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I hiss, my wing folding up, and I begin to plunge towards the ground as his magic burns through me. My own magic thunders out of me as I fall, and Galleghar doesn’t evade it in time. The full force of it slams into his chest, throwing him into a nearby hedge.

In the next instant I hit the ground hard, the stone cracking beneath me. I force myself to rise, even as my body protests. My wings fold behind me as I straighten.

Galleghar groans from where he lay, slow to get up, and I use this to my advantage, pummeling him with one, two, three, four blasts of my power. His body recoils over and over with each hit, jerking about against the shrubbery.

The Night King lays there unmoving, and then, just when I’m beginning to think I finally overpowered him, his body dissolves into the night.

I want to growl in annoyance. Those successive hits should’ve blown him away; they would’ve any other enemy. Instead, he still had enough energy to dissipate away from this place.

I’ve been using everything I have. I’m not sure it’s enough. Our power is too alike. You can’t drown water with water or burn fire with fire.

If I want to end him, I won’t be able to use my magic at all.

I pick up the sword I dropped earlier, looking around me. Galleghar hasn’t reformed, but I know he’s out here somewhere, waiting to catch me off guard.

He manifests in the air overhead, bearing down on me with his weapon poised. I bring my sword up just in time, clenching my teeth as I hold off all of Galleghar’s power and weight.

He must’ve figured out the same thing I did: that we cannot kill the other with our magic alone. It takes something baser—such as a blade—to do us in.

With a grunt, I eventually throw him off. He tumbles into a roll, getting back up a moment later with his sword bared.

I always imagined my father to be a weakling who liked to hide behind his threats and violence and prestige, but begrudgingly I admit that he’s an impressive foe, and not just because of his raw strength. Even though he hasn’t visited a battlefield in recent history, he’s a skilled fighter.

He thins his eyes at me, then disappears.

I’m moving my sword before he reappears, and it’s a good thing too. My blade meets his just as the tip of it nicks my throat.

I’m so close to him I can see every trait I inherited from him. The icy grey eyes, the proud brow and curving lips. I was a fool to think that I could hide in plain sight all these years. I’m nearly his twin. I’ve been a lucky fucker to not have been found out.

Our blades squeal as I force his away. Before I can surge forward, Galleghar vanishes once more. I only realize he’s reformed behind me when I feel the slash of his blade against my back, the iron sizzling my flesh and eating away at my magic. I clench my jaw against the pain, turning to face him. But again, he’s gone.

He winks into and out of existence, only lingering long enough to swipe his sword across my skin, and with every hit, I weaken. My clothes soon become a patchwork of scarlet lines. I move slower and my strikes are weaker.

Cannot keep up.The insidious thought slips through my mind.

I might have combat experience, but my father has had centuries to cultivate his power and perfect his fighting skills.

That and he has an iron sword.

I’m no match.

Galleghar must sense my moment of weakness, because he redoubles his efforts, his blade slicing left, right, up, down, whistling through the air with each strike.

With a final blow, he kicks me down to my knees.

I’m a bloody mess. The crimson liquid drips from a dozen different wounds. My magic won’t close up even the shallowest of them.

Galleghar walks around me, his face gloating. “This was the best fate could throw at me? A whoreson dustback?”

So tired. More tired than I ever have been.

Sorry, Mother. You’ll get no justice after all.

Galleghar spins his sword, a sly smile curving the corner of his lips.

He was a man who liked killing. Not like you.The mortal woman’s words ring through my mind.

If I don’t finish him, then more women like her will be bought and sold, used and killed. If I don’t finish him, more soldiers will die on the battlefield, more fairies will be taken for his pleasure or executed because they displeased him.