It was all coming together so splendidly. Better than he could have ever hoped for, truly. It was as if the fates had heard Cray’s plea and affirmed his path to greatness by hand-delivering the key to his victory on a silver platter. Victory rarely came without cost, of course. And yes, the price may have involved sacrificing his remaining men and that ungrateful pet of his, but it was a toll Cray was willing to pay. His eyes were open now. He’d witnessed true power, and he would do whatever was necessary to claim the powerstone for himself.

  He’d sacrifice the very mission itself if necessary. His benefactor acted as if Oralia was the be-all-end-all of victories, but Geralt was a fool. Blinded by his own petty rivalries. Oralia Dawnsight meant nothing. And the other two? The rogue wind shifter and his mountain boy apprentice? Well, they mattered slightly more than Oralia, Cray conceded. That sort of magic wasn’t something to be trifled with, and certainly not left to its own devices. Which is why Cray would handle them once acquiring his magical prize. In the meantime, Spriggalen and the remaining witches would keep the pair occupied until Cray could swoop in and force them to bend the knee.

  Cray wiped the speck of drool that dribbled from the corner of his thin lips, eyes fixed on the slow-moving figures ahead of him. The pair were still too close to the main party to risk a confrontation, but a little patience would rectify that. With each step, Sascha and the tan and brown faun fell further and further behind. Soon, they would be out of earshot from the rest of the group entirely. There would be no one to come to their aid once that happened. All Cray had to do until then was follow in their wake, keeping to shadows, and wait for the right moment to pounce.

  A torrent of frosty air ripped past overhead, followed by a blood-curdling screech as the dueling dragons chased each other across the gray sky. Cray lifted his head to watch the spectacle. Spriggalen caught the blue dragon with their claws and pulled away, ripping scales and flesh from bone. The blue dragon retaliated with a swing of their tail, but Spriggalen was already gone. A smug smile pulled at Cray’s trembling mouth as tears of joy leaked from his eyes. It was all working so beautifully. With Spriggalen keeping the other dragon distracted, and his remaining witches drawing the enemy away, he was free to reach out and pluck what was rightfully his.

  His mind drifted back to the powerstone, and another dribble of drool escaped the corner of his mouth. Thoughts of the stone consumed him. For the past three days, he couldn’t think of anything else. The idea of holding the smooth stone in his palm set a shiver of excitement down Cray’s neck. He’d felt the stone’s power firsthand during his encounter with Oralia. It’d humbled him. Brought him to his knees like the cowering mongrel he was. His own power was insignificant compared to the magic trapped within the black opal. But all was not lost for the entity, an old one of unimaginable might, wanted him. Cray had felt it. It’d called to him, awakening an insatiable hunger in his soul.

  Said hunger had gnawed away at the edge of Cray’s mind for the past three days, driving him mad with desire. Cray wanted the powerstone as badly as it wanted him.

  A flood of euphoria flooded Cray’s chest as he recalled the moment he’d felt the stone’s true power. Oralia could have killed him with it then and there, allowing the dark entity to consume him, but she didn’t. The old fool pulled back. For what reason, Cray couldn’t fathom. To think, she held unimaginable power in her hands, and Oralia refused to use it. It was a waste. A tragedy. A wrong Cray intended to right the first chance he got.

  The powerstone possessed the might to bring witch and warrior to their knees. In the hands of the right wielder, of course. Something Oralia obviously knew nothing about. For the gods' sakes, she’d given it away. Willingly! Cray could hardly believe his luck when he watched Oralia deliver the world’s most powerful weapon to another. It was a mistake she would not live to regret, fortunately.

  Cray’s gaze flickered back to his quarry. Soon, my dears. Don’t you fret. You will be repaid double for all the trouble you caused.

  It was a miracle that Sascha could even walk at all. The lumbering giant shuffled along at a snail’s pace, dragging his feet as the rest of the evacuation party pulled ahead. Sascha had proved himself to be a worthy opponent in his own right—having culled Cray’s forces once before. But the behemoth's strength was spent. Cray wagered it wouldn’t take much to finish him off. Still, it wouldn’t do any good to get hasty and cut corners. He would kill Sascha first, Cray concluded, and then the faun.

  He suspected the scruffy little goat was none other than the infamous Briony Blackwater herself. Cray had not had the pleasure of meeting the miscreant in the flesh, but he knew her well. Briony had been a perpetual thorn in his side since arriving at Lonebrook. She was a shadow. Here, there, everywhere but where he wanted her to be. She’d set his carriage on fire, released the horses, and lessened his army each time his soldiers patrolled the forest to round up stragglers.

  Oh, how sweet it would be to watch the light dim from her eyes. Cray would kill Sascha swiftly, but not Briony. He intended to take his time with her. Make her suffer first.

  A runaway dribble of warm saliva trickled down Cray’s chin and onto the front of his tunic. He brushed it away with the back of his hand, feeling the cold steel hidden beneath his clothing. The armor had been specifically tailored for his needs. Lightweight but strong, forged from iron and embellished with silver inlay. Not practical for the battlefield, but Cray didn’t need it to be. It protected him against fae magic, not sword-wielding idiots. Considering his close call with Oralia the other day, he supposed it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have a new suit commissioned—one designed to withstand blunt force.

  He would need it, after all. Bringing an entire country to its knees had the unfortunate effect of drawing the ire of the people. They just never knew what was good for them.

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  ‘It does one no good to get ahead of themselves, Taratheil,’ Cray could practically hear Geralt’s voice scolding him from clear across the realm. ‘Focus on the task at hand.’

  Half a continent away, and he still couldn’t get rid himself of the bastard! Oh, well. His boss was right, Cray supposed. About this, not most things.

  Finally, after an agonizing wait, Cray’s moment came. The rest of the evacuation party had pulled too far ahead to overhear what would become of the stragglers. As much fun as it would have been to spring from the shadows and witness the fear in his quarry’s eyes, Cray once more, reluctantly, gave in to better sense. He lifted his fingers to his temples and focused, channeling his concentration on Sascha. His magic shot forth like a steel-tipped arrow, phased through the orc’s thick skull, and anchored itself within the soft flesh.

  Cray dug his fingertips deeper. The orc’s fragile mind held fast for several agonizing seconds before it succumbed, turning to warm mush beneath Cray’s metaphysical grasp. Sascha fell to the ground screaming. The big brute’s hands clasped the sides of his head as his body writhed and twitched in agony. Death was inevitable. Cray only needed to press a little more, and it would be over. He closed his eyes and concentrated, humming beneath his breath as the magic poured from him like a raging current.

  Bam!

  Something solid slammed into his chest, forcing the breath from his lungs. Pain followed in crippling waves of pulsing heat. Cray’s eyes shot open, his vision littered with dancing white stars. He fell backwards, gasping, and struck the ground. Throat cinched tight, unable to pull in anything more than a few mouthfuls of wet forest air, his surroundings started to spin. Clearing his vision with a violent shake of his head, Cray’s panicked stare darted back and forth, searching the dancing shadows for his assailant. His gaze settled on the faun that stood bent in half beside him, panting heavily.

  Briony’s amber eyes grew wide when she realized he was still moving.

  The headbutt should have immobilized him, but Cray’s armor had absorbed the blow, leaving him with several shattered ribs and the air knocked from his lungs.

  Briony lunged at him, striking down with her cloven hoof, committed to finishing what she’d started. Cray rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding a kick that would have snapped his arm like a twig. She struck again. Her sharp hoof grazed the side of Cray’s head as it slammed down into the soft dirt, ripping skin and hair alike from his scalp in the process.

  Cray lurched forward and caught Briony around the leg, shouting a multitude of vile curses in place of a spell. His magic burrowed beneath her skin and rushed to her head. Briony’s other leg lifted, poised to come crashing down over him, when she jerked back with a muffled scream. Her body went rigid. Hands clenched, straight at her sides, Briony’s raised hoof lowered back to the ground as gurgled sobs bubbled from her open mouth.

  “You thought you could take on me? With what?” Gods, it fucking hurt to even talk. He’d make the little wretch pay for what she’d done to his ribs. Cray released his grip on her leg and staggered upright, clutching his bruised side as his eyes swept over the mix of mud and dirty snow around them. A dagger rested half-buried in the slush near Briony’s hooves. He hadn’t noticed it before. The blade must have fallen from her hand the moment he’d gotten his magical claws into her.

  “A knife.” The taste of iron pooled over Cray’s tongue. He spat the foul taste from his mouth, noting the bright red color. The bitch had done some real damage, with her blasted head of all things! His eyes flashed back to Briony’s face. The color had drained from her cheeks as she stood frozen, trembling like a statue during an earthquake. “That was your plan? Knock me down and stab me?”

  Briony’s ragged breath caught in her throat, unable to speak.

  “And to think you’ve been giving my men the runaround for weeks! I thought I was dealing with a mastermind criminal. Not…” Cray paused, gesturing vaguely to Briony’s trembling body. “Whatever this is. Frankly, my dear, I’m disappointed.”

  He felt her stubborn mind begin to buckle. Turning one’s brain to mush wasn’t ideal when it came to interrogations. Accessing the desired information without ripping holes in the internal pathways had been a skill that’d taken decades to master. Unfortunately for Briony, Cray didn’t need information. He only wanted the pendant in her pocket. For that, he didn’t need an intact mind.

  He raised his fingers to his head and doubled his attack. Briony’s body began to fail. Her legs buckled, and she spilled forward onto her knees, unable to hold her own weight. Her hands spasmed, clenching and unclenched as her fingers dug deep into the filthy snow. Still, the stubborn faun resisted. Her right hand edged away from her body, reaching for the hilt of her fallen dagger.

  Cray smiled pitifully. “You are of a single mind. I will give you that. Here, my dear. Allow me to help you.” He bent forward and placed the blade in her hand. Her fingers curled around the leather-wrapped hilt. “The question is, do you intend to use it on me? Or is it for you?”

  He slipped the idea into her mind and allowed it to spread. Briony’s thoughts took the suggestion and ran. It reverberated within her mind, growing in volume and fervor, until the idea no longer belonged to him, but was one of her own. Cray echoed her thoughts aloud. “You could end your suffering right now. It will be over quick. Perhaps not painless, but certainly more merciful than what I will do to you.”

  Cray could feel Geralt’s disembodied presence looking over his shoulder again, reminding him to focus on the task at hand and not get swept up in toying with his victims. Cray rolled his eyes with a heavy sigh. It was a shame to cut his fun short, but the boss had a point. There were plenty of other deaths to inflict. Powerstone first, and then he could have his fun with the others.

  “Well, can’t fault me for trying. I wish I could stay and unravel your delectable mind one strand at a time, my dear, but I’m afraid I must be—”

  Briony lunged forward and buried the blade through his boot, bearing down with all of her weight, sinking the blade all the way through the bottom of his sole and into the ground. The surrounding snow turned red with blood. The rest of Cray’s words turned into a scream as cold pain rocketed up his leg.

  The bitch didn’t waste time with words. Trance temporarily broken, she rose groggily onto unsteady legs and took off between the trees with the grace of a drunken sailor.

  “Fucking bitch!” Cray tugged the blade from his foot. He gritted his teeth as the cold steel slowly pulled away, leaving a trail of burning hot agony in its stead. He threw the dagger aside and rose, limping after her. His mental hooks were still lodged deep in Briony’s mind. One with her thoughts, Cray knew where the little devil was headed. She intended to use the underground tunnel system to give him the slip.

  The poor dear wouldn’t get that far. He would make sure of it.