Page 114 of Destined for the Fae King

Damn magical sword. It’s true then. He did find the sword that was thought to be lost.

The other warriors of our court catch on. Fire races by me toward the Unseelie, who scramble to defend. When the heat buffets me, I no longer fear it. I embrace it instead, savoring the sting, the sweat that runs down my skin. Hope swells within me as the Unseelie begin to retreat. Some of our troops rush past the barrier to chase those escaping, and I push out my awareness, making the barrier larger.

Pressure comes again as the Unseelie King plants his feet and pushes back against the magic. It retreats as he does, stepping back as Lysandir stalks his way, shooting bursts of flame with one hand, sword at the ready in the other.

The Unseelie King raises his sword. My brows pinch in confusion at his aim until he slams the blade against the barrier.

I cry out at the sudden impact as tremors race up my arms and through my chest.

“Mira!” Lysandir shouts back at me.

I brace my feet and the spear, readying for another blow. “I’m fine. Get him!”

With another roar, Lysandir engages the Unseelie King again, blending fire and blade, staying just inside the safety of the barrier.

The sword strikes against my shield again, and though I’m ready for it, the blow has me wobbling on my feet. My muscles cry out in protest.

The barrier flickers.

Please.I close my eyes and will the protective bubble I’ve created to strengthen and grow once more. Another blast of flame races by me, nearly singeing my skin.

Lysandir cries out.

My eyes fly wide. My stomach drops. A new smear of red mars the Unseelie King’s blade, but Lysandir is still on his feet, still fighting. His next blow has the other king lurching backward and growling in pain.

“Stop her!” the Unseelie King yells.

It could mean anyone, but the pit in my chest says he means me. I glance around for danger, as does Tharin, who has sent a few blasts of fire toward the enemy but hasn’t left my side. Finally, I spot a flash of pink—a most unusual color for a battlefield. A lithe warrior in lightweight, black armor darts through my barrier, and Iknowthey’re not friendly.

The way they—she—moves is like dance, springing this way and that until she’s nearly upon Tharin, her twin short swords unsheathed and gleaming in the light from the burning shrubbery. But he’s seen her too and is more than ready.

“Focus on the shield!” he calls to me.

And though I try, I can’t help looking between him and Lysandir. Tharin moves to intercept the newcomer. She must be the null we’ve heard about. No one else could so easily slip past without causing so much as a twitch against my barrier. Was she the one who killed Bailey? The thought has my shield flickering, doubtnagging at me. An enemy, to be sure, but somehow I don’t think she did it. This warrior answers to the king. If he denied it, it would not have been her to carry it out.

Tharin is quick, even more than I would have given him credit for. The Unseelie woman may have two blades, similar to the two cat ears on her head, but its not enough to unbalance or unsteady the skilled warrior. He’s the prince’s—no, the king’s—guard for a reason.

Another hit crashes into my barrier, and I’m taken unaware. I fall. My knee slams into the ground, and I yip in pain but cling to the spear. The shimmering shield flickers like a bad screen, so I stay there, clinging to the spear and doing all I can to shove my will, my desire for protection, into the magical object.

But my shield has shrunk, and I can’t seem to make it bigger anymore. Sweat rolls down my body, and it’s not just from the flames.

That sword the king wields is harming the power of the spear.

I search the area nearby and finally find Lysandir again. He’s locked in a sword fight with the Unseelie King once more, but this time, he’s outside my barrier.

Get back. Come back to me,I yearn to cry but hold my tongue.

A sharp hiss fills the air near me. Tharin and the Unseelie woman have closed in, just a few short feet away. She reels back. Blood drips from a wound on her arm.

Tharin twirls his sword in a taunt. She snarls but refuses to flee. Tharin presses his advantage and rushes her. The clash of metal rings out as she blocks once. Twice. But on the third time, Tharin hits her arm again, and she cries out.

“Katiya!” The Unseelie King roars.

Like I thought, she’s not just another warrior in his horde. She’s someone to him.

And Tharin knows it too. He knocks the blade from her injured arm with a quick swipe of his sword. Katiya darts away, but Tharin is faster, shifting in front of her. He swings. She dodges. But not quite fast enough. His blade slices along the thin armor on her side, and she cries out in agony. Katiya hits the ground hard, clutching at the bleeding wound.

The next bellow from the king shakes the very ground. He rears back with his sword and then leaps into the air over Lysandir’s head. The move is so fast a scream barely has time to form on my tongue. Lysandir ducks and whirls, ready to meet a strike from behind, but it doesn’t come. Instead, the Unseelie King aims the tip of his blade at my shield and lands against it with the full force of his jump.

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