Page 11

“Not to worry. You are always welcome,” he murmured, gesturing with his blade to the half-carved carcass. “I have plenty to share.”

His feathered friend wing-flapped in approval.

He threw him another morsel.

As his strong beak snapped closed, a pulse rippled through the air.

Westvane glanced toward the dome overhead. The fine webbing shimmered blue as light crawled across the magic-fueled surface. His eyes narrowed. He listened as the forest spoke, delivering information on a brisk breeze. And there it was…

Something new and altogether different.

Soldiers had just entered his prison, a place politely referred to as The Parkland.

Deeming him too dangerous to move freely among her people, the Queen kept him imprisoned under the dome, inside ten thousand hectares of pristine forest, boasting raging rivers and glacier-fed lakes. Lots of room for him to roam. An abundant amount of game to hunt and fish to spear. One of the most remote places in Azlandia. All the better to hide him from his own kind… and from hers.

Another ripple rolled into his clearing.

His nostrils flared, filtering scents, narrowing the scope of inquiry.

Odd. More than just the usual amount when it came to Lyonesse. No one but the Queen dared to enter his Parkland. She never arrived alone, always with her personal guard, to ensure his cooperation.

Not that she ever got it.

He fought her every time, forcing her to bind him in one of her magic spells. It wasn’t that he thought he could win. His power in no way matched hers. At least, not yet. Still, he had to give her credit. The witch wasn’t stupid. She didn't take chances, knowing his strength, understanding his cunning, aware of his predatory nature.

He couldn’t be trusted, and she knew it.

Today’s visit, however, appeared to be different. The magical wave that always preceded her wasn’t present. The scent in the air told him the guards entered his prison without her, planning to approach him alone. Which signaled one thing — catastrophe.

Something terrible must have happened.

She wouldn’t send a contingent into his cage, put a bull’s-eye on her personal guard, unless Azlandia was at risk. Tipping his head back, Westvane drew a long breath. His nostrils flared. Magic curled in his veins as he sifted through scents wafting over the forest floor. Their stench reached him. Nine… nine very foolish males had just stepped into his domain.

Every step brought them deeper into his territory, closer to where he stood.

Westvane growled in satisfaction.

Eastbrook called in inquiry, reacting to his aggression.

“To me,” he said, holding out his hand palm up to expose his inner forearm.

Eastbrook took flight, wings spread wide, seeking safety upon his skin.

He and the raven played at this often, testing his skill, connecting through the magic no one knew Westvane possessed. He wanted to keep it that way. No one needed to know what gifts his late father had given him. Least of all the guards tromping through his forest. But as Eastbrook landed on his arm and needled into his skin, flattening into a beautiful tattoo, he yearned to show them.

Westvane locked the urge down.

Showing his hand now would hurt his cause. He wasn’t yet ready to admit he shared more Electi attributes than first thought. The magic he possessed was one. The second were his wings. The first time the pair punched through his shoulder blades had been a revelation. An accident that shocked him. Even more curious, however, was the fact he could tuck them away at will, keeping the pair caged beneath the surface of his skin.

A useful skill that ensured Lyonesse and the Electi High Table remained oblivious to the new threat he presented. Time would tell how fast and far his power grew. For now, he needed more practice. Allowing his secret out into the open before he understood his limits would end in disaster.

He wouldn’t get a second chance. Which meant no matter how much it chaffed his nature, he must proceed with caution. The instant Lyonesse understood just how much he’d inherited from his Electi sire, he’d be executed with extreme prejudice. His plans to kill the queen and free Azlandians from a tyrannical regime would cease to exist.

Westvane refused to contemplate that outcome. His mother had wanted better for him. Had given her life to keep him safe and teach him what he needed to know.

Those lesson were burned into his brain:

Trust no one.