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Surprising, but the evidence suggested the Turnbolts were more intelligent than she’d allowed. Somehow, they’d managed to hide one of their kind from her, preserving their ancestral line.

Clever.

Devious, even.

Traits she admired, but that didn’t mean she’d admire it for long. The health of her realm hung in the balance, her people once again at risk.

No mercy would be shown.

Her lips curved. Ironic, really, how things turned out. Today’s events made one thing clear — the Slayer would prove more valuable than first thought. He’d balk. She’d insist, using a carrot along with the stick she carried. If he did as she asked, he’d benefit, and she’d get what she needed — the Wendigo recaptured and returned to where it belonged… and the death of the Door Master missed during the last hunt.

Boot heels striking stone, Lyonesse hummed in satisfaction. Two birds, one stone. An absolutely perfect plan.

5

SOMETHING NEW. SOMETHING DIFFERENT

Given a choice between living in a cage and execution, Westvane had chosen the cage. Any sane person would, though the passivity didn’t sit right with him. He wondered, in quieter moments, what his mother would’ve made of it. She’d raised him to be strong and fast, lethal to those who opposed him. She taught him to use cunning and brutality as weapons, and given her views, his imprisonment inside the Parkland felt too much like surrender.

Standing at his outdoor butcher block, Westvane stared at the blood-soaked surface.

No real reason for debate.

His mother would never have approved.

The mere suggestion made him flinch. He flexed his fingers around the hilt of his skinning knife. The feel of well-worn grooves settled him as he stared at the curved tip. One of his favorites, crafted by the most skilled blacksmith in Azlandia. A gift given to his mother in secret from a male who should never have been his father.

With a flick, Westvane tossed the dagger high, watched it revolve, blunt end over wicked tip, against the darkening horizon. Not quite night yet, but soon. Time to finish his task and call it a day.

Though it hadn’t been much of one.

Westvane frowned at the dead animal on his table.Bored. He was so unbelievably bored. With autumn descending and his winter stores full, little hunting needed to be done. One hour ticked into the next with nothing much to keep him busy, and as he plucked the knife out of the air, his gaze strayed toward the sky.

Colorful leaves rustled and treetops swayed, thick branches creaking as evening wind pushed clouds across the muted sky. The setting sun burnished everything in gold — him, the clearing, the cabin he called home beneath the old oaks. Waning sunrays warmed his back, banishing the chill, soothing the memory of his mother away.

Soothing.

His top lip curled away from his teeth. Westvane despised the idea. He was an Assenta, the most lethal of his kind. He shouldn’t need comforting. He shouldn’tneedanything at all.

Temper moving from bad to worse, he sliced through the marmot’s carcass, gutting the animal, carving fur from flesh, fighting the emptiness, hating the frustration. He needed something to happen. Something new. Something different. Something that didn’t involve thinking about —

A low chuff sounded from a nearby tree.

With a flick, Westvane cut a fatty piece of meat from bone and flung it across the clearing. Eastbrook didn't hesitate. The raven snapped the morsel out of the air, hooked it with his talons, and settled in to eat.

He watched the bird a moment, admiring his jet-black feathers before returning his attention to the marmot. "Too lazy to hunt today, my friend? You grow fat here with me."

Eastbrook tilted his head. Dark eyes scathing, the bird treated him to silent, yet snappish attitude.

Westvane grinned.

Eastbrook chastened him, cawing around a beak-full of fresh meat.

“I call it like I see it.”

The raven puffed up in affront.

Westvane chuckled, enjoying the one-way conversation that was not one-way at all.