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Feeling a tremor take hold in his little finger, he backed away, his heart in his throat. It was the tower’s most visceral illusion yet, and he’d fallen for it. He’d wanted so desperately to believe that it was over, that they had triumphed over the dark, that he’d let his mind be taken. This was a warped fragment of memory, of two parts of his life colliding, and they were using it against him with elaborate cruelty —

Thea squeezed his hand firmly, hard enough to force his gaze to hers.

‘It’s real,’ she told him, seemingly understanding where his mind had gone. ‘I’m real. You’re here. With us.’

Talemir appeared again and pressed a glass bottle into his hand. ‘Drink that,’ his former mentor told him. ‘If you’re in some sort of dream, it’ll taste like that fine wine you love so much.’

Wilder pulled the cork out with his teeth and put the bottle to his lips, taking a generous swig. The liquor washed over his tongue and burned down his throat with a familiar ferocity.

Wilder coughed, eyes streaming. ‘Fucking fire extract,’ he rasped. ‘Still tastes like death —’

‘Guess you’re not dreaming, then,’ Tal said, clapping him on the shoulder.

Wilder took another, deeper drink this time before passing the bottle to Thea. ‘Guess not.’

He watched as Thea took a swig without so much as a grimace, her eyes never leaving him.

‘I’m alright,’ he murmured, pulling her closer to his side before he looked back to Talemir.

It had been a long time since he’d stood on Naarvian soil, and suddenly, the most vivid memory came crashing back into him.

‘Not all is as it seems at Thezmarr. You know this in your bones…’ Talemir had told him. ‘Keep the current state of this kingdom a secret. To the outside world, Naarva should appear as it has for the last year or so: an overgrown ghost kingdom but for its forge.’

‘I take no orders from you. You’re no longer a Warsword, no longer a brother of mine.’

‘Your anger with me will fade in time, Wilder. But for now, you need to go on. You need to hunt the reapers…’

‘Fuck you, Tal.’

Wilder came back to himself, watching as his former mentor spoke in hushed tones with Thea. It was as though they had only seen each other yesterday. Tal moved with the same commanding grace as he always had, and gestured with the same ease, as though he’d known Thea his whole life, as though they were friends.

Wilder sucked in a breath. There was so much he wanted to say. He opened his mouth to do so, only for Tal to wave him off.

‘There’ll be enough time for that later,’ he said. ‘I have to return to headquarters and brief the others, secure the perimeter before we come back and get you.’ He made for the door. ‘The tavern is safe, as are the grounds with the well out back. But don’t stray far. I won’t be long.’

‘Thank you,’ Thea said, seeing him out.

Talemir nodded. ‘Rest. Recover. You’ll need all your strength for what’s ahead.’

Wilder knew he wasn’t talking to Thea, but she nodded all the same.

The door clicked closed behind him, and suddenly, Wilder found himself alone with Thea.

At long last, he allowed himself to look at her, not in the blaze of battle or in the eye of one of her storms, but properly. She stood before him, covered in grime and blood, but proud, and he drank in the sight of her like a parched man in a desert. Her bronze-and-gold-streaked hair was matted, but braided down the side as it always was, some tendrils loose and framing her dirt-smudged face. She wore fitted leather pants and a shirt that might have once been white, the sleeves rolled to the elbow.

He took a step towards her, his breath catching at the Furies-gifted totem around her right arm. It was just like the one he had once possessed, its steel shining in the glow of the candlelight: two crossed swords, a third cutting down the middle, only… behind the three blades were streaks of lightning.

Pride swelled in his chest. The Furies had marked Thea’s totem differently, for the exception that she was.

Next, Wilder looked to the blade of Naarvian steel at her belt. He had seen her wield it at the tower, but to see it here, as a permanent part of her…

‘You’re a Warsword,’ he murmured at last, his voice thick with emotion.

‘I am,’ she said softly, letting him observe her without a word as his gaze fell to the mangled scar around her left wrist. He froze. When he’d emerged from the Rite, all the scars he’d earnt had vanished, but this scar seemed different – more vicious, as though her whole hand had been severed at the joint —

He didn’t even realise he was reaching for it until Thea flinched.

She pulled her sleeve down, covering the ragged skin there, but the hurt must have shown in his face because she said, ‘I’m sorry. I’m just… I’m not used to it yet.’