as he falters back. The insolence and conceit he’s worn like armor for the entire bout fall away, replaced by a much more potent emotion: fear.
The prince is afraid. He cowers, falling to his knees. A look of absolute terror transforms his expression.
The change from powerful to vulnerable cuts deep inside me. I grip the tree, confused by my change in heart.
I want Rhaegar to win. I want to command my fate. I want to be paired with a keeper who doesn’t hurt me and confuse me and send me spiraling out of control.
But I don’t want the prince to die.
Stupid Fae rules. Stupid Fae everything. I hate them at this moment more than I’ve ever hated anyone. Rhaegar and the prince and the whole lot of them.
Inara screams for the prince to get up; Asher roars, featherless dragon wings snapping out behind him, smoke rumbling from his snarling mouth. But they can do nothing to help the prince as Rhaegar stalks toward him.
The prince tries to use his powers, but his palms are barren; he depleted his magic during his dumb, showy display.
What have I done? My belly twists. Each step the Summer Fae takes toward the fallen prince is a stab to my heart. I feel sick.
Hollowness and terror sweep over me.
He’s going to kill the prince and I helped and I’ll never forgive myself. I don’t know why I care but I do.
I do.
Rhaegar kicks the sword from the prince’s hand and catches it midair. His eyes are black, murderous. He may not be a wolf anymore but his eyes are all beast. The Seelie crowd chants a single word, marbhadh, in Gaelic over and over and over until it seems to come from one god-like voice.
I don’t need to speak Gaelic to know what the word means.
Kill.
From my vantage, the prince is on his knees partially facing me. Both their expressions are half-visible. Rhaegar holds the blade at an angle, tip pointed down at the prince’s heart.
“Any last words, Sylverfrost?” Rhaegar asks, his gloating lips spitting the prince’s surname like poison.
The prince’s eyes grow pensive as he seems to contemplate Rhaegar’s question. Oh, Lord. This is really it. I hold up my arm, prepared to throw it over my face at the killing blow.
Wait. I watch the slow, curling smile tug the prince’s lips upward, confused as his fear morphs into something else. “Yeah, actually. If you don’t mind.” His gaze shifts from Rhaegar—to me.
Me, hiding in the tree invisible . . . except, actually, a quick look shows Ruby curled up in some evergreen foliage, asleep.
So I’m not invisible.
My heart spikes into my throat as the prince holds my stare. A surge of electricity zips up my spine.
Then he winks, his stupid, infernal lips mouthing, thank you.
What the everliving—
I don’t even see the prince gesture, but an explosive boom shudders the forest. Ice and snow burst off the branches. Ruby wakes with a screech as an avalanche of snow and wind scour the trees, nearly knocking me from my perch.
Dark, ominous clouds blacken the sky and blot out the moon, veiling the meadow in layers of shadows.
His power—he didn’t use it up. It’s everywhere. Vibrating from the trees; swelling the air; roiling in the dark clouds above. A maelstrom of magic and death.
Tightening my hold, I turn my attention back to the meadow to see Rhaegar caught inside a tornado of ice and snow. The churning force lifts him into the sky, higher, higher . . . and then slams him down with a bone-cracking thud.
The scream of a Summer Fae in the crowd pierces the quiet and then abruptly dies.
No one speaks as we all focus on Rhaegar where he lies on his back. A universal question on everyone’s lips. Is he dead?
He tries to lift his head—so hurt but alive.
Icy spikes larger than my forearm shoot from the storm clouds toward Rhaegar. Horrified, I force myself to look at the Summer Fae, sure he’s been impaled. My mind readying itself for blood and horror.
But the spikes instead nail his clothing through the thick crust of snow and into the frozen ground, trapping him like a butterfly pinned to a board by its wings. Two spikes at his shoulders. Two at his waist. Countless more along the leather fabric of his pants. They even pin the top of his pine-green cape, spread out behind him like alien blood.
The snow beneath him becomes alive, white tendrils of ice twisting over his body until he’s practically