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Anya’s gaze slid to Wren with a knowing glint. “So they say…”

After a while, they reached an outer building on the grounds. Smoke drifted from the chimney in great, thick plumes.

Wren elbowed Thea. ‘We wanted to show you… They rebuilt the Naarvian forge, right here.’

Even Anya was smiling as she pushed the door open. ‘Fendran? You up for some company?’

Someone grunted within, but that seemed good enough for Anya, who motioned for Wren and Thea to enter.

The heat hit Thea first, a wave of it, blazing from the furnace at the centre of the forge, which cast flickering shadows on the soot-stained stone walls. The air was thick with the scent of burning coal and hot iron, as well as the earthy leather aroma of the heavy aprons the workers within wore. Inside was a symphony of hammers striking anvils, sending sparks flying like molten stars. Thea drank in the sight of the tongs, hammers and mallets, the chisels and rasps bearing the marks of countless meticulous carvings – the tools that had shaped all the Warsword weapons before hers.

‘This might not be the original forge,’ Anya said. ‘But it’s one of the original blacksmiths…’ She pointed to the far corner where the worker in question toiled, his brow glistening with sweat, his hands crafting legendary weapons from fire and iron.

The blacksmith lowered a red-hot sword into a trough of water, the metal hissing and steaming upon contact. When he was satisfied, the man motioned to an assistant to take over, and he approached Anya with a wide smile.

‘I see you and Drue have recruited more women warriors, Anya,’ he said fondly, his kind eyes scanning over Wren and Thea with a glint of amusement.

‘Oh,’ Wren said. ‘I’m not a —’

But Anya waved her off. ‘We’re all warriors here, Wren,’ she said. ‘Fendran, these are my sisters, Elwren and Althea, from Thezmarr.’

Fendran’s eyes widened.

‘Wren, Thea… This is Fendran, Drue’s father and our chief blacksmith.’

‘Pleasure.’ The older man shook both their hands eagerly. ‘Welcome to Naarva, ladies.’

‘Thank you,’ Wren replied warmly.

As Thea shook Fendran’s thickly gloved hand, an idea sparked. ‘Fendran,’ she said. ‘Do you, by chance, make armour?’

CHAPTER TWELVE

WILDER

Wilder was beyond grateful to find Biscuit, his Tverrian stallion, in the university stables. The hand told him it was the ‘Bear Slayer behemoth’ who had managed to swindle the horse from King Artos’ possession and send him Anya’s way.

Breathing in the scent of fresh hay in the stall, Wilder brushed Biscuit’s black coat into a shine, making a mental note to thank his brother in arms. As a Warsword, he’d never gone into battle without Biscuit, and he didn’t plan on starting anytime soon, not with the war ahead looking so grim.

The thought lanced him with another pang of regret. There were many these days. Because of his capture, Thea hadn’t gone to Tver to capture her own stallion. Because of him, Thea wouldn’t be riding into battle with a horse that was Furies-made for her.

‘There was something a little more pressing to attend to first, Warsword,’ she had said.

‘Beautiful, stubborn woman,’ he muttered, shaking his head and taking a comb to Biscuit’s mane. Thea’s stubborn streak had infuriated and fascinated him from the very beginning.

‘It’s a nice change when you’re agreeable,’ he’d told her on the road to Delmira.

‘Don’t expect it to last.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it, Princess.’

When she swore at him, he warned, ‘Be cordial. Or when you become a Warsword I’ll be there to name your Tverrian stallion “Pancake”, or something worse.’

Those earlier days of travelling together as master and apprentice seemed so long ago, and yet he looked back on them fondly. The memories were full of colour, rather than the stifling darkness of so many others.

The tower had left him scrambling for reality and control, and it was manifesting in ways he hadn’t expected. He was holding back with Thea. He was questioning the world before him, and he couldn’t seem to let go.

Desperate to ground himself, Wilder continued combing Biscuit’s mane. The repetitive motion of teasing out the knots soothed him, stilled the tremor in his right little finger that still plagued him. With a shudder, he wondered if it was a withdrawal symptom from whatever drugs they’d forced into him, before he instantly shut the thought down, boxed it up and shoved it deep in the recesses of his mind.