Page 197 of Wings of Ash & Flame
The ruby pulsed, beating in rhythm with her heart. Crimson light—pure, unfiltered—erupted from the gem and lashed toward Dawson’s magic, just as it had at the Celestial Cascade Ball.
“No!” Alaire cried. “Don’t hurt him!”
But the scarlet light didn’t strike him. It wrapped around his streams of air, twining with them. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then the two powers began to dance, crimson spirals weaving through his currents, creating something entirely new.
Dawson’s concentration faltered as he felt the change ripple through him.
“What is—” His gaze snapped to hers.
The ice cracked under the assault of their combined force, jagged fissures widening across its surface.
He looked at her blade, then back at the splintering barrier. “Strike it, Alaire. Now!”
She didn’t need to be told twice. Raising her blade, she brought it down with all her strength. The combined force of steel and aether shattered the final remnants of ice.
“Take cover!” Alaire shouted.
Ice exploded outward in a shower of glittering shards. She crouched, arms shielding her head. The ground trembled, but the impact never came. Not a shard had touched her.
When she lifted her head, the ring’s glow had dimmed, returning to its ordinary state. Around her, everyone was alive, breathing.
Dawson’s eyes lingered on hers, then drifted to the shallow rise of her chest, to her fists clenched so tightly her nails bit her palms. His jaw ticked, but he said nothing.
He stalked toward her. No words. No questions.
Ever so slowly, his knuckles brushed the line of her jaw. His fingers hovered for a heartbeat before tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear, ghosting over her temple—careful, measured, as though she were something to be treasured.
As she reached for him, her body jolted back of its own accord. Not this again.
The winterflame was calling. Just as the ring had. Just as the phoenix egg had.
She shot Dawson an apologetic glance over her shoulder and turned toward it. Hesitation gripped her as she stepped closer.
The flame hovered in the air, four feet high, cobalt and hypnotic. Its blue light crackled and swayed.
With trembling hands, she reached out, bracing for pain. Instead, she felt the cool caress of silk. She spread her fingers through the outer edges of the fire. Nothing.
Then, with both hands, she cupped the winterflame. Instantly, it shrank to fit between her palms. A surge of power shot through her, hotter and fiercer than anything she’d ever felt.
The world blurred into light and shadow. The flame’s glowing heart pulsed in her grasp. And then, like a tidal wave, the visions crashed over her.
Gone was the icy cavern.
Alaire stood on the edge of a battlefield, the air thick with smoke and the metallic tang of blood. The sky was a deep, bruised purple, teetering on the edge of night, backlit by fires raging across the land. Soldiers clashed in combat with creatures moving with inhuman speed and ferocity—vampires. Cries of fury and pain rang out all around her.
Her heart pounded as her gaze snapped to a familiar silhouette in the distance. Golden spires rose from the heart of her ravaged kingdom. Dawnspire.
On a high balcony above the chaos stood a woman with flowing chestnut hair, her crimson gown embroidered with gold—always red and gold. How could she have forgotten that? Her mother. Queen Elara.
Sorrow and determination etched her features. She raised her hands, summoning a shimmering white barrier that enveloped Dawnspire and its people.
But it wasn’t enough.
Shadows entrenched the battlefield. Alaire didn’t see him, but she felt him—waiting for his masterpiece to unfold. The Voidshade Sovereign. His was the darkness that swallowed every flicker of light. With a single, gut-wrenching strike, he shattered Aurelia’s barrier.
Alaire crumpled as Dawnspire’s defenses fell. The dark forces surged forward, crushing the last line of resistance.
The vision shifted.
