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‘And Wren —’
‘Will find us again.’ Anya smiled then. ‘Just as the fates intended.’
‘You believe that?’
‘I do.’ Anya got to her feet, dusting the breadcrumbs from her lap. ‘We don’t know each other well… But I’d like to.’
‘Me too,’ Thea said.
Anya offered her hand. ‘We storm wielders have to stick together.’
Thea shook her sister’s hand, her palm as rough and calloused as Thea’s own. ‘I’m not a storm wielder anymore.’
Letting go, Anya simply raised a brow and lifted the tent flap, readying to leave. ‘Aren’t you?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
WILDER
Morning came sooner than Wilder would have liked, marked by the soft bell tolling from the heart of the camp. There was a quiet rhythm to the place that he appreciated, though. It reminded him of life at Thezmarr in his earlier days. When life had consisted of meals at set times, training sessions and scrapping with his friends and brother. Things had been simpler then.
He made his way to the centre of the cavern, where several tables had been set up and Adrienne was already poring over several pieces of parchment, a deep crease in her brow. Anya stood at her side, running her hands over her closely shaved head, looking impatient. Anya always looked impatient, though; she reminded him of Thea in that respect – always wanting to move, always needing to go forward, as though a storm bit at her very heels.
They looked up at his approach.
‘If it isn’t the fallen Warsword himself,’ Anya said by way of greeting.
He shot her a warning look. She knew it hadn’t been easy for him to turn his back on the guild, even after seeing what Osiris had done to her. Even in jest, the comment still stung.
Adrienne slid a bowl of steaming porridge across the table to him. ‘When’s the last time you ate? Or slept? You look like shit.’
Wilder grunted. ‘Aren’t you both a delight to be around this morning.’
‘We do our best,’ Adrienne replied with a smirk.
Shaking his head in disdain, he picked up the bowl and lifted the spoon to his mouth – where it hung suspended as his eyes landed on Thea.
She was wearing his shirt.
And nothing else but her boots.
It was entirely possible his mouth was hanging open, but he couldn’t help it as he drank in the sight of her long, bare legs and the hint of her perfect body underneath that almost threadbare fabric.
As she reached the table, she raised a brow at him in challenge. ‘Your pants were too big.’
Adrienne’s head dropped back as she snorted, knocking over her own breakfast, porridge splattering across the parchment.
‘Charming,’ Anya told her, flicking a clump from her own clothing back onto Adrienne. Wilder had half a mind to toss his own breakfast at the Naarvian ranger for her lack of subtlety, but then, that would be hypocritical, wouldn’t it?
‘Problem?’ Thea asked, giving him a hard stare.
Wilder opened his mouth to make some sort of smart-arsed retort, but was saved by Adrienne, who got to her feet and looped her arm through Thea’s.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s get you some proper clothes before your Warsword over there pops that vein in his neck.’
Wilder hadn’t realised how tense he was, that he was clutching the side of the table so hard the timber was splintering beneath his grip as he watched them go.
Anya followed his gaze with a bemused expression. ‘Do you think they’re comparing notes?’ she quipped.
