Page 52 of Thorns & Fire (The Ashes of Thezmarr #2)

Wren

‘The fool draws water from an empty well, while the wise seek new springs’

– Arcane Alchemy: Unveiling the Mysteries of Matter

W REN WAS A woman obsessed. She spent hours, days, hunched over her workbench, her back constantly aching.

It was akin to wading through mud, trying to understand the properties of the dark alchemy, as well as what made the Delmirian rose different to the rest. Even wearing gloves, she had pricked herself on more thorns than she could count, her blood dotting the workbench, along with dozens of severed thorns.

She had always thought she worked well in organized chaos, but in the early hours of yet another morning, the clutter simply reflected the state of her mind.

Nearly every surface was covered: a small wooden rack held vials of royal blood and alchemical concoctions, a mortar and pestle housed crushed herbs, and several open books with her notes in the margins were scattered about.

Any day now, the High Chancellor would call upon the adepts to present their findings, and with every day that passed, Wren was less sure of her convictions.

Peering into a shallow glass dish, she used a dropper to deposit three beads of blood into the sample.

Nothing. Her supplies from Delmira were already dwindling, and those she tried to propagate didn’t have the same effect in her alchemy.

She had studied the samples of Delmirian soil.

All the masters had. None of them could discern what made it more fertile than any other.

Wren buried herself in work, because every waking moment that she didn’t she worried for Delmira and for her sister. She wasn’t sure when to expect Thea’s arrival, but with every day that passed, she grew more anxious, more guilt-ridden.

And then there was Torj... The Bear Slayer hardly left her side, despite what had happened between them.

Wren was too tired to be angry; she was simply heartbroken, for the both of them.

She tried to understand the secrets, the choices made for her, but all she was left with was a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Wren didn’t want to feel that way for ever. Glancing up, she took in the sight of the towering Warsword, who was pacing her quarters for the millionth time, his movements methodical and efficient, that tic in his jaw the only tell that he wasn’t alright.

‘Have a drink with me,’ she heard herself say suddenly.

Torj whirled around. ‘What?’

‘Was I speaking the ancient tongue of the Furies without realizing?’ she replied. ‘I said, have a drink with me, Bear Slayer. Must I always promise not to poison it first?’

They were in a strange place, caught somewhere between her sorrow and his regret, that wall of secrets now rubble between them. And yet she couldn’t help wanting to be near him. She couldn’t help craving his touch or relishing the sound of his husky voice. She missed him – missed them .

As usual, the Mortar and Pestle was bustling with scholars and students alike, with Kipp holding court at the bar. Wren and Torj had taken a corner booth away from the noise, and Wren was currently staring into a tankard.

‘I’ve summoned Thea right into a waiting ambush,’ she told the Bear Slayer. Just because they weren’t together, didn’t mean she couldn’t talk to him. He had always been there for her, had always been a friend.

‘What do you mean?’ he asked gently.

‘She’s a Warsword.’ Wren took a deep drink. ‘I don’t need to tell you how much that means to her. The world is asking her to be a queen instead, to give up her totem and swords.’

‘You think it’s only a symbol and some steel that makes a warrior a Warsword?’ Torj asked, motioning to the armband of three crossed swords around his bicep.

But Wren put her head in her hands, despair gnawing at her from within. ‘Thea was happy. She gave everything in the war, and she was meant to live the days after it in peace – or hunting monsters abroad, which is her version of that. Now I’ve got her tangled in this mess.’

‘This isn’t your fault,’ Torj told her. ‘You didn’t start a rebellion. You didn’t attack a king or queen—’

‘I may as well have,’ Wren argued. ‘They used my work as a foundation for their own evils. The alchemy I used on those manacles all those years ago... It had the ability to target certain properties, like the Furies-given strength that Warswords have. Silas took that and has been altering it – to weaken Warswords, to mute the magic of royals. It’s my design, the alchemy that targets.

My fault.’ She sighed. ‘Perhaps there was a certain comfort back then. When you faced a monster, you knew that danger and death awaited in fangs and talons, in the shadows lashing at you. But now... With the men of the midrealms, there’s no telling what threats lurk beneath their jewels and fine clothes.

No knowing what perils are threaded between their elegant speeches and formalities.

Do you ever think that things seemed simpler in the shadow war?

Monsters were bad, we were good... But now everything is in shades of grey. ’

‘ You are good, Wren,’ Torj said.

She gave a dark laugh, starting as he gripped her hands in his. They hadn’t touched since that night when they’d laid it all out on the table.

‘Oh?’ was all she managed.

‘You are good and decent, kind and loyal, clever and determined. There is no one else I would want by my side, whether it’s wartime or not.’

His words made her ache. She drew her hands back out of his grasp and took another long drink.

‘And yet I’m failing the task I was given,’ she replied flatly.

‘You haven’t failed,’ he told her.

‘No? What’s it called when you don’t get a result?’ she countered. ‘I’ve tried so many versions of this.’

‘It’s called progress,’ Torj said, his voice low and earnest. He moved closer, his eyes locked on hers. ‘Every attempt, every failure, is a step forwards. You’re mapping uncharted territory, Embers. No one has done this before.’

‘And what if no one can?’ She voiced the fears aloud, as she had done with him before. No matter what was happening between them, she seemed to always find herself opening up to him like she did with no one else. It was easy, confiding in him. It always had been.

He reached out, hesitating for a moment before taking her hand in his once more. ‘If there’s one thing I know about you, it’s that you don’t give up.’

There seemed to be a layered meaning to those words, an unsaid truth that pulsed between them.

‘Perhaps it’s time I did,’ she said quietly.

But Torj shook his head. ‘That’s not who you are.’

‘And you know me so well?’ she challenged, suddenly realizing how close he was, his scent wrapping around her.

‘Better than I know myself sometimes...’

Heat crept up Wren’s neck. ‘That’s quite a claim.’

‘The midrealms need your stubborn streak. So keep trying. Keep failing . It only brings you that much closer to your goal.’

‘If you say so...’

‘Has anyone ever told you that you’re a morose drunk?’ he asked.

Wren raised a brow and replied dryly, ‘I’m usually a barrel of laughs.’

‘Sure you are, Embers,’ Torj teased. ‘That’s why we’re nursing the same warm drinks, sitting here in the back, away from all the merriment.’

It felt both strange and natural to be here with him, joking as though there weren’t a huge barrier between them.

Wren wanted to sink into that old comfort, that blanket of normality and safety the Warsword had become.

She peered over his shoulder to where Kipp was waving his arms about as he told yet another story, her lips quirking to the side before she downed her drink.

‘You want to be in the heart of the party, Bear Slayer?’ she asked, signalling for another round.

‘Well, nothing crazy, I just thought—’

Wren cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, ‘Kipp!’

‘Shit,’ Torj muttered, twisting in his seat to see the strategist’s face light up.

‘How about one of your toasts for the Bear Slayer?’ Wren called.

Torj groaned, his head dropping to the table.

Sure enough, there was a blur of movement, and Kipp was at their table in an instant.

Wren didn’t leave it there. She needed fun. She needed escape. She needed to torment the Bear Slayer, just a little. So she knocked her fresh tankard against Kipp’s with a grin. ‘Torj was just saying how much he loves your toasts. Particularly when you’re regaling tales of his heroics...’

Torj grunted. ‘I was not —’

But Kipp was already hitting a fork to the side of his drink, the sound ringing out across the entire tavern, drawing everyone’s attention. ‘Ladies and gentlemen! Good folks of the Mortar and Pestle!’

Torj glared at Wren, and she noticed the tips of his ears turning red, a small tell that brought her a glimmer of joy amid the gloom.

‘You’re going to regret this, Embers,’ he muttered.

Wren beamed. ‘A bodyguard threatening his charge? That must break the handbook rules...’

‘You’re unbelievable,’ he said between gritted teeth.

‘I am indeed.’

Kipp’s loud voice projected to the corners of the tavern.

‘Among us tonight is a legend of Thezmarr,’ he declared, raising his tankard high, foam slopping over the sides and onto his doublet.

‘A true hero of the midrealms. Though he may prefer monsters to a cheering crowd, let’s hear it for him anyway! To Torj Elderbrock—’

Wren grinned as Torj groaned, his face flaming.

‘—may your ale never run dry, may your enemies always cower, and may you never run out of bears to slay!’ Kipp shouted. ‘To the Bear Slayer! The man, the myth, the legend!’

Wren joined in the cheering as the elated crowd swarmed the warrior. Torj’s sea-blue gaze met hers, and she grinned, lifting her tankard in salute.