“Your episodes are growing more frequent,” he said. I reached up and slid an unsteady palm along his cold cheek, smiling when he didn’t flinch as my fingertips touched his scars. I turned my head and was ensnared by icy-blue eyes under a brow drawn tight in concern. The heat of the late-summer sunrise calmed me, along with the occasional rustle of leaves brushed by the hand of Cirrus, the west wind.

Tapered yews stood sentinel around the wide clearing, and beyond that, taller leafy sycamore and birch trees bowed over the evergreens like gentlemen over the hands of ladies. I blinked until the royal gardens came into focus and I smelled the perfume of roses and summersweet. Gradually, the soft words and touch made their way past the fear. “I can’t breathe.”Īrcus’s hand moved to my sternum, pressing gently, his long fingers splayed against my neck. It’s not real it’s not real it’s not real. I had an urge to knock them away and run.Īrcus’s voice murmured, deep and even, designed to soothe but sharpened by a hint of distress. The skin near my ear where the Minax had marked me burned, and I cried out. I rolled and regained my feet, but my sight remained foggy, the memory far too real. I snapped back to the present, stumbling as an icy blast hit me in the chest. I could hear King Rasmus’s delighted laugh as the Minax broke free from the throne’s dying heart, as the shadow creature crept against my skin, seeking entry, promising the joy of a thousand sunbursts and the absence of pain or weakness ever, ever again.

I couldn’t defeat the curse inside it.īut then another’s frost joined my fire, not extinguishing but creating a blinding blue flame that poured toward the throne, softening its edges, dulling the sharp points, making the ice weep in defeat.

A sudden memory took me: my hands, red with fire, stretched toward the icy throne of Fors-the timeless symbol of Frostblood rule-its wicked, gleaming shards mocking my paltry fire. I twisted to the right, throwing a plume of fire from my palms. But I knew all his favorite tricks, his feints and false moves. His left fist twitched before his right came out with a cyclone of frost. One little mistake, one little lapse in focus, would mean defeat. I CIRCLED THE F ROSTBLOOD WARRIOR, my boots kicking up dust from the drought-dry earth.

Fireblood book