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‘What about the other, Torj the Bear Slayer? Would he tolerate me?’

‘Only if he wanted to bed you.’

‘Surely that’s frowned upon? Aren’t there rules?’

Hawthorne made a noise at the back of his throat. ‘That’s rich, coming from you.’

‘Well, he’s a Warsword though.’

‘Perhaps alchemists aren’t the only ones with a penchant for rule breaking.’

Hawthorne worked his way through a final round of sparring, his momentum increasing with every spin, every block.

‘What are they like? The others?’ Thea pressed.

At last, the Warsword came to a stop and mopped his brow on a scrap of fabric. ‘I just told you,’ he said, sheathing his blades in their scabbards. The warrior passed her on the ridge and made for a nearby stream.

Without thinking, Thea made to follow.

Hawthorne stopped in his tracks and turned to her with a piercing gaze. ‘Do you mean to watch me bathe as well?’

Thea’s cheeks heated, but she lifted her chin, recalling the press of his hard length against her backside. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.’

The corner of his mouth moved, betraying the hint of a dimple. ‘I doubt that, Alchemist. I doubt that very much.’

By mid-afternoon, the capital city, Hailford, and the grand palace, the Heart of Harenth, were on the horizon. Even from afar, it was an incredible sight, as though the unnatural darkness at the edge of the midrealms didn’t dare touch its shimmering soul. The palace sat atop a great hill at the centre, the city sprawling beneath it, its buildings in neat layered rows, like adoring admirers before a stage, surrounded by thick stone walls.

Before Thea knew it, they were at the towering iron gates tipped with spikes, though the imposing structure had been draped in banners and flowers in honour of the royal guests from the neighbouring kingdoms.

Hawthorne slowed his stallion upon approach and addressed one of the armed guards.

‘The celebrations are well underway, then?’

The guard bowed his head in respect before he answered. ‘Yes, Sir. The rulers from Tver and Aveum arrived two days ago. The main feast will begin by sundown.’

Hawthorne nodded. ‘We’re just in time. Thank you.’

Lowering his head once more, the guard pressed three fingers to his left shoulder, the utmost sign of reverence to a Warsword. His companion on the other side of the gateway did the same.

‘Always an honour to host one of your kind in our city, Sir. Welcome to Hailford.’

Hawthorne nodded in thanks and urged his horse through the open gate, Thea close behind, her eyes widening at what lay beyond the walls.

The gates opened up to a paved square, an elaborate fountain at the centre with a mountain drake atop a jagged peak, streams of water shooting from the spikes on its back, the detailing so fine that Thea could see its individual scales. But there was nochance to study it, as Hawthorne urged them into a trot down the main thoroughfare.

Thea didn’t know where to look first. Shops opened up onto the street, some selling wares from small stalls right on the cobblestones, goods spilling out from baskets, merchants calling out to those tempted to browse. More flowers and banners draped across the streets, petals lining the gutters. Celebration was thick in the air, people were drunk and cheerful, and the whole of Harenth pulsed with life and joyful abandon. Thea drank it all in, wishing she could leap from her horse and take part in the festivities.

A particularly colourful stall caught Thea’s eye, and she longed for Wren to see the array of spices on display in little stone bowls and the range of herbs hanging from a thin rope across the width of the table. Sure enough, behind the stall was a fully stocked apothecary, likely where Farissa and the fortress cook got their supplies from, for potions and stews alike.

‘Keep up,’ Hawthorne called back to her.

Thea reluctantly squeezed her mare’s sides, increasing her pace.

At the sight of the mighty black stallion and its rider, the crowded streets parted before them, some people making the three-fingered salute to the Warsword in their midst.

The street curled around the base of the hill and inclined, the celebrations and opulence growing with each step closer to the palace. The clothing of the onlookers became more colourful and lavish; instead of plain wool dresses and jackets, silk gowns trailed the cobblestones and velvet tunics with family crests and emblems emblazoned on the front lined the streets.

Thea and Hawthorne passed more shops, taverns and vibrant stalls, and eventually, the sight of the swinging wooden sign with crossed axes etched into it yanked Thea from her state of wonder. It was the great forge of Harenth, where she knew theThezmarrian warrior weapons were made. It was a good opening to ask about the forging of the Naarvian blades and where that took place, but she wouldn’t risk another verbal sparring match so close to the palace.