Ollie stopped at the edge of the vestibule. The Ancient Oak's fury boiled inside him, demanding that he charge, that he close the distance and start cutting, that he take these men apart the way he'd taken apart the shield wall and the halberdiers and every other obstacle between the gatehouse and this room.
The memories pressed against his skull; axes and burning groves and Ashlynn's bruises and Nyrielle's patient, centuries-old wrath, and all of it screamed for him to move.
But the crest on the knight's surcoat stopped him.
A fox and a hammer. Kermeen Village.
The recognition cut through the rage like cold water thrown on coals. It didn't extinguish it, but it created a hissing, steaming gap between Ollie and the rage that didn't belong to him where something older and more fragile could surface.
