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‘Should I even ask?’ she said between clenched teeth, eyeing the cut on Thea’s cheek.

‘Probably not.’ Thea reached for an empty plate and the tray of potatoes.

‘You could have at least covered up that scratch with the cosmetics I prepared for you. Doesn’t exactly look like you were in bed with a nosebleed and a headache.’

Thea ignored her sister as she bit into her dinner, stifling a moan of delight.

‘You missed a fascinating transcription shift, Althea,’ Ida, one of their friends, said from across the table, tucking her dark cropped hair behind her ear.

‘“Fascinating” and “transcription” aren’t generally two terms I’d put together,’ Thea replied around a mouthful of gravy-soaked bread.

‘Shut up.’ Wren thrust her chin to where Osiris was getting to his feet.

Thea straightened in her seat. It wasn’t often that Osiris addressed the entire hall.

Osiris was a man of average height who was dwarfed by the warriors he surrounded himself with. His head was shaved and he wore the leathers and boots of the Thezmarrian commanders; the uniform suited him despite his lean build. He scanned the tables before him with sharp eyes, somehow able to pierce everyone in the crowd before he spoke.

‘Tonight, we welcome home one of our most revered Warswords…’ he began.

Whispers burst out and spread across the hall like wildfire, many people craning their necks to get a glimpse of the famous warrior seated to Osiris’ right.

Thea’s skin prickled as she recalled the silver eyes that had locked with hers on the clifftop.

The Guild Master cleared his throat. ‘Wilder Hawthorne has been abroad for several years defending the midrealms. Tales of victory and valour follow him everywhere he goes —’

The bloodied hessian sack flashed in Thea’s mind.

‘But above all else, he has wrought the justice of Thezmarr upon those who would see it crumble.’

Thea’s gaze fell to the warrior in question.

Hawthorne’s hood was pushed back off his face and in the candlelight's glow, she drank in his chiselled jaw, his slightly crooked nose, his dark brows and several faint scars marring his sun-kissed skin. His expression was just as fierce, just as unforgiving as it had been earlier.

It was said that the Warswords were chosen by the Furies themselves and imbued with their power. When they emerged from the Great Rite, the warriors were presented with gifts from the kingdoms: steel from Naarva, a stallion from Tver, a vial of healing springwater from Aveum, armour from Delmira and poison from Harenth.

Thea knew from the stories that Hawthorne had been the youngest to ever attempt the Great Rite, the youngest in history to become a Warsword, and that he’d been the last one to do it.

For now, she vowed silently.

But there was no spark of youth about him, only the cold, relentless brutality of a killer. He didn’t get up or speak, he simply leaned back in his chair and cast his cutting stare across the hall. Despite his apparent savagery, the defiant gleam in his silver eyes sent a bolt of energy through Thea, warming her from within. She angled towards him, a featherlight shiver washing over her.

Osiris lifted his cup. ‘To Hawthorne’s return!’

There was a flurry of movement as the rest of the assembly rushed to echo the toast.

All the while, the Hand of Death watched on, enemy blood still staining his boots.

‘How many monsters do you think he’s slayed?’ Thea didn’t take her eyes off the warrior, the rancid wraith heart flashing in her mind.

‘Who cares about monsters?’ Samra snorted. ‘What about women? Look at that jaw, those shoulders… Look at thesizeof him… He can slay me anytime.’

Ida laughed. ‘Oh keep it in your pants, Sam.’

‘Why should I? The men never do. And I’m surprised Hawthorne can at all, he must be hung like a —’

‘Sam!’ Thea snapped. ‘Shut up. He’s a Warsword of Thezmarr, show some respect.’

Samra rolled her eyes. ‘Just becauseyou’vetaken a ridiculous vow of celibacy, doesn’t mean the rest of us have to ignore the feast in front of us.’