He soared across the snowy field with his gaze glued to the ground, not realizing his mistake before it was too late.
There was no avoiding the collision. A giant’s fist slammed into him, crushing the air from his lungs, shattering multiple ribs, the distinctive cracking of bones unmistakable. His headsnapped back with so much force, he thought the impact might’ve broken his neck. Blood filled his mouth as he flew backward, unable to maintain control. White hot pain lanced through every muscle of his body as he spiraled towards the ground, and the world spun in a dizzying blur of colors. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the moment when he struck the ground, preparing himself for the rush of agony that would follow.
But something yanked hard at the back of his neck, a vicious tug that plucked him right out of the air.
Tiernan blinked and looked up to discover Rowan flying above him, his fist clenched around the collar of Tiernan’s armor. Rowan dove downward, dropped Tiernan unceremoniously onto the ground, then landed before him. His lavender eyes flashed with rage.
“Get your head in the game, High King,” he spat through clenched teeth.
Tiernan shook his head as sharp pangs spasmed through him. He sucked in a ragged breath. “I can’t find Maeve.”
Rowan tossed out one arm, the tip of the Astralstone in his hand pointed to the north, where an inferno of fiery red flames lashed out from a fae who shimmered like the sunrise. “Your mate can handle herself. You, on the other hand, need to fucking pay attention, otherwise you’re going to get yourself killed.”
Tiernan opened his mouth to offer some bullshit explanation, but Rowan cut him off.
“And we both know how that story ends.” The Nightweaver smirked. “With Maeve coming to me, looking for a shoulder to cry on.”
Rowan spun away in a wall of shadows and was skyward a second later, heading back to the giant still engulfed in a sea of darkness.
Fucking fae.
Tiernan aimed to join him back up in the air, silently cursing the bastard for being right, when a disturbing thought jabbed at the back of his mind.
He scanned the wintry battlefield once more.
Three giants were dead. Lir and Malachy were battling a fourth while Rowan took on the fifth. If Maeve was fighting the sixth one, then where was the seventh?
The snowstorm had intensified, its strong gusts making it difficult for him to navigate. Flurries swirled around him and he veered left, quickly spying Maeve on the ground below. Her arms were raised, her palms splayed open. Magic billowed around her, carrying the scent of cinnamon woods and vanilla to him as she summoned the depth of her power. Snow gathered before her, morphing into icy shards with edges sharp enough to pierce the toughest of leather. They blasted outward in a violent attack, assailing the giant like a rain of vicious silver blades.
She flipped through the air, all stealth and grace. Her movements were fluid. She never faltered. She never missed. Again, her magic swelled and from the frozen wind beating against her, she crafted a sword of clouds and frost.
Maeve was flying toward the giant a second later, her wings of rose gold and ivory whipping behind her as she readied her weapon.
A shadow loomed, just out of her reach.
Rowan.
No, that couldn’t be right.
Tiernan glanced over his shoulder and his heart sank. Rowan was behind him.
It was the seventh giant, and Maeve had no clue he was heading straight for her.
“No!” Tiernan dove toward her as the giant raised his fist, ready to crush her into nothing more than bones and dust. “Maeve!”
Her gaze swung in his direction, her eyes widening as he grabbed her by the waist, just as an iridescent bubble fell around them, shielding them both. They tumbled to the ground, Tiernan holding her tight against him as they rolled.
He was on his feet a second later.
“What are you doing?” Maeve cried, but there was anger in her voice. A tremble of resentment.
“Saving your life!”
He stalked out of her protective little bubble as magic pumped through his veins, burgeoned by fear. By panic. His magic thrummed in time to the erratic beating of his heart and the vengeful storm of Summer roiled across the heavens, darkening the skies.
“I had it under control,” she snapped, her fury growing.
The witch thread marking his wrist burned hot with her rage.
