Raefe’s brow arched. “It is,Revenant.”
Elyria rolled her emerald-green eyes. Half the people who used her moniker to address her hurled it like an insult. The other half said it like a prayer. She didn’t care for either.
“Well, Raefe, your nose is bleeding,” she said matter-of-factly.
Raefe’s eyes widened. He dabbed at his nose with the back of his hand, then peered down, his brow creased. “No, it isn’t.”
She cracked her knuckles, giving him a pointed look. “It will.”
Raefe scoffed and signaled his men forward. “Have it your way then.”
A duo of brawling patrons tumbled close. Elyria stepped away from the bar, and Raefe sprang into action. He levied a wild swing at her head, another at her gut.
She spun, dodging both blows and managing to stay upright with a wobbly sort of grace. A proud laugh escaped her lips. Even with more than her fair share of cider in her system, Elyria was still a formidable fighter. Anyone else would likely have been flat on their ass by now.
Still, the liquid courage was of no help when it came to the second opponent waiting to her right.
The woman’s viridescent hair was pulled up in a tight series of braids, her leathers cut to showcase her shimmering wings and theswaths of pearly skin on her shoulders and arms. She flexed her hand and a focused gust of air swept Elyria off her feet.
A stormbender. Wonderful.
Elyria flailed toward the ground. As she fell, she couldn’t help but take in the woman’s sharp features: her pointed jaw, the regal slant of her nose, the jut of the bones in her cheeks. A classic fae beauty, so unlike Elyria.
Were it not for the pointed ears and periwinkle hair that greeted her each day in the mirror, Elyria might wonder if she was fae at all. She couldn’t help but compare her own face, with its soft cheekbones and button nose, to the woman’s harsh beauty.
Made all the harsher from the sneer on the woman’s lips as Elyria’s back met the floor. Not for the first time, Elyria was glad she kept her own wings cloaked, that the magic that kept them from view also protected them. She knew all too well the pain that came with unceremoniously crushing a fae’s wings.
Elyria was back on her feet in an instant, steady enough despite the way the room seemed to sway around her.
She slammed her arm into the woman’s chest—perhaps harder than she’d intended. With a sputtering cough, the woman was on the ground, wheezing as if all the air had been knocked from her lungs. Elyria supposed it could have been.
Poetic, she thought,for a stormbender to lose their breath.
Elyria Lightbreaker was not known as “the Revenant” for nothing, after all. She had earned her wartime moniker, hadn’t she? Whether she liked it or not. And it was good she was drunk, all things considered. This was the most fun she’d had in ages. Were she sober, she knew it would be coming to an end all too soon.
Raefe lunged at her once more. Her fist connected with his nose, eliciting a satisfying crunch. He stumbled back, colliding with a group of thrashing men who bowled over as if they were ninepins.
Sadly, there was no time to savor the sight.
A young nocterrian surged forward, their hands outstretched as if meaning to grab her. She darted out of the way, her brow furrowed. The nocterrian wasn’t even part of Raefe’s gang. They were merely getting caught up in the brawl.
Elyria grabbed one of the thick horns on their head, swinging them around as they screamed in outrage. Her boot swiftly connected with their ass as she sent them careening toward the tavern door. When they finally regained their footing, they were staring at Elyria with wide eyes.
“Boo,” she said, and the nocterrian fled into the night.
A cold sting scraped down the back of Elyria’s neck. She whirled. Another one of Raefe’s people—theotherfae woman—stood in the middle of the tavern, eyes narrowed.
“Did you just—Was that a snowball?” Elyria pawed at the back of her head. Sure enough, her hand closed around remnants of snow. She squirmed as slush slipped down the back of her vest, dancing over her spine. The icy bite sharpened her senses.
“Points for creativity, tideweaver.” She hooked her boot through the rung of a nearby barstool. “A snowball in high summer. Can’t say I expected that.” She kicked her foot up, launching the stool into the woman’s face. The collision of wood and bone sounded eerily similar to ice cracking.
“Put that one on my tab, Artie,” Elyria said.
A disgruntled grumble came from near the bar in response.
With a crash, a table was overturned to her right. She leapt up, landing on the thin rim with a dancer’s grace. “Come on, then.” Her voice was bright as she teetered back and forth along the table’s edge on the tips of her toes. “Who’s next?”
Another tankard soared through the air, aimed at Elyria’s skull. She caught it mid-air with a laugh, took a hearty swig, and tossed it aside. It was cold but stale—she grimaced as she felt it slide into her belly.
