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Pity, that’s what this was from him. After all his insults and bickering, the Warswordpitiedher.

But who was she to complain? A nobody.

‘Thank you,’ she said quietly, and the door closed once more.

The shirt was crisp and clean and it felt amazing after days of wearing damp and dirty garments. Thea slipped her arms into the sleeves and buttoned it.

It was enormous.

Hisshirt, she realised. He’d given her his last clean shirt…

She did her best to tuck the billowing material into her belt before working her hair into a quick side braid, the end still dripping. She shoved her soiled clothes into her satchel and threw the door open.

Hawthorne stood there with his arms folded over his sculpted chest and surveyed her, his gaze lingering on the wet trail of her hair and the seemingly endless yards of fabric.

‘Hmm,’ he grunted.

‘You’re not even using words now? Do I not look alright?’

To her surprise, Hawthorne laughed, the sound rich and deep. ‘Here.’ He reached for her sleeves.

Against her better judgement, Thea leaned in.

She stared as the Warsword bent down and gently rolled the material to each of her elbows, his fingers brushing her skin ever so lightly, sending a delicious rush of warmth through her.

He caught his lower lip between his teeth in concentration while he secured the fabric in place with a tight tuck, before stepping back to scan her up and down once more, his eyes at last meeting hers. ‘That’s better.’

Thea exhaled. ‘Thank you.’

The Warsword shrugged. ‘You represent Thezmarr, we can’t have you looking…’

The tingling sensation that had started to build within Thea dissipated. ‘Like shit?’ she supplied.

‘Not what I was going to say.’

Thea forced her voice into a casual tone. ‘Doesn’t matter. Thanks for the shirt.’

Hawthorne hesitated for a second, but then he turned towards the exit. ‘You need to get back to the palace.’

Upon her return to the Heart of Harenth, Thea and Hawthorne were shown to where the feast had begun. The Great Hall was resplendent in draped silks, hundreds of candles, ribbons and flowers, while two hundred or more nobles sat at long tables covered in elegant linens. The ache in Thea’s chest would not relent, nor did the shame burning her cheeks as she moved further into the hall. She would return to Thezmarr as she’d left it: an alchemist and nothing more. What would become of her then? Her spying and secret training days were over, and she wasn’t fool enough to think that they would be sufficient for her now anyway. Not after the time spent in a Warsword’s company, however prickly it had been. Was she destined to mix potions and grind herbs until her fate caught up with her at the ripe old age of twenty-seven?

Hawthorne broke away from her, taking up a post by the far wall, watching the festivities like a hawk. Her Warsword escort; everything she’d now never be. The man who had been against her from the start of this cursed venture. But… He’d held her in his sleep… He’d given herhisshirt… The man might be an arrogant bastard, but… there was an element of humanity in there… wasn’t there?

Tucking her fate stone down the front of the billowing shirt, Thea started towards the king’s table. King Artos sat beside King Leiko of Tver, with the Queen of Aveum opposite him. Their magic once more roiled towards her and she wished shecould understand it, wished she could see it take their individual forms, untangled and free.

But that was not the most pressing matter at hand. Gods, she hated being so unsure of the correct etiquette and the warring emotions within. Did she truly have to acknowledge the man who, in a handful of sentences, had brought her dream crashing down around her, all the while forcing her to attend a party she had no interest in? Did she thank him for the invitation? Should she approach him at all? In Thezmarr she knew where she stood and what was expected of her, and what rules she wanted to break, but here… This was a new world.

However, she needn’t have worried, King Artos spotted her and motioned for her to approach. Gratitude surged, there was a thoughtfulness to the monarch that she hadn’t anticipated.

‘Ah, Althea…’ he greeted her with a broad smile. ‘I’m pleased you accepted my invitation,’ he said, smiling.

‘Of course, Sire,’ Thea bowed. ‘You honour me.’

‘Not at all, not at all,’ he replied. ‘My daughter, Princess Jasira, is eager to meet you. Your boldness impressed her today.’ He motioned for a servant to make room a few seats down on the opposite side.

Thea couldn’t find the words, so she said none as she tried not to glance in the Warsword’s direction.

‘The Guild Master’s letter mentioned you were an alchemist of sorts. I thought you might like to share some of your tales with my daughter. She has always been fascinated by all manner of teachings.’