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How many times had Wilder pulled her back from the brink of fighting him? How many times had Seb managed to get the better of the situation?
Thea’s fingers itched to close around the Naarvian weapon, to use it to drive Seb Barlowe into the ground so he never got back up. But a glance at the sun creeping lower to the horizon told her that the real battle was nearly upon them, and bastard or not, Seb was one more soldier in their arsenal against a much greater threat.
Thea squared her shoulders and slowly pushed Wilder’s sword away. ‘I don’t need that,’ she said, raising her fists.
Surprise and approval flickered in Wilder’s gaze, and he sheathed his sword.
Seb’s nostrils flared. He didn’t lower his weapon. Instead, he gave a cry of outrage – a rookie mistake – before he lurched towards Thea, blade swinging.
But Thea had fought far worse opponents than the likes of him. She became the wind, her form blurring as she ducked and dodged Seb’s powerful strikes. He didn’t mean to humiliate her; he didn’t mean to put her in her place.
He meant to maim. To kill.
Unarmed by choice, Thea swept under his blows, pivoted around the bold thrusts of his sword. She could have been playing Dancing Alchemists back at Thezmarr for all the fear she felt. None. Just a thrill as the slash of the blade didn’t land, as Seb’s face grew redder and redder with his failed efforts.
‘Fight back, you bitch,’ he grunted, eyes wild with rage.
‘As you wish,’ Thea replied.
He didn’t see her fist coming.
One perfectly placed jab, her knuckles colliding with the bridge of his nose, a satisfying crack sounding.
A garbled noise escaped Seb as he staggered, dropping his sword to clutch his face, blood streaming.
Thea surveyed him dispassionately. ‘That shouldn’t stop you fighting. You’re needed in the battle.’
Spluttering, Seb lunged for his sword.
Only to have Wilder kick it out of reach.
The Warsword looked down on the pitiful sight and grabbed a fistful of the Guardian’s shirt, lifting him bodily from the ground.
‘When this skirmish is done, I’ll see to it that you don’t step foot back in Thezmarr,’ he growled. ‘Your days there are over.’
Seb’s legs kicked out in the air, his hand clawing at Wilder’s grip.
But Wilder held firm. ‘I dare you to lay another finger on my brother,’ he said, his voice deadly calm, in stark contrast to the violence of his actions and the threat gleaming in his eyes.
‘Your brother…?’ Seb faltered. ‘I didn’t know —’
‘Now you do.’ And Wilder flung Seb across the camp with his Furies-given strength, sending him sprawling in the mud with a loud slap.
That shattered the silence around the camp, the men breaking out into hushed whispers. No one tried to help the Guardian up.
Thea turned on her heel, already walking away, back towards the castle. She’d seen enough here.
Wilder was at her side in a matter of quick strides. ‘You… you did well,’ he told her, his words choked.
‘Did I?’
‘You controlled your temper, for once.’
‘Then I did better than you,’ she quipped.
Wilder huffed. ‘Thatwasme controlling my temper.’
A smile tugged at Thea’s mouth. ‘I told him when I next fought him, he wouldn’t get back up,’ she said. ‘But I figured killing off our own warriors before a battle was probably a misstep.’
