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Steaming, from what he’d done to it.
Not to it, but to himself.
The body he’d turned into solid flame, so
hot it had melted through the wyvern’s jaws,
its throat, and he had passed through the
beast’s mouth as if it were nothing but a
cobweb.
The Yellowlegs rider who’d survived the
crash drew her sword, but too late. Glennis put
an arrow through her throat.
Silence fell. Even the battle above died out.
The Thirteen landed, splattered in blue and
black blood. So different from Sorscha’s red
blood—his own red blood.
Then there were iron-tipped hands gripping
his shoulders, and gold eyes glaring into his
own. “Are you daft?”
He only glanced to the Yellowlegs witch’s
head, still feet away. Manon’s own gaze
turned toward it. Her mouth tightened, then