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There, she found a stack of yellowed parchment bound in a protective leather sleeve. Frowning, she blew the dust from it and spread the pages on the workbench.
Sketches. Dozens of sketches depicting various types of armour. She recognised the full-body jacket armour made of quilted linen or wool known as a gambeson; Esyllt wore one of these every winter and then cursed its insulation in the summer months.
Thea turned the page to find a design for armour made with boiled leather – this was what most of the Guardians of Thezmarr wore, as it was the cheapest to produce and could be easily sourced from Harenth. It was what her own set was crafted from. Though Thea knew it wore out quickly, especially if the warrior failed to oil it regularly – which, of course, most of them did. She still needed Wilder to teach her how to take care of her set.
A dripping sound distracted her and she glanced down to find herself bleeding. A nasty gash carved through her left arm. She vaguely remembered it happening in her battle against the wraith, but she couldn’t feel a thing now.
Thea continued to sift through the sketches: chain mail, steel plates, brigandine and combinations of them all, until she got to the final page. In the top corner was a symbol she knew well: two crossed swords with a third cutting down the middle, the emblem of the Warsword. And beneath it were several more sketches for armour.
Thea held the parchment by its edges, mindful not to smudge the designs or mar them with her bloody fingers. Her chest was suddenly tight as she thought of the Warsword who had never seen this armour, who, despite passing the perils of the Great Rite, had not been gifted that which those before him had been. Her heart cracked a little, and as it did, she carefully folded the final sketch and slid it into her satchel.
When she emerged from the armoury, she was surprised to find dark clouds still lingering over the ruins. She could taste the storm on her tongue, and again she felt the flicker of magic in her veins, itching at her fingertips.
That restlessness she’d always felt, that pressure, had started to build again.
She knew Wilder was right; therheguld reaperhad been on a scouting mission, and it had learnt of Thea’s power for its master. It would report that an heir of Delmira lived, and that her magic could summon lightning from nothing. That secret was no longer her own.
But that wasn’t the only thing it had gleaned from their skirmish.
Now, it knew not only of her strength…
But of her weakness, too.
Wilder Hawthorne.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
WILDER
It took Wilder longer than he cared to admit to recover from the reaper’s attack. Though he was no stranger to nightmares, being dropped right back into the fray of the Islaton battle was something else entirely. Even now, he could taste the sorrow and despair on his tongue; he carried the weight of it in his chest.
Malik. Talemir.
Both hurt beyond repair on his watch.
When his hands had stopped shaking, he went to find Thea. He hated that after encounters with three different monsters, she’d taken it upon herself to wander the ruined city alone. Even more so, he hated that he’d been too overcome to go with her. She’d done it for him, he realised. She had recognised that broken piece of him that needed to work through the trauma alone.
Steeling himself against all that warred within, he found her perched on the edge of a dried-up fountain, her pack open at her feet. She was hunched over herself, and wore no shirt, only the band that covered her breasts. Her left arm was streaked with blood, and a needle and thread was poised in her shaking hand.
She cursed quietly to herself, reaching for a flask on the ground.Fire extract. He could smell it on the wind. She’d found the stash in his bag, apparently.
Wilder watched silently as she tossed back the liquor and returned her attention to the seeping wound on her bicep, clearly trying to work up the nerve to make the first suture. That was always the worst part.
Every instinct within him roared to go to her, to tend to her and comfort her, to take away the pain. It hurt him to watch her hurt, but this was how a Warsword was made.
‘What happened?’ he said as he approached.
She didn’t even look up. She’d known he was there.
‘A stupid error on my part with the wraith,’ she replied through gritted teeth.
‘You won’t make it again, then, will you?’ His voice was rough as he surveyed the damage himself.
‘Hopefully not.’ She hissed as she put the needle to her skin.
He hid his wince. ‘Thought Farissa taught you battlefield healing?’
‘She did. It’s a little different when you’re treating yourself, Warsword. We don’t all just dump a bunch of liquor on it and call it a day.’ Thea still hadn’t looked at him, but he noted the beads of perspiration on her brow.
