Owain's world was simpler now.
From the moment he closed his visor, everything else in the Great Hall ceased to matter. His killing ground had been prepared, twelve paces on a side, and his prey stood before him, weak and under-protected in the antique, scavenged armor she'd brought to a duel to the death.
Owain didn't fear her. He'd never been afraid of her, even when Jocelynn had revealed to him that she bore the mark of a witch. Witches could still be killed, especially up close, where they had no time to work their witchcraft. He'd proven it once already when he stripped her bare to reveal the proof of her corruption and bludgeoned her to death on the floor of their wedding suite.
Only she hadn't died. Somehow, she'd come crawling back out of the grave to haunt him one more time.
