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The fletching shivered in the breeze.

Trembling, Thea stared with wide eyes at the still quivering arrow and took one – two, steps back.

And then, she ran.

CHAPTER THREE

There was no time for stealth. Thea ran, a blur of shadow in the night, her boots pounding against the damp earth of the woods, a thin line of blood trickling down her cheek. The branches of the trees scratched at her exposed skin and tore at her clothes as she wove between them, the wind whipping through her braid.

Someone hadfired an arrow at her,and she knew there had been no archery training taking place. It was no wayward shot. Had she been a half second slower, it would have hit her between the eyes. But that was not what destiny had in store for her. The comforting beat of her fate stone against her breast bone steadied her short, shallow gasps.

Made of jade and tied to a black leather string, it had been presented to her as an infant by a seer. Back then, they carved out destinies; sometimes the marker was a name, sometimes it was a symbol, or a number. All signifying a future that would come to pass in no uncertain terms. Rare as fate stones were, they were not sought after. Not by those who wished to live their lives in peace.

Twenty-seven.The black number was a promise from the god of death himself. At the age of twenty-seven, Enovius wouldcome for Thea, but not before having his fun. For death could find her the minute the clock struck her name day, or it could wait until the full year, until the moment before she turned twenty-eight. Thea’s fate stone offered her a window of time, no details – a curse she would wish upon no one.

On she ran, mud flicking up on the backs of her legs, fear spurring her on. Not for her life, no, she would not die today. Instead, she feared for her place in Thezmarr, her home. She had known the risks when she’d accepted the dagger and practiced with it time and time again, but the consequences had never felt so close as that arrow.

Lightning flashed, illuminating the Bloodwoods before her for a split second. There was nothing ahead but gnarled trunks and an eerie emptiness.

Soon, the torchlight glimmered before her. Keeping close to the base of the stone walls, Thea made for the staff entrance, her breathing ragged.

Thank the gods, Thea thought as the handle turned. Pausing at the larder, she brought her piece of jade to her lips.

‘And so we test the fates again,’ she murmured before ducking into the dimly lit room. Inside, the air was cool and meat hung from the ceiling on giant hooks. She moved past these, noting that the trap door to the cellar below was ajar.

Wincing as the kitchen door creaked, Thea peered within. The warmth of several stoves and the mouth-watering aromas of dinner in full swing hit her in the face. With no servants in sight, she crept past the work benches and bubbling pots, suppressing the urge to swipe a freshly baked roll from a basket on the side. Cook had likely counted every single one.

Just as she neared the door, Thea froze.

For in a tattered armchair before the blazing hearth sat a massive figure, a large dog at his feet.

Thea’s gaze went from the dozing animal, to the half-braided leather belt in enormous hands, and to the grey eyes that met her own. ‘Malik.’

The giant man who grinned back was the very same who had gifted her his dagger on his deathbed. Only, he hadn’t died. His now smiling expression was one she’d come to love on what had once been a fierce, scarred face.

Malik was a retired Warsword. He had sustained a near-fatal blow to the head on the battlefield and hadn’t spoken since. Amongst other details, Thea had heard Guardians and shieldbearers alike prattle about how the famous warrior had fallen from glory and was now a simpleton, but she knew better. Not long after the dagger gifting, she had been in the corner of the library, reading a difficult passage aloud to make sense of it. There, she met Malik for the second time. His hulking frame had appeared from behind a shelf, startling her out of her skin.

But he’d approached with a broad smile and sat down in a nearby chair, as though he wanted to listen to her. That interaction had shown her he loved the words, but perhaps could no longer understand them on the page. She had read to him ever since.

Now, he lit up with amusement as he surveyed her wet, dishevelled state and the scratch on her face.

‘Can’t stay,’ she told him. ‘You won’t tell, will you?’

Malik just smiled and turned his attention back to the belt he was braiding.

‘Thanks.’ With a grateful squeeze of the gentle giant’s shoulder, she made for the south-west tower.

By the time Thea had changed into a dry tunic and made herself presentable, the evening meal was underway. Cracklingfires blazed in generous hearths on either end, while torches in sconces cast their flickering light across the thick pavers.

At the heart of the hall loomed the Furies - giant sculptures of the three mighty swords wielded by the first ever Warswords, those who were gods. The stone shapes rose from the ground up into the hall’s ceiling, where the hilts broke through the rafters above and into the night’s sky.

Beneath their shadows was a table that overlooked the rest, where the Guild Master, Osiris, sat in his high-backed chair like a king. On either side were the Warswords of Thezmarr, several commanders and the heads of the staff, including Audra who wore a severe expression, her eyes keen as a hawk.

A few steps below, two long oak tables ran the length of the hall, where warriors of every rank and fortress workers were already digging into the pots of stew and trays of roast potatoes.

Thea was careful not to make eye contact with anyone at the head table as she hurried to where her cohort sat.

Elwren reluctantly made room for her on the bench, spearing her with a furious gaze.