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Thea forced down the bile that had risen in her throat and tried not to picture their comrade. ‘Gods.’

A shadow fell over them as Hawthorne appeared at Thea’s side. The Warsword surveyed the line of warriors, all bearing marks of her treatment, and offered her his hand. ‘I think you’ve done all you can here.’

Thea took it, warmth flooding through her as he helped her to her feet.

‘You’re unharmed?’ he asked softly.

‘Yes. Unharmed.’ She scanned his body, noting the countless gashes, the mottled bruising already forming across his skin.

He followed her gaze. ‘I’ve had much worse than this,’ he murmured.

Thea reached for her satchel. ‘Let me help —’

Hawthorne shook his head and stilled her hands, swallowing them with his. ‘Rest now.’

Then, he was walking away.

They were always leaving one another, it seemed.

It was some time before Thea registered Cal had joined her and Kipp, sporting a gash to the collarbone, but otherwise unharmed.

‘I thought you told us there was “no one” in the picture, huh?’ Kipp said, following her gaze trailing Hawthorne across the ruins.

Thea ignored him. Her own shock had sunk in as she walked, wandering the rubble aimlessly, waiting for orders. She forced herself to take deep breaths of the crisp morning air, ignoring the metallic tang, and took comfort in the presence of her friends on either side of her. In the midday light, she could see the blood, both human and wraith, staining the earth.

At the centre of the ruins, the Warswords convened.

Vernich’s leg had been sewn up rather gruesomely, but he stood as straight as the others, arms folded over his chest as they considered the heap of gore at their boots.

‘We should burn them,’ Torj was saying.

‘And toss the ashes out to sea,’ Vernich added in agreement.

But it was Hawthorne, covered in blood and filth, who shook his head. ‘We take the hearts,’ he stated. ‘We take them back to Thezmarr.’

And so, with the hearts of monsters in blood-soaked sacks, and the bodies of fallen comrades fastened to riderless horses, the Warswords mounted their stallions once more to lead the warriors of Thezmarr home.

WILDER HAWTHORNE

As they journeyed back to Thezmarr, Wilder rode ahead of the company. He needed to distance himself from his Warsword brothers, from the commanders, from everyone and everything, including the terror that had gripped his heart when the reaper had clapped eyes on Thea.

Arheguld reaper… A creature of unending darkness, a monster who couldreach into a man’s soul and infect it with the same dark curse they bear.It had been drawn toher.

His shirt grew damp with sweat beneath his armour. The shadow wraiths and their masters didn’t belong in the midrealms, they never had, and yet here they were, stalking the kingdoms freely, seeking power to feed off. That was what they thirsted for the most, more than blood, more than death.

Power. They could sense it, sniff it out amongst a crowd…

And one had found it in Thea.

From the heart of the fray, Wilder had watched the creature pause mid-kill, its attention snapping to her, as though someone had lifted a cover from its eyes and at long last it could see the very thing it had always wanted.

The attacks had continued to evolve since he’d first learnt of them, since he’d dealt with the monsters firsthand himself.For them to send in five reapers was unusual, given that their deaths ensured the demise of those they had sired. To Wilder, it meant there must be more of them than they knew, that their numbers must be great enough that losing entire units was of no concern. That the reapers were getting arrogant. Both thoughts were terrifying.

Wilder’s chest burned as it grew tighter. He pushed the loose hair from his brow and reached for his flask, taking a much needed draught of the fiery liquid within.

Dratos’ message had mentioned wraiths, not reapers. But five of them had got through… Five.

The Veil grows more unstable each day. Our rangers have reported sounds echoing from beyond its mist, and tremors wracking the outskirts of our lands.