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It seemed that no sooner had Thea and her friends arrived back in Thezmarr than they were riding out again. As they cantered along the Mourner’s Trail with the thunderous sound of two hundred horses echoing between the trees, the weary exhaustion in Thea’s bones lifted, replaced by the quiet thrum of anticipation. And fear.

Hawthorne was right: she’d be a fool not to fear what lay ahead. No one spoke more of the threat, or what might await them in the ruins, but Thea had sense enough to know this was no training exercise.

Time blurred, as did the Bloodwoods surrounding them as they rode. When they reached the end of Thezmarrian territory, Hawthorne led them north, atop his black stallion and flanked by his fellow Warswords. As the night deepened, they turned left onto the fork in the Wesford Road that had once connected the fallen kingdom of Delmira with the rest of the midrealms.

Thea had never travelled north before, nor did she know how long it would take for them to reach the ruins. Over the years, she had learnt some geography and history about the territory… The terrain inclined steadily all the way to Delmira, which had countless hills and valleys. She knew a great lake rested between the ruins and Harenth, though she couldn’t remember its name.

Perhaps it no longer matters, she reflected.

Books had told her that Delmira itself, or what was left of it, was situated on a plateau of land beyond ancient cliffs. Over the many years since its demise, farmers had tried to settle on the empty land, but misfortune had befallen each and every one of them, leading the entire midrealms to believe that the kingdom and its lands were cursed.

It was these thoughts that filled Thea’s buzzing mind as they rode into the night. All the while, she wished she could see the landmarks; wished she knew the terrain as well as the Warswords.

One day,she vowed.One day I’ll know the midrealms so well I could ride with my eyes closed.

In the blanket of darkness around her, she could make out the outline of her friends riding beside her. Neither had spoken since they’d left Thezmarr. In fact, no one had spoken except the Warswords; the low sounds of their voices carried to the back of the unit. Doing her best to signal her intentions to Cal and Kipp, Thea urged her horse into a quicker pace, squeezing her way to the front of the unit.

There, the Warswords’ words were clearer.

‘Any idea how many?’ Torj was saying.

Vernich grunted. ‘Scout reported at least two, maybe more. They said the darkness that followed was worse than ever.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ Hawthorne allowed. ‘I’ve seen it countless times in my recent travels. Night ripples from the shadow wraiths. They can create it, manipulate it in every way. It can take the form of whips, lashing their victims bloody, or manifest as their darkest traumas. And that’s just the start. They can swallow you whole with it.’

A bead of sweat trickled beneath Thea’s shoulder blades and an icy shiver ran down her spine.

There was a heavy pause before Torj spoke again. ‘You think they’re like the ones we fought in Naarva?’

‘Exactly like those,’ Hawthorne replied.

Tremors wracked Thea’s whole body as she listened.

‘You have truly been hunting shadow wraiths all this time, haven’t you?’

‘You knew this, Torj. Among other filth that claws its way through the Veil.’

‘We knew you were hunting monsters,’ Vernich interjected. ‘No thanks to your non-existent correspondence, mind you. But we didn’t know what monsters or where.’

‘Nor did I, until I was facing them.’

‘Do we have enough men?’ Torj asked quietly.

Another silence hung between them, and Thea thought for a moment that Hawthorne might not answer at all.

‘I hope so,’ he said at last.

The company rode for several hours along the old, unused trail, the yellow moon and glittering stars barely illuminating the path before them. The impending winter’s bite was sharp. Thea was close enough to Cal and Kipp that she could hear their teeth chattering, and if she looked up into the night sky, she could see her breath clouding before her face.

It seemed tradition for the men to share stories from other realms as they rode – a distraction from what lay ahead. They spoke of sea drakes and teerah panthers, of strange flesh-eating moths and water horses called backahasts, of reef dwellers and all-powerful tyrants, but not a single creature sounded as harrowing as the ones Hawthorne had described.

If the Hand of Death was wary, so too should they all be.

The conversation then changed to deadly locations. One soldier had escorted prisoners to the Scarlet Tower off the coastof Naarva, a place he claimed had nearly sucked away his will to live. Another had navigated a barge through the Broken Isles, where he swore he blocked his ears against the deathsongs of ancient cyrens. One of the commanders contributed his story about being half frozen to death on the way to Aveum. Each story was presented as a badge of honour, proof that the warrior belonged amongst the rest and had earned the right to fight the darkness that threatened the realm.

At the sound of the next voice, Thea groaned inwardly. She could easily discern Seb Barlowe’s haughty tone cutting through the whispers.

‘In my first year at Thezmarr,’ he was saying. ‘I discovered a series of caves in the black mountains that flood every winter during the storms. Lightning isn’t supposed to strike the same place twice, but those caves… Lightning strikes there every season, in exactly the same spot.’