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Thea swore.

‘You curse like an alchemist.’

‘And you act like a prick.’

‘Perhaps I am,’ he muttered.

‘On that I have no doubt.’

A muscle twitched in his jaw. ‘Sorry to shatter your illusions about the legendary Warswords.’

‘No, you’re not.’

‘You’re right, I’m not.’

‘Are you this obnoxious with everyone? Or have you saved that just for me?’

‘Obnoxious?’ Hawthorne bit out. ‘I’m obeying the orders of the Guild Master. I owe no one small talk, especially a woman who put the midrealms at risk by wielding a blade.’

It was Thea’s turn to laugh. ‘I’ve been carrying that bladefor six years,’ she snapped. ‘And I didn’t see a swarm of shadow wraiths invading Thezmarr.’

‘Six years…?’ Hawthorne chewed on the words.

‘Yes. Six years.’ Thea realised she was grinding her teeth. ‘Perhaps you had it right from the start. It’s best if we don’t talk for a while.’

‘Finally, something we agree on,’ he retorted before surging forward on his stallion.

This time, Thea didn’t race to catch up; she needed the fresh air without his smouldering presence.

They travelled through the gold and green farmlands, where workers paused in the fields to stare at them. Well, to stare at Hawthorne, the Hand of Death. Thea supposed it wasn’t often they had a legendary Warsword in their midst. Some of them even bowed as they passed, their reverence only serving as fuel to Thea’s burning curiosity.

At what point in his life had he changed from the man to the legend? Was there a moment? A particular battle? Was it years of culminating a bloody reputation? As her earlier anger ebbed away, several times she turned to the warrior, a question on her lips, but he shook his head, a look in his eye that said,don’t you dare.

They had been riding for hours when the Warsword brought them to a stop just before the fields of a vast crop.

‘The horses need to rest,’ he said by way of explanation.

After hours in the saddle, Thea was grateful for the opportunity to stretch her legs. On the crest of the hill, she surveyed the farmlands beyond.

‘Who owns it all?’ she asked, forgetting the present company for a moment.

To her surprise, Hawthorne answered. ‘King Artos.’

‘He owns everything?’

‘The Fairmoore family owns all the land in Harenth. That’s why the people pay such high taxes.’

‘Have you met him before? King Artos?’

‘Many times.’

‘And?’

‘And what?’

‘What’s he like? What should I expect when I make my case to him and the other rulers?’

‘The unexpected.’