This had always been his first sight of home. Despite all, he felt the connection lock, felt the rising tide of affinity surge.

The reins tugged; he’d let the horses come to a halt. Flicking the ribbons, he set them trotting as he looked about even more keenly.

Fields, fences, crops, and cottages appeared in reasonable order. He went through the village-not much more than a hamlet-at a steady clip. The villagers would recognize him; some might even hail him, but he wasn’t yet ready to trade greetings, to accept condolences on his father’s death-not yet.

Another stone bridge spanned the deep, narrow gorge through which the river gushed and tumbled. The gorge was the reason no army had even attempted to take Wolverstone; the sole approach was via the stone bridge-easily defended. Because of the hills on all other sides, it was impossible to position mangonels or any type of siege engine anywhere that wasn’t well within a decent archer’s range from the battlements.

Royce swept over the bridge, the clatter of the horses’ hooves drowned beneath the tumultuous roar of the waters rushing, turbulent and wild, below. Just like his temper. The closer he drew to the castle, to what awaited him there, the more powerful the surge of his emotions grew. The more unsettling and distracting.

The more hungry, vengeful, and demanding.

The huge wrought-iron gates lay ahead, set wide as they always were; the depiction of a snarling wolf’s head in the center of each matched the bronze statues atop the stone columns from which the gates hung.