AN EYE FOR AN EYE

Winter's Keep, Loria

two years later

Year 3070, After Doom

DAYNE SWIRLED THE BLOOD and saliva in his mouth, then spat it out, watching it mix with the dust on the floor of the cell.

Crack. The soldier slammed his fist into Dayne's jaw again, calling forth more streams of blood, teeth slicing the tender flesh on the inside of his cheek.

Dayne stood in a large stone cell fronted by latticed bars of iron, steel manacles locked around his wrists and linked by a chain that ran through a loop on the wall. The cell itself was attached to a long corridor that connected to precisely forty-seven other cells just like the one in which Dayne currently resided. Not a single cell was empty; some housed as many as nine or ten souls. From what Dayne had heard, the dungeons of Winter's Keep were rarely empty.

It had taken him two years to track down Harsted Arnim – the only name he had been given that night. "Burn them all." The words that had set a city on fire were etched into Dayne's memory. But even more than that, Harsted Arnim was the only one he knew who could give him the name of the Dragonguard. So many times, he had thought the commander to be within his grasp, and so many times he had been wrong. Tracking down the man was like chasing a ghost. And so, once Dayne had heard rumour Harsted Arnim would be in Winter's Keep that night – the same night Dayne had entered the city – he had no choice but to find a way into the keep itself. And that was where he now found himself.

Winter's Keep, named after the city in which it resided, was renowned as an impregnable fortress. Manned day and night. Hundred-foot-high smooth walls, near impossible to scale. Illuminated by brazier light wherever shadows lingered. Being taken to the dungeons seemed the simplest way of gaining entry, though he regretted his plan more and more with every hit to the face.

Two Lorian soldiers stood in the cell with Dayne, both garbed in the red and black leathers of the Lorian army. One was the stocky young man who was trying his best to break his knuckles on Dayne's face. He couldn't have been more than eighteen summers. He stunk of ale, and his eyes were sunken from a lack of sleep. His dark hair was slicked back, oiled and combed with meticulous care.

The second was a middle-aged woman with raven-black hair and an unwrinkled face that said she didn't laugh much. She stood by the open cell door, her eyes narrowed as she watched the younger man 'interrogate' Dayne. She had been there, at the inn, when the fighting had started – thrown a good punch or two as well. Though the cut under her left eye looked like it would have a black and yellow bruise to accompany it in the morning.

"You're not so tough now, are you?" The young man said, his chest heaving, sweat dripping from his brow. Thin streams of blood ran from cuts on his knuckles.

The woman snorted, shaking her head. "He's chained to the wall, Gar. And you're hurting yourself more than you're hurting him."

The younger man turned sharply, fury in his eyes. He moved to within inches of the woman's face, his gaze level with hers.

"Down, boy." The woman didn't so much as flinch. She returned Gar's stare, daring him to do something.

"Has he said anything else?" The tension in the cell vanished at the sound of a third voice, replaced by something entirely different – fear. Dayne turned his head, blinking blood from his eyes. The man who had entered the cell wore at least fifty summers' worth of wrinkles on his face. He was gangly with razor-sharp features, his dark hair greying at the sides. He was tall, garbed in black leathers with a steel breastplate strapped across his chest, a sword belted to his left hip, two knives at his right – angled slightly forward – and a third knife in his boot, the tip of the handle poking out. This man was a killer. Dayne could smell it off him.

"No… Captain," the younger soldier stuttered, stepping backwards, his voice sheepish.

The older man raised an eyebrow towards the woman.

She shook her head. "Just keeps saying the same thing he said at the inn – 'Take me to Harsted Arnim'. We're wasting our time."

The older man nodded, running his tongue along his teeth and clasping his hands behind his back. He stopped in front of Dayne, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth, then crossing his arms. "You put five soldiers in the infirmary, along with six patrons." The man held Dayne's gaze, watching him, measuring him. "The only reason you weren't gutted and tossed in a ditch was because you knew Harsted Arnim's name. If you won't talk, there's no reason to keep you alive."

Dayne returned the captain's stare.

After a long moment, the man spoke again. "What business have you with the commander of the Fifth Army?"

Dayne must have struck a nerve. They were very eager to know whatever it was that he knew – which was very little, but they didn't know that.

"Take me to Harsted Arnim."

"What makes you think he is here?"

"Take me to—"

An elbow to the face knocked Dayne backwards, cutting his sentence short. Stars burst across his vision, and he was pretty sure he felt a tooth come loose. The coppery tang of fresh blood coated his tongue. Spitting the blood onto the ground, he turned back and met the captain's stare once more, unblinking.

"You're a tough son of a bitch," the captain said, his eyes narrowing as he stared at Dayne. "Or at least you think you are. But I have people here who would jump at the chance to help you find your tongue, and then they would set it on fire in front of you. I think it's about time I let one of them have their chance."

I should have just tried to climb the walls.

"Sir," Gar said, rubbing the cuts on his right hand. "Why are we even bothering? Let's just get rid of him."

The older man glared at Gar, his gaze boring through the young soldier. "Because," the man growled, wrapping his fingers through Dayne's hair and pulling his head back, "he knows names he has no right to know. People don't just start brawls then surrender and start calling to be brought to see the commander of the Fifth Army."

"But should we not just tell the commander?" the young soldier asked. "He should be finishing up his meeting with Lord Gurning soon, I'm sure we can—"

"Shut your mouth!" The woman clapped the younger soldier on the back of the head, but she was too late. Dayne had heard what he needed to know. He is here. Finally.

Reaching out to the Spark, Dayne pulled at threads of Air, working them through the locks of the shackles. Within seconds, the shackles were off. But before they even reached the ground, Dayne lunged forward. He wrapped a thin thread of Air around the knife in the older man's boot and pulled it upward, sending the blade slicing through the man's right hand as he reached for his sword.

Ignoring the man's howls, Dayne used more threads of Air to pull another knife from its place on the man's hip. His hand met the knife in mid-air, his fingers wrapping around the handle. He drove the blade down into the top of the man's skull. Flesh gave way to bone, then the resistance faded and the blade plunged to the hilt. Recognition flashed across the man's eyes before they rolled to the back of his head, then the blade slid free and he dropped to the ground.

The woman charged Dayne, ripping her sword free from its scabbard.

Turning to face the charge, Dayne shifted his weight to his back foot, lifted his right leg, and caught her square in the chest with the flat of his foot. The force of the strike sent her crashing to the ground like a sack of stones, her sword clattering beside her. Without hesitating, Dayne lifted his leg once more and brought his full weight down on the woman's leg, feeling her shin bone hold for a moment before snapping like the branch of a tree. The woman looked as though she were going to scream, but then she went limp, her shoulders slumped, and her head dangled forward. Shock must have taken her.

The shifting of feet to his right caught Dayne's attention. He bent over and leaned in, catching the younger soldier, Gar, across the legs. Rising to his full height, Dayne launched Gar over his back and into the stone wall on the other side of the cell.

The soldier tried to drag himself to his feet, but Dayne was faster. He cleared the distance between the two of them and drove his foot into the side of the young man's head with as much force as he could muster. There was a slight cracking sound, and Gar dropped onto the flat of his belly. He didn't move.

Dayne turned back to the semi-conscious woman, who lay groaning on the floor. Reaching down, he grabbed her by the scruff of her neck and dragged her along the ground, pressing her against the iron bars of the cell. "Tell me where Harsted Arnim is."

"I ain't telling you shit." The woman's head drooped left and right as she spoke, her words sounding like they came from the mouth of someone who had been drinking ale for days.

Clamping his hand over her mouth, Dayne drove the knife into her flesh just below her collarbone then dragged it downward, blood pouring from the wound. The vibrations of her muffled screams rippled against the skin of his palm. He looked her in the eye. "Speak."

"My leg… I… I'm not… telling you—"

Dayne clamped his hand back over her mouth and twisted the blade, pulling it out before jamming it down to the hilt. He kept his eyes locked on hers. "The longer you make me wait, the more pain you will endure. I will break more than your leg. You have my word."

The woman grimaced as the blade twisted a little, but she kept her mouth shut.

"This was your choice," Dayne whispered, staring into the woman's eyes. He didn't want to do any of this. But he would die before he let anything, or anyone, get in his way. He would do what he had to.

Letting go of the knife, his other hand still holding the neck of the woman's armour, he reached down and placed his palm against the cool leather that protected the woman's side. Warmth flowed through him as he pulled on thin threads of Fire, channelling them through his palm and into the leather. "You should feel the heat by now," he said, holding the woman's stare. "First, the leather will begin to blacken and char, clinging to your body. But it won't burn easy, leather never does. It will get hotter and hotter until your skin begins to bubble and blister, the smell of your own burning flesh filling your nostrils. Eventually, it will feel like you are being set on fire from the inside out."

Just like your people did to mine.

The woman's eyes widened. For a moment Dayne thought she would break, but then her determined glare returned.

"So be it."

Dayne pulled harder on the threads, feeling the power surge through him. He wrapped threads of Air around the woman's mouth to quieten her screaming. The smell of burning leather and charred flesh filled the air almost instantly, coating the back of Dayne's throat with a horrid layer of thick smoke. He kept pushing, feeling the Fire flow through him. The empire had burned his people. He would do the same in return. Burn them all.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Dayne released the threads of Fire, letting the heat fade away. He pulled his hand from the woman's side to inspect the mottled mess of oozing black. Lifting his head, he studied her face. Tears streamed down her face, and her eyes were red and raw. Her lips were moving, but no sound escaped. Slowly, he removed the wrap of Air from around her mouth.

Almost as soon as he did, the woman began to scream. He immediately replaced the threads, silencing her once more. "Quietly, or it all starts again."

Dayne pulled back the threads of air that covered her mouth.

"Please…" she sobbed, her body shaking. "No more."

"Where is Harsted Arnim?"

"He's in…" The woman's voice trailed off for a moment, hesitation creeping in.

"Is he someone worth dying for?"

The woman held Dayne's gaze. Then he saw something flash across her eyes: resignation. "He's in Lord Gurning's drawing room"—She grunted, wincing in pain—"on the fourth floor."

"How do I get there?"

"There's a servants' stairwell down the hallway, outside the door. The stairwell comes out right beside the drawing room. It's the double doors gilded with a lion."

Dayne nodded. "Thank you," he said, releasing his hold on the woman. "I can't risk you screaming. May The Mother embrace you."

Before the soldier could react, Dayne pulled the knife from her shoulder and drove it into the side of her head. A pang of guilt pulled at his heart. I will do whatever needs to be done.

Letting the woman's body slump sideways, Dayne moved to the younger soldier. He shoved the man onto his back then proceeded to strip him of his armour and sword. It will be a tight fit, but it'll have to do.

It didn't take long to find the servants' stairwell down the hall from the dungeons. Dayne counted each step as he ascended – an old habit he'd had since he was a child. The leather armour chafed, but it was as good a fit as he could have hoped for. He dropped his hand to the belt he had taken from the dead soldier, his fingers brushing off the hilts of the two knives that sat at his hip then over the pommel of the sword. He needed to be ready.

His heart pounded in his ears, knots twisted in his stomach, and the slightest of trembles set into his hand. Two years, and he had never come this close. He would not fail. Either Harsted Arnim would die tonight, or Dayne would.

Servants in red and black livery passed Dayne as he darted up the stairwell. They threw sideways glances in his direction – likely curious as to why a soldier was running up the stairs, his face laced with cuts and bruises, blood dripping from his nose – but none dared stop and question him. He didn't suppose it was ever commonplace for a servant to even look twice at a soldier.

Once he reached the fourth floor, Dayne stopped for a moment and took a deep breath before stepping out of the stairwell. The hallway was easily twenty feet wide, a stone banister along its edge, overlooking the floor below, and a long white and gold carpet that ran along its centre – at least, he could tell the carpet used to be white and gold. Now it looked more like a murky grey and tarnished yellow, marred by the footprints of time. Small, oil-burning lamps were set sparsely in alcoves along the wall, washing the hallway in a dim, orange light. About fifty feet to the left, Dayne saw what he had come for: a large set of wooden double doors with a golden lion emblazoned across their front.

Two soldiers in heavy steel plate stood in front of the doors, their backs straight, swords at their hips. The five stars on their breastplates marked them as soldiers of the Fifth Army. Dayne's pulse quickened. He really is here. All traces of nerves and fear flooded from his body, replaced by a cold certainty. He will die today, and I will get the name I have come for.

Checking the knives at his belt once more, Dayne walked towards the guards, allowing a heavy limp to creep into his step. The cuts and blood would help him here. "Please, help," he called out as he let himself stumble sideways, grasping onto the banister.

The sound of armoured footsteps told him that the soldiers had taken the bait.

"What's happened?" one of the guards called out as they rushed towards him.

"There's been an attack," Dayne answered, pushing himself away from the banister and letting himself fall forward so the soldier would catch him.

As Dayne fell into the soldier's outstretched arms, he reached up, clasping his hand over the man's mouth. Then, in a flash of movement, he slipped a knife from his belt and drove it up into the soldier's neck, using the man's own body to shield the attack from the other soldier, letting the blood flow down over his chest. Tossing the dying man to the floor, Dayne launched the knife through the air, charging after it as the blade sunk into the second soldier's eye. The man stumbled sideways, then dropped, Dayne catching him just before he hit the floor. Blood spilled over Dayne's hands he lowered the man gently to the stone. There was no need to attract any more attention.

Dayne looked over the scene, the two men lying in pools of their own blood, their lives cut short for his vengeance. Harden yourself. More blood needs be spilt, and more again.

Taking a deep breath, Dayne leaned down and pulled the knife from the soldier's eye, wiping the blood on the man's trousers. Standing back to his full height, he walked to the set of large double doors that marked the drawing room of Lord Gurning. The place where he would finally find Harsted Arnim – the man who ordered the burning of Stormshold. The man whose blood would coat the stone of Winter's Keep.

Leaning forward, Dayne placed a hand on each of the double doors, the steel of the knife in his right fist clinking slightly against the gilding on the large lion's side. A tremble took hold of his chest. Sweat mixed with the blood on his face, painting his lips with a salty iron tang. Finally.

With one giant heave, he swung the doors open.

The drawing room was enormous. Easily a hundred feet long and at least eighty feet across. Windows adorned with white and gold curtains were set into the long, stone wall opposite Dayne. Candles sat in sweeping cast iron chandeliers overhead, their light mingling with that of the crackling fireplace on the right side of the room. Directly across from Dayne, a large open archway framed by the same white and gold curtains as the windows led out to a semi-circular balcony rimmed by a high stone balustrade. Two figures stood on the balcony. One was tall with broad shoulders and a receding hairline, garbed in a formal red doublet. The other stood nearly two full heads shorter, dressed in full leathers, with blonde hair, and two axes hanging from his belt. Harsted Arnim."I don't care why the Fifth Army is here, Harsted, we don't have enough food to—" the man stopped mid-sentence, turning towards Dayne as the doors swung open. "What is the meaning of this? I gave explicit instructions not to be disturbed!"

Dayne flicked his wrist, launching the knife through the air, pushing it forward with threads of Air. The man stumbled backwards as the blade sunk into his throat. He spluttered and choked, his blood spilling out over his hands as he grasped the hilt of the knife.

As Dayne's eyes locked with Harsted Arnim's, pure power surged through his body, chilling his veins, fuelling his rage. He had waited for this for so long. Bided his time. Honed his body. Hunted his prey. This night he would finally have the vengeance he craved. He let go of the Spark, feeling the power ebb from him as he did. He wanted to feel the satisfaction of draining the life from that man's body. Of watching the light fade from his eyes.

Harsted didn't so much as attempt to catch his companion as he fell to the ground. Instead, he ripped two axes from their loops at his hip and turned to face his attacker. The man howled as he charged, swinging one axe through the air while holding the other across his chest.

Without reaching for a weapon, Dayne side-stepped the first swing, and took Harsted's legs out from under him, watching as the man crashed to the ground.

"Get up," Dayne growled, stepping backwards, stopping himself from lunging. He couldn't let this end so quickly.

The man dragged himself to his feet, his face scrunched in a wolf-like snarl, fury burning in his eyes. He moved towards Dayne once more, this time cautiously.

As the next swing came in, Dayne pulled a knife from his belt, deflecting the axe, using the weapon's own momentum to carry it to the left before reversing the swing of his arm and driving the blade into Harsted's shoulder. The man howled, dropping an axe as the blade tore into his flesh.

Dayne pulled the knife free to the sound of ripping skin, blood pouring from the wound. He leapt backwards, out of the reach of a counterstrike. "Do you remember me?"

"I will gut you!" The man lunged forward, swinging his remaining axe at the side of Dayne's head.

Dayne sidestepped, allowing Harsted's axe swing to carry him forward and off balance. As the man careened past, Dayne kicked out, ramming the flat of his foot into the side of the man's knee. A crunch sounded, and Harsted collapsed to the floor, screaming in agony.

"I expected more!" Dayne roared, his blood simmering as he stood over the man. Harsted lifted his axe, but Dayne kicked it from the man's grasp, letting it clatter to the stone a few feet away. It didn't matter who heard him now. Nobody could stop Harsted Arnim from dining in Achyron's halls.

"Who are you?" Fury still painted the man's voice as he dragged himself to a semi-seated position, only the slightest traces of fear breaking through the cracks in his facade. Dayne could see the pain in his eyes, blood leaking from the wound in his arm, his hand clasping his shattered knee. Dayne hated himself for admiring how Harsted faced his own death.

"Do you not remember me, Harsted Arnim, Commander of the Fifth Army? It was by your word that thousands of my people burned. By your word that my parents were slaughtered."

The man stared blankly at Dayne, examining him. It took a few moments, but then Dayne saw recognition in Harsted's eyes. "It can't be."

"It is."

"Dayne Ateres…" Harsted spoke as though he himself didn't believe the words that had left his mouth. "I thought you were dead."

"Part of me did die that day. Unfortunately for you, it was the kinder part." Dayne lifted his foot, slamming it down on Harsted's already-shattered knee, feeling bones crunch and snap, splintering beneath the weight of his boot. The scream that left Harsted's throat as he writhed in pain would have once turned Dayne's stomach, but now it did nothing but strengthen his resolve. Dayne lowered himself, resting on his haunches so his eyes were level with Harsted's. "'Burn them all'. That's what you said. Do you remember?"

Harsted pushed himself backwards, gasping as he dragged himself along the floor away from Dayne. "I should have killed you then!"

"You should have," Dayne replied, rising to his full height. "But now, Harsted Arnim, I am the harbinger of your death. I have come to cast judgement over you, just as you did that day."

As Dayne spoke, Harsted continued to drag himself backwards, leaving a trail of blood and shattered bone behind him.

Dayne followed him, keeping his gaze locked on Harsted's as he walked, each step slow and purposeful, a wolf approaching wounded prey. Dayne leaned down, grabbed Harsted by the loops in his armour, and heaved him to his feet, shoving him across the room towards the balcony. He watched as the man stumbled and then collapsed, screaming as his broken knee gave way beneath him. "Harsted Arnim. You are charged with, and have been found guilty of, murder."

As Harsted tried to crawl away, Dayne kicked him in the flat of his back, sending him sprawling to the ground once more. Reaching down, he grabbed the man by the neck of his armour and dragged him across the floor. "You ordered the deaths of thousands of Valtaran citizens. You stood and watched as they were burned alive, their lungs filling with smoke, their skin melting from their bones. You do not hold the right to draw breath."

The brisk night air swept over Dayne's face as he stepped out onto the balcony, dragging Harsted behind him. The body of Lord Gurning lay lifeless on the stone, the knife still lodged in his neck, his blood pooled around him. Reaching the balustrade that framed the balcony, Dayne heaved Harsted to his feet and shoved him against the stone rail. "You must pay the price, and so must those who stood by you. If you give me the name of the Dragonguard, I will spare you unnecessary pain."

"The Dragonguard?" A spluttering laugh escaped Harsted's throat, interrupted only by twitches of pain in his face. "You truly are insane."

"Give me her name."

"Her name is Sylvan Anura." Blood trickled from the corner of Harsted's mouth, his lips forming a forced smile. "I give it to you gladly, for she will peel the skin from your bones."

"We will see." Lifting his hand in one smooth motion, Dayne dragged the knife across Harsted's throat.

As the blood fountained, Harsted clasped his hands around the wound in a futile attempt to stop the flow, his eyes bulging, every breath spluttering.

"As your soul is carried from this world," Dayne said, still holding Harsted in place, blood pouring over his hand. "Make sure you never forget my name again. I am Dayne Ateres. Son of Ilya and Arkin Ateres." With one last look into the man's eyes, Dayne reached for the Spark and pulled on threads of Fire. "What was it you said again? Burn them all?"

Dayne pulled so deeply at the threads that their warmth began to burn his veins, and then he pulled harder. Images of Stormwatch flashed across his mind. The flames. The screams. Rivers of dragonfire pouring from the sky. He could smell the burning flesh in the air. Feel the emptiness in his chest.

Unleashing a visceral scream, he pushed the threads through his hands and engulfed Harsted in a torrent of fire, illuminating the night in a blazing inferno. Even as the flames raged, he pushed harder and harder, fuelling them with every drop of his anger until they burned so hot, he could barely stand it. Then, his energy ebbing, he let go of the threads, took two steps back, and dropped to his knees.

For the past two years Dayne had been consumed by an unrelenting shroud of numbness. It had hardened him, pushed him forward. But as he knelt there, a raging tempest swelling within him, he felt a crack at his core. Tears streamed from his eyes, his shoulders convulsed, and his hands shook. Almost subconsciously, he reached out to the Spark, pulling at threads of Earth and Air, dragging them into himself, feeling their power course through his body. He roared into the night until his lungs burned, slamming his fists against the floor, his hands trembling as cracks spread through the stone.

His chest trembling, his lungs dragging in ragged breaths, Dayne released the threads. He pulled himself to his feet, all the while watching as flames consumed the man who had ripped his life from him. As Harsted's screams faded, the life torn from the man's body, Dayne let the numbness back in, quenching the storm. He wasn't done yet. There was more blood to be spilled.

He walked to the edge of the balcony, climbed onto the balustrade, and jumped, wrapping himself in threads of Air.

Sylvan Anura.