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“No,” Montrose said, grabbing a Hyrax by the head. With a violent twist, he snapped the beast’s neck. Whipping around, the gargoyle threw the carcass like a shotput, knocking rock badgers back into the crevice.

Westvane grunted in approval.

Excellent aim. A definite asset in a fight.

Angling his sword, Westvane stabbed and sliced, killing one Hyrax after another. He heard a rustle behind him. Kicking a beast off the end of his blade, he caught movement in his periphery. On her hands and knees, Truly struggled to her feet. Exhaustion made her sway. Her knees buckled, leaving her slouched in the short grass, angry shadows of Weeping Hollow rising behind her.

“Yes, the forest,” she said, face drawn and pale. “It’s the only —”

Static electricity sizzled through the air.

A flurry of wings flapped as multiple feet thumped against turf.

“A likely plan,” a deep voice said, spiraling across the grassy knoll between forest and stones. “But I wouldn’t advise it.”

Sensing the pulse of power, the pack of Hyraxes retreated into the labyrinth. Not fast enough. One moment the archway between stones stood open. The next, it slammed shut as magic spilled into the void. The heated wave cut the last rock badger in two — front half inside the ravine, rear end twitching on the short grass outside it.

Rotating the swords in his hands, Westvane turned to face the new threat. What he saw didn’t shock him. He knew that voice… and wasn’t surprised by what followed. A contingent of the queen’s guard, wings spread wide, landing on the plateau to his left.

The smell of sweet grass rose as their feet touched down.

His eyes narrowed on the leader. “Priestly.”

“Westvane.” Hair on his head as tawny as the feathers on his wings, Priestly bowed in greeting. “Good to see you again, my friend.”

His eyes narrowed. The greeting should’ve warmed him. It left him cold instead. “Should’ve known she’d send you.”

Priestly’s mouth curved. “Yes, you should have.”

“Thought you were done playing fetch for the witch.”

Calm. Controlled. Never one to take the bait, Priestly raised a brow. His green eyes sparked in amusement. “Wings, Westvane, really. Such a surprise. Is the queen aware you have them? Or have you denied her the pleasure of knowing you’re one of us?”

“One of you,” Westvane said, his voice the lethal kind of melodic. The taunt was a good one. He’d never beenone of anything.Alone. Apart. Reviled. No group had ever wanted to claim him. “Won’t happen.”

“It could.” Watching him with predatory interest, Priestly folded his wings. He made a show of it, the multitude of golden feathers fluttering. “If only you would accept —”

“Never. I willneverwear her collar.” Nostrils flared, he spat on the ground between them. “Why are you so eager to?”

As intended, the barb hit its mark like an arrow.

Priestly flinched. “We could be friends again, you and I.”

The bastard’s words were softly said. The invitation, however, landed hard.

Westvane stifled his response. No need to answer. He knew Priestly was right. They could be friends… if he wanted them to be. They’d grown up together on Eckizbad Island. His mother imprisoned inside unforgiving fortress walls, Priestly’s father one of the guards. They shared history. Had once been inseparable as young males, playing together in dark corridors and long hallways even though it had been forbidden.

The silence — all the things left unsaid — grew between them.

A muscle twitched along Priestly’s jaw. “Have it your way.”

“I always do.”

“Don’t I know it,” he said, a note of something in his voice. Sorrow, maybe. Regret, perhaps. Not that it mattered. “Give me the Door Master, Westvane. Do that, and I’ll let you live. I have no quarrel with you.”

Tightening the grip on his weapons, Westvane shifted, moving like a sidewinder. “What makes you think I don’t want the fight?”

Priestly smiled, a true one, humor tinged with anticipation as he conjured his own swords, prepared to give Westvane what they both wanted.