Styke felt his heart soar as Fidelis Jes strolled down a short run of steps at the far end of the courtyard. Seeing him approach was like witnessing the arrival of an old friend – if you planned on murdering him painfully – and Styke drummed the fingers of his good hand on the hilt of his knife, humming to himself. This was it. A moment he’d dreamed about for ten years. “Been a long time,” Fidelis Jes said, falling into a soldier’s stance about ten feet away. “Too long,” Styke said quietly. “And not long enough.”
