Witch's Marsh Don't you remember when you were young, and you wanted to set the world on fire?

When he curbed to the man's will, something eased within Glaukos. His rage burned low where it simmered, where he could control it and swallow it down, but beyond that was a sense of masculine pride which was shaken at his very core.

He hadn't kept his women safe. He hadn't kept Rivenwood working efficiently. He hadn't been in command of his own fate, or of his legion, the way he had expected. And now he had been laid low by a father and daughter duo—years of his training wasted, it felt like, while the world turned red around him.

Now that the rage had subsided he felt the keen throbbing of his wounds. The heavy, cold, slick feeling of the mud that held him. The clip of teeth from the girl as she landed one last blow; her words scathing as she went to march with her father.

Glaukos would leave without another word. He would go to nurse his well deserved wounds, and find a way to go on with his life.