Page 114 of Lies of the Wicked
For three hours Thessa was ducking, pivoting, and rolling. She figured out how to wiggle out of most holds, and even managed to stab Soren in the arm. By the time she’d landed in their tent, her eyes slapped shut.
The next morning,Thessa and Soren had taken Hades and Ares on a leisure ride to clear their heads. While tying them back up with the other horses, an unfamiliar rider trotted into camp—appearing from thin air.
The bright sun gave her a clear picture of his ice-blue eyes, a vivid contrast to his complexion, which was as dark as the night itself.
“Christof, welcome.” Soren called out, marching toward him. “Your tracking skills are remarkable, as always.”
This is Eiliana’s father.
Transfixed, Thessa leaned into Hades’ sturdy rear, observing their exchange. As Christof dismounted, his black cloak flowed to the ground. “General Whitfield, nice to see you this far north.”
“If it were under better circumstances, I’d be quicker to agree,” Soren responded.
She’d known the council meeting was soon, but she hadn’t realized it entailed theentirecouncil.
“Indeed.” Christof’s hard features softened as he said, “We’re very sorry to hear about your mother, be sure our soldiers are ready and willing to fight in her honor.”
The bob in Soren’s throat was visible from afar. Not oncehad he stopped to mourn his mother, not unless killing several Elementals Soldiers counted for something.
Most likely to change the subject, he asked, “Cloaking Spell?”
“Does the trick in a pinch.”
Soren looked over his shoulder and gestured her over. “I’d like you to meet someone.”
Thessa waved, stepping forward.
“Christof, this is Thessa, she’ll be joining our meeting. You’ve met her friends, yes?”
She brushed a hand along Soren’s back, the touch as soothing as steel, and asked, “Please tell me they’re doing okay?”
Christof nodded by way of greeting. “The Celestials are fine, training mostly.” He looked to Soren and added, “Wayland’s blade skills are remarkable; he’s been training our combat unit.”
Questions danced on the tip of her tongue, but Christof moved on to talk strategy with Soren. As a flock of children flew past them, Soren said, “Let’s continue this conversation elsewhere.” He tied Christof’s horse off with the others and spun around. “Follow us.”
Inside the tent set up for council, Thessa took her seat across from a golden-eyed male she’d not recognized. He was seated beside Brenneth, who was next to Sila and Jussal.
Sila gave a brief introduction. “Sinclaire, this is Thessa, Thessa meet Sinclaire—head of weaponry.”
Jussal added, “He’s spent centuries crafting daggers. Every blade in this camp has crossed his hands.”
Thessa’s ears twitched. She ogled the smith with a glint of admiration. “If you need my assistance with anything, I’m happy to help,” she offered.
Clearing his throat, Soren sat beside her.
Still fixated on Sinclaire, Thessa held tight for his response.
Sinclaire asked, “You know your way around a blade?”
Soren shot a heated look towards Sinclaire, then back to Thessa—she ignored him. “Very much so. I’ve taken the Art of Blacksmithing I, II, and III—by choice.” Thessa bent down to unsheathe her blade, then slid it across the table. “I made this in six hours.”
His roughened hands handled her dagger delicately, tracing every groove with his fingertip. It reminded her of Professor Shovak’s ministrations. Thessa waited earnestly for his approval, scanning every line of his face until finally, his eyes flicked up to hers.
Passing her dagger back, the corner of his mouth curved upward. “It’s well made.”
Thessa beamed.
Sinclaire’s foxlike eyes glimmered with interest. “I could—” he started, until he met Soren’s lethal stare and quieted.
