Page 185 of Wings of Ash & Flame
Alaire dragged a hand down her face. “I immediately take that back. It’ll only feed your endless ego.”
“No, no.” He shook his head. “It’s good to know I’m only a little desirable.”
“Forget I said anything,” Alaire muttered.
“Don’t think so.” Dawson smirked.
Heat climbed up her neck. She met his gaze head-on, defiance in her stare. “Don’t let it go to your head. Even a perfect specimen like me can have a moment of weakness.”
“So, I’m your weakness?” His eyes danced with amusement.
Alaire rolled her eyes, though her mouth twitched. “Remember, I have standards.”
“And it seems I exceed them, though, being desirable and all.” He winked.
She lunged to jab his ribs, but he was already on his feet, standing a few steps back.
The temperature dropped.
“That’s not normal,” Dawson muttered.
The wind whipped loose snow across the plateau. Dark clouds churned overhead. Snow exploded around them, swallowing her vision. The world became a whiteout of ice and howling wind. Alaire pressed closer to the rocky outcropping, squinting.
A low growl cut through the storm.
Dawson raised his hand in warning. She froze, ears straining. Another growl answered the first, followed by heavy footsteps, barely audible above the gale.
Through the swirling snow, massive shapes emerged. White fur blended with the storm, claws glinting in the weak light. Dark eyes fixed on them. Intruders.
“Yetis,” Dawson hissed.
A pack. Some continued up the path, but at least six circled the plateau, closing in. The openness left them dangerously exposed.
“What now?”
“Yet-teas.Come now,Alaire,do keep up.”
At last, Solflara and Beck crested the ridge.
“About time you two showed up,” she muttered.
Beck moved to Dawson’s side; Solflara took the rear.
The yetis prowled the perimeter.
Alaire unsheathed her blades with a hiss of metal. Dawson drew his broadsword, shifting to the balls of his feet. They formed a tight circle back-to-back with their celestials, no one left open.
A guttural roar shattered the air. Blood thrummed in Alaire’s ears as she tightened her grip, thumb brushing the stitching on her hilt.
The yetis charged.
One lunged at her, claws raking the air. She rolled and slashed its leg. It howled but pressed forward, driving her toward the cliff—twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten.
Beck darted between them, his beak striking the yeti’s face. Wind spiraled from his wings, buying Alaire space to retreat.
Steel rang out. Dawson’s blade met another yeti’s claws with acrash, the prince grappling against brute force near the eastern edge.
“Solflara!” Alaire shouted as two converged on her phoenix.
