Page 8 of Thorns & Fire (The Ashes of Thezmarr #2)

When the door clicked closed behind Wilder, Torj surveyed the room. There were two narrow beds, certainly not designed for men of their stature, but the sheets were clean and the fire was crackling in the hearth, a luxury they hadn’t had for the two weeks they’d been on the road.

The thought of trekking to the winter kingdom of Aveum was not appealing.

The ride south-east would be treacherous and – with the queen in tow – long.

He knew he would need his strength and wits, but when it came time to sleep, Torj resisted.

There would be no dreamless slumber for him, only nightmares, regrets and dreams of Wren.

So he sat on the edge of his mattress and rested his hammer across his thighs.

Without thinking, he reached for the cleaning aid she had made him.

As he worked out the red stains with a rag, he let his thoughts stray – not to recent memories as they were usually wont to do, but to the very first. ..

He was injured, and she was brandishing a knife at him. A fucking knife .

Her bronze hair was piled atop her head, held messily in place by a pin, and her skirts were stained dark with dirt. Wide willow-green eyes met his.

‘Who are you?’ she demanded, her voice surprisingly steady.

Torj couldn’t help the twitch in his lips, even as he struggled to remain upright. ‘I usually don’t need an introduction.’

The woman’s eyes narrowed, taking in his bloodied state. ‘Someone thinks highly of himsel f,’ she retorted, stepping closer. Her gaze swept over him, assessing critically. ‘Sit down before you fall down,’ she ordered, sheathing her blade and reaching for a kit at her belt.

Torj raised an eyebrow, amused despite himself. ‘You know, most people wouldn’t dare talk to me like that.’

It was true. He could scarcely remember a time where the answer to anything he said hadn’t simply been, ‘Yes, Warsword Elderbrock.’ There was always an element of awe and fear when people dealt with him now.

He gaped at the woman as she grabbed his arm without preamble and pushed him to the ground.

‘Most people don’t know their head from their arse,’ she said bluntly.

A laugh bubbled from Torj at that. Then he was wincing again as she adjusted his position on the forest floor, apparently having no qualms with laying hands on an injured warrior all alone in the woods. Who was this storm of a woman?

He watched her as she tended to his wound, watched as the realization of who he was dawned on her face ...

‘You’re a Warsword,’ she said quietly, surveying the armband around his bicep: three crossed swords that marked him as one of the most elite warriors in the midrealms.

‘Did the giant war hammer not give it away?’ he mused, nodding towards his weapon lying on the ground nearby.

‘The arrogance should have,’ she replied, not bothering to look up as she cleaned his wound.

A surprised laugh burst from him. ‘I suppose we deserve that reputation.’

‘Among others.’ The woman did look up then, her gaze shifting from his golden hair to his war hammer on the ground. Her expression was guarded. He saw none of the awe that usually accompanied the recognition of who he was.

‘You’re the one they call the Bear Slayer,’ she surmised.

‘Guilty.’ He gave her a winning smile. ‘Or Torj, if we’re friendly.’

‘We’re not.’

Oh, he liked her. He liked her a lot. Finally, a sparring partner worthy of a round or two. Still smiling, he waited until she locked eyes with him once more. ‘And what do they call you?’

It had been a slow cascade of feeling, even then, one that he’d forced away, knowing that she was so much younger than him.

But every time he’d glimpsed the fiery alchemist since that first meeting, his breath had caught.

He’d found excuses to visit the workshops, hoping to run into her, fascinated by her no-nonsense attitude, by her sharp tongue and, yes, by her beauty.

He’d learned that she was one of the orphans of Thezmarr, the younger sister to another alchemist who was often found in the infirmary, dubbed a troublemaker among the women.

Back then, Torj had made a passing comment to Audra that perhaps she had the sisters mixed up. The librarian had simply stared at him.

Now, Torj finished with the cleaning aid and rested his hammer against the bedside table with a sigh. He was forever living in the past, it seemed. Soul bonded.

He’d had someone – the one – who fate itself had chosen for him, and he’d had to let her go.

The agony went beyond the wound that had sealed over his chest, beyond the moment of tearing the thread between them in two.

No, the pain was a part of him now, and he knew in his bones that it always would be.

Already dreading the dawn, he turned to the window, opening it so the crisp air could hit his face.

Only the glow of the tavern’s torches spilled onto the street below, leaving the rest of the world dark – dark but for the lone strike of lightning that illuminated the horizon, calling out to him like a song.