrow flew.
The hare hadn’t stood a chance.
It was impaled through the eye to the tree behind it.
‘You always want to aim for the eye with smaller game,’ Hawthorne told her as he went to retrieve his kill. ‘It’s a swifter death and doesn’t make a mess of what little meat there is.’ He passed her the bow and quiver. ‘Your turn, Alchemist.’
They took cover in the bushes and waited. Crouching beneath the branches, Hawthorne was close enough that Thea could feel the warmth radiating from his body and she could smell a faint hint of his rosewood soap.
She glanced at him and gripped the bow tighter.
The Warsword was still as stone, but his silver gaze slid to hers, a glimmer of amusement there.
Movement caught Thea’s eye, and she shifted silently on her toes as Hawthorne had taught her. In the clearing was another hare.
