A Court of Whispers and Song

Chapter 57

Night-kissed power surged at the same time Azriel's readied fist met Rhysand's jaw. Blinding rage was all he could see, all he could notice, as he met those violet eyes. As his knuckles struck flesh, hard, again and again and again.

"Azriel, enough!" Rhysand snarled, blocking one wild punch that would have landed on his temple as he lay sprawled out, pinned under the shadowsinger, whose knees sunk into the cold muddy terrain.

No, it wasn't nearly fucking enough.

Baring his teeth with a growl, Az reared his arm back for another blow. This time, Rhysand deflected and retaliated with a precise shot to the ribs, the air whooshing from Azriel's lungs.

But his rage was undeterred. He struck again, feinted on the way, and went for the chest first and then to his High Lord's traitorous mouth.

Rhysand groaned, turning his head to the side, dark crimson splattering out from around his mouth, painting the snow-covered landscape.

Warring growls erupted as Rhys shot up. They were a cacophony of flying fists and barred teeth. Strikes and blocks and counterattacks. And neither let up. This wasn't sparring—this was a fight. A battle of wills and strength. Of rights and wrongs.

And Azriel was just fucking done.

Rhysand using his powers was unpredictable. Rhysand hand to hand was the opposite.

Azriel saw the attack coming to his right but knew that was merely a diversion for Rhys to knock his legs out. Instead, Az jumped and lunged forward, delivering a blow square to the face. Eyes rolling, Rhysand went down—hard .

Once his adversary was on his back, Azriel took advantage. He wasn't thinking when he was straddling his chest. Or when his scarred palms wrapped around the stiff throat.

Surprised violent violet flashed up as his rough fingers squeezed.

"Azriel...that's...enough," Rhysand gasped, clawing at Azriel's grip.

But Az couldn't stop.

Dark night wind and stars slammed into the shadowsinger's chest, sending him flying. And flying. Until his back thudded against a granite boulder, and he slumped to the ground.

Breath sawing, they both staggered to their feet, facing one another, the frigid winds of the mountains outside the cabin Rhysand had winnowed them to biting.

"I know how you feel," Rhysand said, his hand splayed over his bare, tattooed, panting chest. "When Feyre was in the Spring Court—"

Azriel growled and began to shake. "Don't you dare. She was your fucking mate, Rhysand!"

"So that makes it easier?" Rhysand shouted, his power bursting around them like a thousand dark stars. "Even before the bond snapped into place, the draw was present. The pull was there when I had to dispatch those foul faeries who wanted their way with her on Calanmai. When Feyre was in danger with every single trial—every single second—Under the Mountain. And it killed a part of me that has never recovered."

With a menacing chuckle that would make his foes tremble, Azriel said, "You don't get it, do you, High Lord?"

"Oh, please, enlighten me," Rhysand barked condescendingly, eyes tightening into narrow slits of amethyst. "Do you honestly think it was so easy to send away my mate? Or perhaps—"

"You could feel Feyre here." Azriel jabbed the center of his own chest, his nails drilling into the frigid leather. "You sure as shit could tug on the bond and know she was at least fucking alive, you pompous prick. I. Can't." His voice broke with the last word.