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He kept the fight light instead. Decimating without killing. Leaving marks and broken bones in his wake. Downing one Electi after another with methodical precision.

Thuds echoed through the clearing. Groans raged against the treetops. The last guard fell. Eight warriors down. One more to go.

Stepping over one of the fallen, he engaged Anckar. The simpering coward. Talk about a terrible leader. The fool had allowed his comrades to attack first, hovering on the periphery, shielding himself from the brutality, watching the warriors under his command fall. Anckar ought to know better. He should’ve been first into the fray, not the last one standing.

Westvane wanted to be disgusted.

He found himself resigned instead. Expecting more always ended in a zero-sum game. The Queen’s guard had never been “all for one and one for all.” They looked out for number one, fighting over the scraps from Lyonesse’s table. No thought to the good of others. No care for the Azlandians living under the High Table’s rule. Just greed, driven by self-interest and selfishness.

“Westvane,” Anckar said, backpedaling, wings quivering, hands up, but not fisted. “Listen to me for a second.”

Baring over-long canines, Westvane attacked.

A short series of jabs.

An uppercut to the chin.

A quick kick behind one of Anckar’s knee, and he stood victorious, nothing but moans of pain interrupting the once peaceful state of his clearing. Westvane snarled and shook his head. A complete disappointment. No challenge at all. The fight had barely taxed him. He wasn’t even breathing hard.

Taking in the chaos, he scowled at the Electi scattered on the ground at his feet. He waited for a sense of accomplishment to hit him. For the satisfaction of defeating warriors well-trained in weaponry and versed in magic to sink deep and feed his soul. It never arrived. Sad to say, but as he stood over his bleeding opponents, he didn’t feel much of anything. Just mild revulsion that it took him less than five minutes to down all nine.

The queen should’ve known better and sent more.

Not that he lamented her lack of foresight. He wasn’t inclined to explore his disgust at her tactics. Not right now. He had a job to do… and Anckar to take on a fieldtrip.

Scanning the ground, he searched for the crystals the guards kept clipped to their belts. Ignoring Anckar’s pitiful moans, his gaze bounced between the Electi. Some lay unconscious, flat on their backs with legs and arms askew. Others curled into tight balls, wings ripped, bloody bones exposed, trying to absorb the agony of dislocated joints and cracked skulls.

His focus narrowed on their belt loops. Not a crystal to be found.

Concerned by the lack, Westvane turned toward Anckar. With a quick hand, he grabbed him by the throat. Muscles tight, grip sure, he lifted the captain of the queen’s guard from the ground. He held him that way, broken ribs exposed, blood streaming down his side, feet dangling off the turf.

“Look at me.” The second he saw the white of the Anckar’s eyes, Westvane murmured, “Take me to your queen.”

Larynx convulsing against the palm of his hand, Anckar coughed, and grasping Westvane’s wrist with one hand, unearthed the crystal hanging from a leather cord beneath his shirt. Choking on the words, the guard spoke in a language long forgotten.

The rasped incantation slithered through the clearing.

The rough, oddly shaped crystal began to glow.

The dome overhead flexed. Cascading light rushed over his skin, dragging him into a kaleidoscope of color. The teleportation prism pulled. Cool evening air warped, and the clearing whirled. Massive trees, along his small cabin in the wood, disappeared.

The sensation of flying took hold.

Seconds later, his feet thumped down, finding solid ground in a different place.

Westvane smelled the putrefaction of the prison before he saw it. Suffering, after all, was easy to recognize. He should know. He dished enough of it out as often as he could, laying waste to whatever Lyonesse sent his way.

Feeling his body solidify — muscles and bone returning to normal — Westvane scanned his surroundings. The main courtyard, the steep stairway into the hell of Eckizbad Prison, topped by a wide landing where public executions took place, rising hard in front of him. Stark recollection transported him to another time and place. Images of his mother — standing so proud and strong on the landing as she awaited her execution.

Rage swelled, rising like a serpent up the back of his throat.

Controlling the pain, Westvane killed the urge to strike. He buried the agony of childhood memories deep instead. Showing weakness here would be the kiss of death. The second Lyonesse saw his agony, she would exploit it. Rub it in. Revel in the fact, she’d taken away the only person who’d ever mattered to him with a single stroke of her blade.

As ever, the witch stood on the top step, looking down her nose at him, lording over the rabble that stood in the courtyard. She thought her guard would protect her. Westvane swallowed a growl. So foolish to have left him alone so long. In the span of things, two decades didn’t seem like a long time. To him, though, it felt like the good kind of forever. He was stronger now. More experienced. Older. Wiser. Better equipped to deal with her idiocy. Better able to exploit the fact Lyonesse wasn’t yet aware of what Eastbrook already knew — that the potency of Westvane’s magic would someday rival hers.

Digging his fingers into the scruff of Anckar’s neck, Westvane tossed him toward Lyonesse. The warrior landed and rolled, coming to rest at the base of the stairs.

“Slayer,” she murmured, amusement in her tone. “Still up to your old tricks, I see.”