Fury of Affliction (Dragonfury 2.0)

Chapter 3

3

P riestly sensed the disturbance in the air before he saw its cause. Though it didn’t take a genius to figure out. The vicious vibration heralded extreme violence, making him glad for the first time in three days he stood behind bars. In a jail cell bound by magic, keeping him in sure, but also, the threat about to walk into the prison out.

An unusual thought for him. Disconcerting given he normally welcomed a good fight. Not that he ever got offered one anymore.

As a magic-wielding member of the High Table in Azlandia, other warriors feared him. Many shied away, refusing to challenge a skilled fighter who belonged to a royal house. The lack of challengers meant he rarely got what he needed—a bone-cracking brawl to exercise mind, body and soul.

Crossing swords with Westvane two weeks ago had been his first true fight in over a decade.

A Slayer of immense strength, Westvane had toyed with him. Pushed him one way, brought him back in the other, using superior skill to control the fight. By the end, Priestly had been tapped out—physically, emotionally and magically exhausted. Which begged a question…what could Westvane do when he didn’t hold back? How much more brutal could the male become? A frightening question given the force of the warrior headed his way. Boot soles echoing down the stairs Truly had opened into the dungeon. Pace steady. Vicious intent barely leashed. A harbinger on his way to mete out the ultimate punishment.

The thought made unease ripple through him.

Priestly suppressed the shiver and reorganized his thoughts. He needed to talk to Westvane before the male got his hands on him. Launching an argument, convincing Westvane of his good intentions before the Slayer in him took over (and he ended up dead) was the only way forward. Another disconcerting realization, but a smart male admitted when he was outmatched. His pride might balk at the idea, but self-preservation stepped in, forcing him to not only acknowledge his disadvantage, but pivot to find a safer strategy. One that would save his life and do some lasting good.

Engaging Westvane in a physical fight wouldn’t work. Westvane wasn’t interested in blowing off steam. He wanted blood. He wanted death. He needed destruction and once started, he wouldn’t stop.

“Truly.”

Shifting to place herself between him and peril, she kept her gaze locked on the base of the stairs and muttered, “Trust me.”

“Hard to do.”

“Try anyway. It’ll be okay, Priestly. He’s not a mindless killing machine.”

He huffed in disbelief.

Of course, Westvane was a killing machine. The lethal mix of genes—Electi mage and Assenta warrior—ensured his skills. Along with the brutal nature capable of unleashing them.

Again, a problem given his condition.

Three days underground hadn’t done him any favors. The electric buzz in the prison sapped him of physical strength. The Door Master’s magic did the rest, robbing him of his own. No matter how many times he tried, he couldn’t conjure his fire sword and shield. Couldn’t build a spell, never mind launch one to protect himself. Which left him at a loss. Helpless as a lamb.

His lip curled in disgust.

He might as well be human for all the strength he held right now.

The realization tightened his chest. Bile turned his stomach, leaving a bad taste in his mouth. He swallowed to banish the vileness. Human. What a terrible thought. No greater insult existed. The inferior race didn’t understand true strength, or much about honor. He’d read a lot about Earth Realm, sneaking banned books about humankind out of the palace library, secreting the tomes away in his chambers, desperate to understand all he could before making his move. Before he put his plan in motion. Before he found and approached Westvane to reveal a secret that would change everything.

His life, yes. But also, Westvane’s.

He’d held the inside track for years. Had learned the truth from Leonidas before the king’s assassination and not told a soul, protecting the next Turnbolt the only way he knew how—by guarding the information that Herron, the former Door Master, had borne a baby girl before her death.

Not that any of it mattered now.

His hasty decision to follow Truly across the Ecotone had wrecked everything. His well-constructed strategy lay in ruins. One that had taken him months—almost a full year—to put in place. To put her in place. A spy no one would suspect, but stationed exactly where he needed to further his cause.

But with him here, Korah was at risk.

He kept her steady. She gave him faith. Two sides of the same coin, working in tandem to achieve something great. Something no one dared try in the twenty-seven years since the attempt made by Westvane’s parents.

An abysmal failure at the time, but also reassuring.

The pair had gotten farther than anyone thought possible, laying the framework. A blueprint that, if careful, a clever person could follow through to completion. At the end of the quest lay victory…and freedom. Freedom from tyranny. Freedom from the enforcement of unfair laws. Freedom from a cruel caste system that brutalized many and benefited few.

Spending time in the villages had taught him a lot.

Meeting the Croppers and Assenta who called them home had done more, helping him understand the mistreatment. Once seen, he couldn’t unsee it. Which left him here, about to go toe-to-toe with?—

A growl rolled across the dungeon.

His attention cut back to the foot of the stairs.

“Westvane,” Truly said, sounding calm despite the look on the Slayer’s face.

How she managed it, Priestly didn’t know. It was worse—far, far worse—than he expected. Citrine light fired in the jet-black eyes trained on him. The brutal set to Westvane’s expression made his intentions clear. He planned to kill him. No discussion. Little delay. The only thing keeping Westvane from it was Truly, and the fact she stood between them.

A crazy thing for her to do.

Stupid.

Short-sighted.

Self-destructive, given Westvane’s size.

The thought gave Priestly pause. Gods. At close range, the male was huge. Bigger than him. Which was saying something given he stood well over six feet tall with a heavily muscled frame that could withstand serious damage. He hadn’t noticed during the sword fight. He’d been too busy trying to keep his head attached to his body to worry about the Slayer’s size.

Westvane’s gaze cut sideways, landing on the Door Master. “Move.”

“Not yet.” Shaking her head, Truly raised her hands, palms forward, to stall his forward movement. “We need to talk first.”

“I wanted to talk before—at the stepping stones. You got in the way,” Westvane said to Truly, the snarl in his voice unmistakable. “Now, the time for talk is over.”

“You need to hear what he has to say, Westvane.”

A short shake of his head. “No, I don’t.”

“He’s got valuable information.”

“Nothing we can’t learn on our own, princess.”

She opened her mouth to disagree.

Priestly got there first, jumping in as Westvane closed the distance, moving away from the stairs. “I have someone on the inside”.

Truly whipped around to face him. “What?”

“A spy inside Lyonesse’s palace,” he said, keeping his gaze trained on Westvane.

The Slayer bared his teeth.

Taking three steps back, Truly reached behind her and placed her hand in the center of Westvane’s chest. Westvane tensed and went still, so startled by her touch his expression went blank.

The Door Master ignored him. Focused on Priestly, she raised a brow. “How close?”

Watching the exchange between the two with interest, Priestly hesitated.

“He’s lying,” Westvane said when he paused too long.

“I don’t think so,” she said, holding one of the most powerful predators in two worlds back with little more than her fingertips. Astonishing by all metrics. A feat Priestly admired as she asked again, “How close, Priestly?”

“Right next to her. Under her nose. In the very heart of her stronghold,” he said, using the information to save his life. Westvane couldn’t kill him if he needed him to navigate the underbelly of the Electi power structure. “My spy is well positioned. Has been feeding me information for over a month.”

Westvane cursed under his breath.

Humor sparked in the Door Master’s eyes, making pure blue shine brighter. She glanced over her shoulder at Westvane. “Are we in agreement?”

Westvane scowled, but nodded.

“All right then. You’ve got five minutes.”

Priestly threw her an incredulous look. “What?”

“Five minutes, Priestly. He gets five minutes with you, but…” she paused, turned Westvane, and warned, “don’t kill him, Westvane. Do what you need to do, but after that, you bury the hatchet. Both of you move on. Understood?”

“Unfair, Truly.”

“Suck it up, Priestly. I don’t know the history…or what you did to him…but whatever it is, you deserve what he wants to dish out.” With a swift sidestep, she pivoted and walked to her chair. Grabbing the book off the cushion, she sat down, pulled her legs up, and cross-legged, settled in to watch. “Go, Westvane. Five minutes. Make it good ’cause I’ll be timing you.”

Inky flames rippling over his shoulders, Westvane smiled.

Truly waved her hand.

The bars protecting him from the warrior who planned to use his fists to convey his rage disappeared.

With a snarl, Westvane flexed his wings and strode forward.

Cracking his knuckles, Priestly tucked his wings and dropped into a fighting stance. No help for it. Only one thing to do—make the best out of a bad situation. He might be outmatched, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be just as brutal as Westvane. Fight hard. Land bruising blows of his own. Pray he stayed standing for five minutes—and that the Door Master remained true to her word and stopped the fight. ’Cause sure as he stood inside a magic-bound prison cell, Westvane would never stop on his own.

Stayed tuned for more of RISE OF THE SLAYER . The second book in the Mirror Kingdom Chronicles will hit bookshelves in March 2025!