Page 93 of The Savage Queen

“The phuka is mine.”

“Yet felled by my sword.”

Lir’s expression sparkled, darkly amused.

“If you did anything, it was notify the phuka of your presence. You’re fortunate my axe found its throat to commit true damage, worthy of slaying it.”

Lir bent over the beast, wrenching the edge of his blade from the leaking wound. He lifted it above his head, prepared to sever the phuka’s head.

Dagfin reacted, shifting and unsheathing Fionn’s blade from the body of the phuka and toward Lir’s axe.

The arc of the blade whistled. Its tip knocking the axe from Lir’s hand and scraping the back of his palm as a result.

Lir hissed, fae blood sizzling after the kiss of the blade’s edge.

“Very well, princeling; I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t hoped to return with two heads instead of one.”

Lir threw his left axe. The weapon spun, wicked fast and straight. And had Dagfin been but an average mortal, it would’ve been a mere flash of color, finding his throat before he’d borne the time to react. But Dagfin stepped to his right, avoiding the strike by a mere hair’s length. The axe striking the birch behind him with an angry judder.

“How much Ocras did you take, princeling?” The fae king collected his second axe. He adjusted his grip and tossed it.

Dagfin moved, and the second axe sunk into another tree.

“Perhaps the better question is, how many days must bleed before you can’t survive lest you consume your Ocras?”

Dagfin wasn’t surprised Lir knew the limitations of Ocras. That for mortals, magic never gave but always took. And ever since he’d narrowly escaped Peitho’s blade at their union, the Ocras had become irresistible. The only means of surviving. For without the dust, his muscles ached, his head throbbed, his skin paled, and his bones became brittle. On the cusp of death lest he inhale the Ocras once more—both a surety of more time as well as the reaper of it. A cruel mischief Dagfin found the magic enjoyed. Found satisfaction in both the mortals’ denial yet thirst for it at whatever cost.

“Enough to ensure Aisling cleaves from you.” Dagfin swung Fionn’s blade, once, twice, three times. Yet each one ricochetedoff the face of Lir’s blades, artfully and easily blocked. Sparks flying and blades ringing each time they connected.

“So, the Lady and Fionn gain a new ally.”

Dagfin frowned. “My motives are for Aisling and Aisling alone. I align with no one else.”

Lir’s shoulders tensed and the wind heightened. The birches lurching, grabbing for theFaerakand forcing Dagfin to strike at their branches. They recoiled like snakes, lashing at him repeatedly. TheFaerakmaking ribbons of their wood.

Nevertheless, it was not enough. Lir approached, shoving Fionn’s blade to the side. Dagfin recovered lithely, striking again, but the fae king was too quick, his branches latching around theFaerak’s ankles, as Lir drove his axe for Dagfin’s heart.

Dagfin slammed his right fist and the butt of his sword into the fae king’s jaw. Lir, impossibly feline, didn’t stagger but stepped to the side, bottom lip bloodied by the sword’s pommel.

He grinned, licking his own blood off his lips.

Patience thinned.

A sure sign of defeat for Dagfin, as the whole forest twisted, grabbing Dagfin and shoving him onto the ground and on his back. The wind knocked from his lungs.

Lir plucked one of his axes from the nearest birch, crouching over Dagfin as he’d done the phuka, and positioning the axe’s edge beneath Dagfin’s chin.

Dagfin laughed beneath his breath, still recovering what little he had left of it.

“That took longer than expected,” he said, wrists chafed by the grip of the forest around him. “The great, mythic barbarian lord of the fae, stalled by a mortal.”

Lir considered him, head tilting to the side, but said nothing. Only rage and fury and something else entirely, brewing in the nuances of his expression, knocking Dagfin off guard.

Envy.

“So, what took you so long?” Dagfin pushed.

“What fun would your death be if not first relished?”

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