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‘Yes,’ Thea said without hesitation.
That earned her another chuckle from Torj.
Wren ignored it. ‘You know, if you took off that fate stone, you might be able to draw the rain away.’
‘Nice try,’ Thea replied. ‘I told you, I can’t.’
‘Youwon’t. There’s a difference.’
‘Semantics, sister.’
But an awed breath escaped Wren as her eyes drifted past Thea. ‘Look…’
Thea followed her gaze to the ravine below.
Where over a hundred Tverrian thoroughbreds grazed.
Thea’s own gasp caught in her throat. With their heads bowed to the grass, the horses’ coats gleamed in the sun, shifting over lean muscle, long manes dancing in the breeze. Some of them looked up to where their company had paused on the ridge, their long necks poised, their tails swishing. But they didn’t bolt; they simply watched.
She had never seen a more majestic sight.
Both Warsword stallions nickered softly in recognition.
Wilder was once again beside Thea. ‘When you pass the Great Rite, you come here immediately,’ he told her, his voice low.
When. Notif.
‘You come to claim your stallion straight away. The horses will sense the Rite on you. They will feel the call of the Furies. Remember that.’
Thea held his gaze, that breathtaking silver stare. ‘I will.’
* * *
The further inland they rode, the more the kingdom of Tver mesmerised Thea. There was a rugged beauty to the landscape that she had never experienced before. Where Thezmarr was all cold, sharp lines, Harenth was verdant and manicured, and Delmira was scorched earth and ruins, Tver… Tver’s mountains were carpets of gold and sage, with sweeping, richly textured valleys and hollows. Its rivers were crystal blue, topped with white foam as they coursed through the gorges. It was stunning, even as they rode at full pelt across the terrain.
What felt like a lifetime ago, Wilder had told her he was originally from a port town between Tver and Aveum, and as Thea drank in the coarse charm of the land, she realised it suited him.
‘Not long now,’ Torj called, pointing to the horizon.
Nestled amid the gilded hills was a castle of yellow stone. Notos, the capital of Tver. Villages and woodlands surrounded it, and to Thea’s eye, there was no sign of the impending devastation they had all expected to find. Not a shadow in the sky, not a flicker of darkness in sight.
There was only the kiss of a breeze on a windless day.
She scanned their surroundings, suddenly on edge, hand on the hilt of her sword.
Her nostrils itched, the acrid scent of burnt hair filling them.
A unified, ear-piercing shriek filled the air.
And a swarm of shadow wraiths descended.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
WILDER
In a blur of membranous wings, they were surrounded.
Wilder’s thundering heart threatened to burst through his chest. Nearly choking on the overpowering scent of burnt hair, he unsheathed his swords, and heard the others do the same as the looming wraiths closed in.
