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‘Have you seen them? Thea? Wren?’ he asked, unable to keep the edge from his voice.

Audra blinked at him for a moment. ‘Not in the flesh,’ she said at last, lowering her voice. ‘But their storms have graced the skies.’

His knees almost buckled. ‘I —’

‘If you don’t mind, Hawthorne. I’m trying to make sure Farissa doesn’t die.’ And with that, she pushed him from the tent, the flap falling down in place between them.

Wilder paced the war camp, searching for any sign of Thea. But he couldn’t find her amid the pandemonium. Audra’s blasé attitude told him not to worry. If there was something to fear, the librarian would be the first to let him know. Of that he was certain.

He continued to search the grounds, and while he couldn’t find Thea in person, she was there, in the tales of the surviving warriors…

‘She must have slayed at least five reapers,’ one man was saying across a campfire.

‘I saw her carve out a dozen hearts,’ said another.

‘She was fearless. She could hold her own beside the Warswords. Saw it with my own eyes.’

Pride pricked in Wilder’s chest. He had seen Thea in action himself, but it was another thing entirely to hear her becoming a legend in the eyes of hardened warriors and Guardians.

Their conversations faded to whispers before a heavy blanket of awed silence fell across the camp – and Althea Zoltaire herself walked among them.

She moved with her chin held high, her shoulders pushed back, blood still dripping from her blade – his blade. She was covered in the filth of battle, but it only made her look more formidable.

Every warrior who was able stood to attention.

And to Wilder’s shock, they raised three fingers to their left shoulders.

He’d never seen anything like it in his life.

She was not a Warsword, not yet… But she had the respect of one.

Behind her, Cal and Wren followed, both looking shaken and overwhelmed. But Thea… Thea took it all in her stride, as though she was exactly where she belonged.

‘Where walks death, so does Althea Zoltaire,’ someone called.

Murmurs broke out across the camp. And it was only as Thea’s gaze met Wilder’s that he realised what they were calling her…

The Shadow of Death.

When at last she reached him, it took every ounce of willpower not to gather her in his arms and hold her tightly to him. Upon closer inspection, she was bruised and battered, red welts and cuts peppering her exposed skin where wraiths had managed to lash her with their darkness. But there was a fierce tempest in her eyes, and Wilder was willing to bet that were it not for the fate stone around her neck, there would be no hiding the power that surged through her now.

‘Are you alright?’ he asked, his voice suddenly raw. He knew there was no way they could talk privately here, and there was little chance of getting back up to the castle to their rooms.

Thea nodded, but there was a questioning gleam to her eyes, and the prickle at the back of Wilder’s neck told him there was something she knew that he didn’t.

Despite her obvious exhaustion, Thea joined in the celebrations around the war camp, seeming to realise that this was her chance to solidify the respect she had gained in the heat of the battle. She drank and joked and commiserated with the men, soon joined by Cal and Kipp, with Wren having left to check on Farissa. Wilder still didn’t know what had happened after Farissa was thrown overboard. Where Wren had ended up or what had happened to cause those violent storms over the forest.

Wilder himself stayed on the outskirts of the festivities, noting that Terrence was circling overhead once more, reminding him of the half-wraiths captured to the west of the castle and the horrific fate that awaited them all. He knew Artos and the other rulers well enough to understand that an example would be made of the poor creatures, no matter the part they had played in the attack.

Nearby, a keg groaned as the last of its contents was emptied into an overly large tankard. Wilder expected to see Torj, but it was Vernich who came to stand at his side.

‘That’s some apprentice you’ve got, Hawthorne,’ the Bloodletter muttered somewhat begrudgingly before he took a long draught of his ale.

‘Oh?’ Wilder said.

‘I might be a bastard, but I’m not so short-sighted as to deny when someone has talent…’ Vernich sighed. ‘She had my back out there.’

‘She would have anyone’s back.’