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CHAPTER ONE

Althea Zoltaire’s death had been carved in stone since she was a child. That was how she knew, as she crept through a realm on the brink of darkness, that the world was not ending. Not yet.

Lightning split the sky, chased by the crack of thunder. Thea inched along the bluff, savouring the rich scent of the incoming storm, revelling in the chaos it threatened to unleash. She shouldn’t be up here, but she had learnt long ago to take destiny into her own hands.

Heart pounding, Thea scoured the rocks for a hiding spot. The meet was due to happen at any moment, here on the black cliffs, hemmed in by jagged mountains and savage seas, where giant waves barrelled through the clouds. An unnerving territory to most, the wild landscapes and the cold, sharp lines of Thezmarr was the only home she’d ever known. She had next to no memories of what had come before she and her sister, Elwren, had been left beneath the maw of the fortress portcullis.

Thea turned her attention back to the rendezvous point. There was no sign of them, not a whisper in the wind. With an impatient sigh, she toyed with the fate stone around her neck,running her thumb over the number engraved there, the number she was bound by in this life.

Twenty-seven.

The age she would die. Just three more years until her death would come to pass; a future she didn’t fear, but resented. For three short years was no time at all for a woman to become what she wanted.

A legend.

She squinted into the sky, searching for the watery orb of the sun amidst the grey. In a realm cloaked in darkness, it was often hard to tell the hour of the day, but if she was a betting woman, and she generally was, she’d say that the warriors were late. A bad sign to be sure.

The skies opened up and the downpour began, turning the ground into a muddy river beneath her boots and another bolt of lightning flashed, illuminating that which lay beyond the lashing waters: the Veil. An enormous wall of impenetrable white mist, reaching for the gods, wrapping the midrealms in its protective embrace. For hundreds of years it had shielded their realm from the monsters, until one day it hadn’t.

The thought made Thea check that her most prized – and forbidden – possession, her dagger, was snug in her boot beneath the hem of her trousers as it always was.

Hooves suddenly sounded on the rocks and Thea threw herself behind a cluster of brambles, hiding herself in the shadows as two great stallions came into view.

Her pulse quickened; her source had been correct. Those gleaming black horses belonged to only one kind of rider.

Heavy boots hit the muddied ground with a splash, and low voices danced along the cliff.

They were here.

The Warswords of Thezmarr.

Thea peeked around the rocks, desperate to see the legendary warriors up close.

A pair of men strode into the clearing, armed to the teeth, clad in black armour with their totems displayed proudly on their armbands: a steel design of two crossed swords with a third cutting down the middle.

Thea’s hand went to her own sleeve absent-mindedly, willing there to be a totem secured there.

A Warsword answered to no one but the guild master.

Ballads were sung about their power, about how upon completing the Great Rite, they became stronger, faster, more agile than the most formidable men. Some were much rumoured to be immortal. It was said they were not born, but forged with blood and steel. There were only three of them left.

Now, two of them stood mere feet away from Thea in the rain. She had been trying for over a year to get this close to them, to get a better sense of what was coming for the midrealms – for she would not be caught unawares when darkness came for them all.

She had seen the pair many times before in the Great Hall: Torj the Bear Slayer, the hammer-wielding hero with golden hair who had supposedly fought off two cursed bears in the forests of Tver; and Vernich the Bloodletter, the older warrior who had spiltriversof enemy blood in the countless battles he’d led, chiefly at the fall of Delmira.

The latter looked around the cliff, a deep crease in his brow. ‘He said he’d be here.’

‘Probably got lost, it’s been so long since he’s been home,’ Torj declared with a note of amusement.

‘I’m too thirsty for your piss-poor jokes,’ Vernich all but growled. ‘I want to get out of this fucking rain. I haven’t had dry boots for a week.’

‘His letter said to wait here —’

‘Iknowwhat it said,’ Vernich snapped. ‘Or I’d already be three ales deep by the fire.’

‘Well, by all means, go pamper yourself. I can always fill you in,’ Torj replied, a hand resting on the head of the war hammer at his belt.

Thea chewed her lip, her heart still pounding wildly.