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His friend’s expression changed. ‘Adrienne’s got the Naarvian rangers as prepared as they can be. Anya’s spreading the word among the shadow-touched across the midrealms, but even with shadow magic, it’s taking longer than expected to gather willing fighters. Not all of us have made our peace with this life.’
Wilder nodded. He remembered what Talemir had been like in the early days. He’d hated his new form so much he’d nearly poisoned himself seeking a cure.
‘What of our resources? Steel and —’
‘Steel is a problem, as always. The Naarvian forge is being watched, as you can imagine. Mining the iron ore at the source is another issue. It’s not a quiet job.’ Dratos cleared his throat. ‘Our prince has the other efforts in hand.’
‘He’s your prince, not mine.’
Dratos waved him off. ‘You and your grudges, Warsword.’
Wilder ignored him. ‘When can we expect to make a stand?’
The ranger gave a hoarse laugh. ‘You bringing anything to the table? Besides your mood swings and muscles, I mean?’
‘I brought a soon-to-be Warsword.’
‘Great, and I brought my cousin Gus,’ Dratos replied drily. ‘Anything else?’
Wilder followed Dratos’ line of sight to the unruly mop of dark brown hair across the campsite. He started. He’d briefly met the boy in Naarva, when he and Talemir had been assigned a mission there years ago. Gus was not only Dratos’ cousin, but the orphan Adrienne and her friend Drue had all but adopted as a little brother of their own. Along with several others, he’d been taken hostage by shadow wraiths. Tal and Wilder had helped rescue them.
Back then, Gus had barely been able to keep his balance because of the new wings at his back. Now, the only thing that told Wilder the teenager across the way was Angus Castemont was the knitted jumper he was wearing. Dratos was always complaining about his knitting habit.
‘Furies…’ Wilder muttered. ‘How old is he now?’
‘Nearly nineteen,’ Dratos said regretfully. ‘He’s a real prick most of the time.’
‘Wonder where he gets it.’
‘Fuck off.’
That forced a laugh out of Wilder at last before he returned to the conversation at hand. ‘I’ve got a team meeting us in two days’ time.’
‘A team? How mysterious.’
‘Gotta keep you on your toes.’
‘I’ve got several women doing that already, Warsword. Maybe save it for your pretty apprentice.’
Wilder heard himself growl. ‘Not another word about her, Dratos.’
Mischief danced in the ranger’s bottle-green eyes. ‘But you make it so much fun.’
Wilder gave him a half-hearted shove. ‘Have another toke.’
‘Oh, I fully intend to.’
Wilder left the winged ranger to his vices and wandered to the perimeter of the camp, starting a lap. He didn’t trust himself to return to his tent, not with Thea there. He had made the right decision, cooling things between them, or so he told himself. It felt like there were far too many unspoken words, things that needed to be out in the open before they picked up where they had left off – if that was even possible at all, given what they’d been through. He knew he’d hurt her, but… she’d hurt him, too. He hadn’t dared to say it aloud, but now, as he paced the outskirts of the shadow-touched camp, he finally admitted it to himself.
As he walked, he tied himself in knots – then grew frustrated that he wasn’t in knots over the war to come, but over her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THEA
Someone cleared their throat from the entrance of the tent. Thea sat bolt upright from where she’d been half dozing, wondering if Wilder had changed his mind —
‘I’d knock,’ came Anya’s voice, ‘but canvas doesn’t really allow for it…’
