Page 229 of Lady of Starfire

He twisted to look at her, his beak clicking in dismay a moment before he was dropping back down in a steep dive that had her cursing him soundly.

She thought they might actually have a chance, might be claiming a victory at the end of this if things were going as well on the ground as they were in the sky, but then more seraphs were flying up from the ranks below. Not a few dozen, but another hundred.

The griffins were tiring. The Witches were tiring. Talwyn’s muscles ached, and the wound on her arm was still steadily dripping blood. Now their only hope was holding out until the next unit of Witches arrived, but they would be just as exhausted from flying all day.

To make matters worse, more than half of the new seraphs had fire and water magic. There were no more offensive attacks from the griffins. Now it was completely avoiding the whips of flames and waves of water that came for them. Griffins started to fall. Other Witches catching riders to save them as they screamed for their bonded mounts that wouldn’t rise again.

Thorne rolled again, letting out a cry of rage as flames singed the feathers on his wings. They needed to land. Needed to regroup.

But there would be no resting. Not unless that rest was the eternal kind.

“Go high,” she yelled to Thorne. “Go high and then bank.”

He took off as Talwyn pulled her bow and unsnapped another arrow, aiming for the seraph that had thrown fire at them. She took a breath, readying to release the arrow, when she was jolted, Thorne’s piercing cry ringing in her ears. She lost the bow as she grappled for the saddle, sliding as he rolled twice before managing to level out.

“Thorne!” she cried when they dropped faster than they should be.

She frantically searched him, twisting around. Nothing on the left side, but on the right, a flaming arrow was lodged in his front shoulder. The fire was small, just enough to slowly burn away at the wound, but it would burn away internally too. How he was still airborne, Talwyn didn’t know.

Not until he flew closer to Jetta.

“Jump, Talwyn,” Jetta demanded, her griffin swooping under them.

“Jump? No,” Talwyn said, her fingers tightening around the reins. “He will be fine.”

“Talwyn, jump!” Jetta ordered again. “It is their last act of honor to save their bonded rider. It’s why he’s fighting to keep in the air. He won’t last much longer. Trust your griffin and jump!”

But she couldn’t do it. Not after he had chosen her. Not now that they had formed this stupid bond. She couldn’t—

She yanked hard on the reins, forcing him to bank again, and he let out another screech.

“Talwyn!” Jetta cried.

But she didn’t listen. They were near enough to the Citadel. If they could just make it to one of the towers—

Thorne picked up on her idea a moment later, trying to level out, but fire was spreading. She could see the edges of the wound blackening as the magic of the flames devoured more and more.

“A little farther!” she urged.

They fell the last thirty feet, his claws and talon scratching along the turret of the roof as they slid down the eaves. Thorne twisted once more at the last second so he landed on his left wing instead of on her. Talwyn heard the crunch of feathers and bone, the wing crushed beneath his massive weight when they finally came to a rest on a balcony.

She was already unstrapped and out of the saddle, wrenching the arrow from his wound. She didn’t feel the burn on her hand as she patted out the embers still sparking along his feathers.

His chest was heaving, head on the ground, avian eyes full of pain.

“Don’t you dare,” she hissed at him. “Not after I’ve put up with all your shit. You don’t get to choose me then leave me. I can’t do that again.”

Cries of alarm from below had her scrambling up and peering over the balcony railing. There was a wall below, Fae soldiers running along it and pointing. Her gaze flew to whatever it was they were seeing, and her mouth fell open.

Because there were warriors pouring out of the main gates.

But not Fae soldiers.

Avonleyan ones.

That was a dark queen moving among ashes with arrows of deathstone flying from her bow three at a time.

That was a mythical king, long thought dead, atop a horse as dark as the coming night.

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