Page 20 of King of Fire and Flames

More than anyone, I knew what spite did to a person. It hardened organs and turned hearts into cold, brittle things. Bitterness was a slow but fatal poison. And there was no one more embittered than a son avenging his father.

“Who are you?” I asked, my voice a shaky whisper.

“I am Dorn, and mine is the last name you will ever hear, human.”

With limbs as thick as tree trunks, the troll was nearly twice as tall as me—far from an even match—confirming the Fire King didn’t care if I lived or died tonight.

Releasing a hard breath, I cracked my neck and rolled my shoulders, preparing to do a lot more ducking and weaving as I began whispering my people’s war chant.

By branch and root, soil and stone, lend strength to muscle, heart, and bone. Crush all to live. Conquer and prevail. Mydor blood will never fail.

Mydor blood will never fail.

Saliva dripped from Dorn’s tusks as he grinned, clearly relishing the idea of slicing me to pieces then sucking the marrow from my bones—if the tales of troll-battle traditions were true.

Brandishing my sword high, I spread my stance and waited for him to move. Hot embers fell around us, but we never spared them a glance. Who cared about a little burning flesh when your head might be hacked from your shoulders at any moment?

Dorn looked confident as he tossed his sword between his meaty hands and laughed. Straps of black leather crossed his bare chest, the rest of his body clad in tight pants and heavy boots. Azarn had kept his word, and no visible armor protected the troll.

He stalked forward, and I chanted the reaver cloaking spell one last time. But as expected, it didn’t work. Fucking fire mages. If not for them, I could disappear, kill the troll, keep running until I reached a seaport, and never lay eyes on the Sun Realm again.

As Dorn’s momentum increased, I lunged forward, running, then skidded past him, my blade slicing the backs of his knees. With a roar he spun around, chasing me with lumbering steps to the other end of the tunnel.

The fire hissed and crackled, my heart pounded in my ears, and the troll’s breathing was loud and labored. But no sounds could be heard outside the flaming walls.

The court was silent, waiting.

Dorn’s grunts and wheezes gave me hope. He’d barely moved, yet seemed to struggle for each breath. Perhaps he’d been spending his days sitting on his ass, eating pies, and dreaming of gory revenge. Well, the time had come to live out his fantasy.

It was a shame he was no warrior—but a great bonus for me.

Blood splattered from his wounds as his sword swiped at me while I ducked and zigzagged up and down the tunnel, speed saving me from a brutal hand-to-hand combat with the massive fae. Each time his blade clanged against the floor, I checked to make sure my limbs were still attached to my torso, relief surging through me.

The arc of his blade kept circling, missing my head and my stomach by mere inches, and I thanked the gods his size made him slow and clumsy. He relied on brute strength, but I had different skills. I was fast, refused to give up, and I fought with the fury of a woman who’d had enough of being used and abused by power-hungry males.

This event might end with the troll slashing me into bloody ribbons, but so what? It was better to die fighting than surrender to assholes.

Running toward Dorn, I leaped at the last minute, issuing a short, sharp kick to his balls before I slid between his legs, slashing his thighs. He stumbled, then righted himself, blood trickling down his legs. Growling, he raised his palm, fire magic kindling blue and red between his fingers.

I shook my head. “You’d better not. You’re likely to explode if I’m correct about the way Azarn plays his games.”

“Fuck,” he muttered, realizing the truth of my words. Then he roared as he hunched forward, coming at me again. Faster and harder this time.

Securing my footing with a wide stance, I rocked my weight, tossing the sword hilt between my palms. “That’s it. Do your worst, Dorn. Do it for your poor, dead daddy.”

With a scream of fury, he met me head-on, the force of his blade against mine hurtling me backward. I scrambled onto my feet, ran past him again, and slashed at his calves, then his back before he even had time to turn around.

A sense of power rushed through me. It felt good to swing a sword, to move fast, finally breathing in a controlled manner, despite the heat.

Crush all to live. Conquer and prevail. Mydor blood will never fail.

Never. Fucking. Fail.

As Dorn stumbled in confusion, I moved through a well-practiced sword pattern, slicing across his arms, then down the front of his thighs. With a feral roar and a lucky sweep of his big arms, he picked me up and hurled me into the air.

I flew along the tunnel, bouncing off the wall of flames before I dropped to the marble floor and rolled, scrambling onto my feet again at the same moment Dorn picked up his sword.

I watched his feet, the bend in his knees, waiting for his weight to shift as his bulky body prepared to spin toward me. The moment his eyes shifted off mine and his spine began to twist, I bolted forward, scrambling up his back before his blade had fully swung around.

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