Chapter Thirteen
RAZE
The eastern territory unravels before us like a wound being torn open in slow motion, the tree line giving way to rocky clearing where the fae have planted their mark deep into the logging yard’s main support beam, a symbol carved with silver-edged blades that still hums with residual magic, pulsing in the frozen air as we pull our bikes into a hard stop at the edge of the compound.
Our engines die, and the silence that follows is heavier than the roar that preceded it, loaded with the kind of anticipation that makes the air seem to thicken around us.
Frost bleeds from my knuckles as I dismount, boots slamming into earth that cracks beneath the impact, and I study the carved symbol with eyes that have seen centuries of territorial declarations reduced to nothing but a memory.
But not this one.
The fae presence saturates everything, a disturbance in the air that pricks at the back of my neck and makes my dragon surge against the cage of flesh and bone with more urgency than it has in weeks.
They were here moments ago because the magic hasn’t cooled yet, and something that feels like a deliberate taunt.
Scar materializes at my shoulder without a sound, his red eyes sweeping the darkness beyond the compound’s edge with the kind of predatory focus that five centuries of hunting has sharpened into reflex.
“They’re close,” he murmurs, voice barely disturbing the air.
“Twenty, maybe thirty, spread across the eastern ridge. They’re not hiding, Prez. They want us to find them.”
An ambush wearing the skin of a declaration.
“Then let us oblige them.” I face my brothers as they dismount and form up, cuts heavy with rank and territory, the last of the daylight fading fast behind them.
Wreck stands motionless at my left flank, his gaunt form absorbing shadows the way a black hole absorbs light, his hollow eyes fixed on the tree line with hunger that makes the air around him taste stale and cold.
Coil shifts his weight, his serpentine grace evident in every movement as his eyes bleed hypnotic gold at the edges, vertical pupils already splitting as the enforcer in him rises to meet what’s coming.
Maul cracks his knuckles with sounds like small bones breaking, dark eyes glittering with the barely leashed violence of something that was built for exactly this kind of confrontation.
Flux cycles through two quick shifts—wolf, hawk, back to human—his eyes calculating angles and escape routes with the efficiency of someone who’s mapped every terrain feature within a mile radius simply by existing in it long enough.
Thorn stands rooted at the edge of the clearing where snowcapped gravel meets dirt, and I watch the nearest trees begin to shift, branches bending inward like they’re listening to instructions only he can hear, roots writhing beneath the surface in preparation for whatever violence is about to unfold.
Ruckus leans against his bike with that perpetual grin, gold charms clinking softly as probability bends itself into new configurations around him, a loose stone rolls into a better position underfoot, the wind shifts to carry scent toward us instead of away, and somewhere in the darkness ahead, a fae warrior’s grip on his weapon loosens by a fraction.
And behind them all, the prospects.
Rhett vibrates with barely contained energy, shadows pooling around his boots like living things eager to be unleashed, hellfire flickering behind his eyes in orange-red pulses that paint the ground in brief, burning light.
Bennett stands beside him with wings not yet manifested but presence heavy enough to make the air shimmer, divine authority radiating from him in waves that have nothing to do with physical power and everything to do with something older, something that existed before the first war was fought.
They’re not arguing. For once in their eternal existence, Rhett and Bennett are completely, utterly silent, and that alone tells me they understand what’s about to happen.
“Formation,” I state, and the word carries enough weight to shift the temperature by ten degrees without me even trying.
“Scar, Wreck… you take point. Coil, circle wide and flank from the south. Maul, Flux, Thorn… push through the center and hold the ridge. Ruckus, keep probability bending until I tell you to stop.” My gaze moves to the prospects, and something in my chest tightens at the sight of them standing shoulder to shoulder despite everything that’s supposed to keep them apart. “Rhett, Bennett… you stay with me.”
Rhett’s grin splits across his face like a crack in dark stone, all teeth and barely suppressed hunger. “Finally!”
Bennett says nothing, but the air around him brightens by a single, deliberate degree.
And then we move.
The forest swallows us whole, darkness closing around the formation like a fist clenching.
The silence between heartbeats stretches until every sound becomes amplified, the crunch of frost beneath boots, the whisper of Coil’s scales against frozen undergrowth as he flows south in basilisk form, the barely audible shift of Thorn’s trees repositioning themselves overhead like guards lining a fortress edge.
Scar disappears, his form dissolving into the shadows between one blink and the next, and then Wreck follows with that unsettling quality of movement that suggests he isn’t so much moving through space as simply choosing to exist somewhere else, footsteps making no sound whatsoever despite the frost-bitten ground.
We reach the ridge in four minutes.
Light bends first, silver threading through the trees where there should only be shadow, then the undergrowth shifts as if stirred by a single, shared will.
Figures peel free of bark and leaf, stepping out of the tree line as though they were never behind it at all, but part of it, grown rather than arrived.
The fae emerge in a tide of silver and green, movement too fluid, too precise, their inhuman grace setting teeth on edge.
Beauty clings to them like a weapon, crafted to disarm as much as deceive.
Blades catch the light as they move, enchantments rippling along their edges, magic so old it hums in the air, older than kingdoms, older than the names mortals gave them.
They don’t rush us.
They don’t need to.
They spread across the ridge with effortless coordination, sealing off retreat as neatly as a closing hand.
The forest goes still.
And it’s immediately clear we didn’t stumble into them.
They let us.
Silver and green armor gleams as the Seelie Prince’s warriors step fully into view, polished and precise, every movement measured, disciplined, beautiful in the way predators often are.
I count without thinking, cataloging positions, weapon types, the subtle weight shifts that mark veterans from those still eager enough to be dangerous—thirty-two of them.
One fae breaks formation. He moves with deliberate slowness, dragging the moment out, boots crunching softly against frost-dusted stone.
His silver leaf-shaped helmet comes off with a smooth twist of his wrist, revealing features carved sharp and elegant, his white eyes bright with contempt as they sweep over us.
“You arrive loudly,” he says, voice carrying easily across the ridge. “Engines roaring, blades bared, as if intimidation passes for diplomacy.”
Ruckus tilts his head, gold glinting faintly as luck bends around him. “We like to be heard.”
The fae snorts softly. “You like to pretend that you matter.” His gaze shifts back to me, lingering and assessing.
“You trespass on seelie land. You disrupt our patrols. You break wards older than your club, older than your name.” A thin smile curves his mouth.
“And now… you stand here expecting restraint?”
Scar’s lips twitch. Wreck’s shadows press closer while my dragon begs to be set free.
“Your warriors carved claims into my territory,” I say calmly. “That was your choice.”
A ripple moves through their ranks, tight and controlled, but unmistakable. Blades rise a fraction while magic stirs. The fae takes another step forward, close enough now that I can smell moon-forged metal and old enchantments.
“Your territory,” he repeats softly, amused. “You rule snow, stone, and frightened mortals who kneel because they don’t know any better. This mountain belonged to the Seelie Court before your kind learned to build roads.”
“I don’t care who owned it first,” I reply. Frost creeps along the ground at my feet, ice threading through cracks in the stone. “I care who bleeds for it now.”
Behind me, the club moves as one, small adjustments, shared grins, a collective readiness that says they heard exactly what I meant.
“You mistake restraint for fear, dragon,” the fae says, his voice dropping, his white eyes burning bright. “We’ve allowed you to exist because it merely amused us.”
Ruckus chuckles. “Shit reason, pixy.”
The fae’s attention snaps to him, irritation flashing. “You should leash your mongrels.”
Scar bares his teeth, and I step forward in one measured pace. “Then stop allowing,” I say evenly. “Correct me.”
For a breath, just one, it feels like pride and protocol might drag this into a stalemate.
The fae’s smile widens instead, cruel and pleased. “Gladly.”
The fae whips his blade toward my throat with enough speed to blur even my enhanced vision, the silver edge singing as it slices through frozen air.
I don’t dodge so much as redirect, ice surging from my forearm in a jagged shield thick enough to catch the blow and shatter the weapon at its midpoint, shards spinning away into the dark like broken teeth.
The warrior overcommits, momentum carrying him forward as his blade fails, and that single mistake is all I need.
I let go.
Ice rips through me from the inside out.