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He muttered another curse. That would hardly help. It might even make the problem worse. Instead, Wilder inhaled through his nose and unsheathed his swords. He swung them with unyielding strength, revelling in the comforting weight of the steel.

He’d burn off his frustrations the Warsword way.

Shedding his outer layers and planting his feet wide, Wilder started taking himself through his usual set of drills. Relishing the kiss of the wind as he swept his blades through the air, he tried to lose himself in physical exertion. It was a relief not to be training in his armour. The breastplate, in particular, bothered him, rubbing against his shoulder. Armour was one of the gifts a Warsword received upon completion of the Great Rite, but by the time Wilder had passed, the kingdom of its origin, Delmira, had fallen. As such, his armour was a poor imitation of Vernich’s and Torj’s, the latter receiving the last supplies from the famous armoury. Wilder made do with what he’d been given over the years, but it irked him nonetheless.

Squaring his shoulders, he attacked, slashing his swords in a flurry of movement, striking and retreating into a dance he knew all too well. But no matter how many times he sliced and carved his imaginary opponent, his thoughts kept coming back to her, and it wasn’t long before he sensed her gaze on him.

He ignored her presence, not nearly finished with trying to blow off steam. And yet he was drawn to her. Her persistence, her innate questioning, the way she now studied his movements, as though committing them to memory. Regardless of theoutcome at Harenth, he knew deep in his bones that the alchemist wouldn’t give up, and he begrudgingly admired that.

Wilder looped both blades around, delivering a would-be deadly blow before twisting his hips and bringing both swords across, beheading the invisible enemy.

Only then did he glance up at the alchemist, who watched on with intense eyes.

The sooner she got what she wanted, the sooner he could be rid of her, and he could go back to hunting monsters in the darkness.

CHAPTER NINE

Thea paused at the crest on the land. There was nowhere to hide and so she simply sat on the damp grass and watched him in full view.

The Warsword had shucked off his outer layers and wore a sweat-drenched undershirt as he trained, powerful muscles bunching beneath the wet fabric. The black ink on his right hand trailed up his forearm and bicep, disappearing under his shirt.

He slashed his two mighty swords through the air in a blur of steel, cutting down imaginary opponents.

Thea had seenno onemove like he did. Each strike, each parry, each feint was a step in a deadly dance, each movement blended with lethal grace, discipline and strength beyond her comprehension.

Not even Esyllt, the weapons master, can fight like that.Again, Thea wondered who had schooled the warrior in the art of combat, for itwasan art when he did it. As arrogant as he was, there was no denying Hawthorne’s predatory prowess, his unparalleled skill. Someone more than a weapons master had honed those abilities – and the Furies themselves had gifted him power upon completion of the Great Rite.

Clouds formed before Thea’s face as she exhaled, wondering what it would be like to see Hawthorne in the heart of a proper battle. She could almost picture it: the warrior clad in his black armour, blood spattered across his handsome face as he carved through enemy after enemy —

‘Do you think it wise, spying on a Warsword, Alchemist?’ He didn’t break his focus from his sparring.

‘Here I was thinking we’d started getting along,’ she said, unable to suppress her grin as a fresh blush tipped his cheeks. ‘Besides, it’s not spying if I’m in plain sight. Why don’t you teach me some of your drills?’

‘No.’ It came out as a growl. ‘Haven’t I made myself clear?’

‘Haven’t I?’ Thea countered. ‘I want to learn, and who better to learn from than you?’

‘I wasn’t offering.’

‘What do you have to lose?’

‘You mean besides my time?’

‘Didn’t seem like you minded spending time with me this morning.’

He glowered. ‘Not another word.’

But his irritation only fuelled Thea’s amusement. ‘Come now, we’ve shared so much already,’ she teased. ‘Why not share a few of your tricks? After all, Warswords used to have apprentices —’

‘Used to,’ he snapped. ‘A tradition that has thankfully been dropped.’

She could feel the tension rolling off him in waves as he went through another set of movements. She tried to commit each twirl of the blade to memory, wishing she’d brought parchment and a pen to take notes. This was like no other training session she’d witnessed. There was a fluidity to every strike, every shift from foot to foot. He was a master in every respect of the word.

‘Vernich would have killed you by now.’ Hawthorne dropped into a powerful lunge, following through with a well-placed thrust of his second blade.

Thea found the words did not surprise her.Vernich the Bloodletter…The name said it all. ‘You’re not Vernich.’

‘Good of you to notice.’