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In a crouch, the warrior was a born predator, readying himself for attack. ‘It’s been following us since we left the Bloodwoods,’ he whispered. ‘Strange that it seemed to wait for our return. Stranger still to see a lone wolf in these parts…’

Thea frowned, leaning forward, her hand reaching for Hawthorne’s, forcing his weapon down. ‘It’s not a wolf.’

‘What?’ he asked, his gaze shooting to where she touched him.

‘It’s not a wolf,’ she repeated, unwilling to let him advance on the creature with the blade. ‘It’s Dax, the former Warsword Malik’s dog.’

Hawthorne stiffened. He seemed to stare harder into the night, and then, he loosed a tight breath. ‘You know…’ he trailed off.

‘Dax? Malik?’ Thea asked. ‘It’s hard to know one without the other.’

‘How do you know them?’

When Thea was satisfied the warrior wasn’t about to slice into Dax, she sat back against the boulder once more. ‘Malik is my friend.’

At his master’s name, the lanky mongrel came padding towards them. He sat at Thea’s side and she wrinkled her nose.

‘You smell terrible,’ she told him.

Hawthorne watched them, transfixed. ‘Your friend?’ he prompted, looking more intense than usual.

Thea lifted her chin defiantly. ‘Yes.’

‘And how did an alchemist become friends with a Warsword of Thezmarr? How did you meet him?’

Thea’s skin prickled at his sudden interest, her fingers coiling in Dax’s fur. ‘Why?’ she demanded. ‘Why do you want to know?’

‘It’s not a common occurrence.’ He gave the space between them a pointed look. ‘Clearly.’

‘True,’ Thea had to admit.

‘So how did you become friends with Malik?’ Hawthorne’s voice was different, gentler, as though his interest was genuine, as though he truly cared. Thea didn’t understand why he wanted to know, or how this subject of all things seemed to be the catalyst for the subtle change in him, but she much preferred this version of the Warsword to the growling, impatient escort she’d had before.

‘Slowly, I suppose,’ she answered, the pain in her head fading. ‘I saw him when they first brought him back to the infirmary. I found his dagger on the Mourner’s Trail and, believe it or not, went to return it.’ She glanced at the blade now sheathed at Hawthorne’s belt. ‘I didn’t know who he was. Back then there were more than three Warswords…’ She hadn’t thought about those days in some time.

‘There used to be many of us. But over the years, things have changed. Some relinquished their totems and Naarvian steel for a quieter life, some retired from fighting to honorary positions among the royal courts… And many left the midrealms the only way they knew how.’

‘You mean in battle?’

Hawthorne nodded. ‘It’s something that’s instilled in us long before we undertake the Great Rite, that there is glory in death. But I was asking about Malik, Alchemist.’

Thea considered him. She supposed if she wished to question the Warsword, he had the right to answers as well. ‘He didn’t want the dagger. When I brought it to the infirmary, I mean. Malik didn’t want it.’

‘He spoke to you?’

‘Well, yes… But not about that.’

‘What did he say?’

Thea chewed the inside of her cheek as she searched for the words. ‘His head was badly wounded. It didn’t make any sense.’

‘Tell me anyway.’

‘He said… “Beware the fury of a patient Delmirian”… Does that mean something?’

Hawthorne’s lips parted, his brows furrowing. ‘I don’t know…’ His voice was distant. ‘He didn’t speak again after that?’

Thea shook her head. ‘Not with words, but just as clearly. When I tried to give him his dagger, he pushed it back to me. He wanted me to have it. It was like…’