Wings Of Fire Icewing Novels & Stories

I feel whole again as I let a small flame dance over my fingertips. I can’t resist. I run outside and create the largest fireball I’ve ever made and throw it straight into the stream causing steam to rise from the surface, I’m back baby. I put on a well fitting pale blue dress that looks like it is made of ice, the back is covered. Not because of the cold but because I want Scott to think I'm still weak., I don't need to worry about the cold anymore, not now that my flames are back.

Al their conflicting emotions, al the sly things they'd done, al the things they only dreamed about doing in the deepest, blackest parts of their hearts. Fire and ice licked over her flesh. The fire was due to the pain lancing through her body from the knives driven through the palms of her hands and the one just beneath her sternum. It felt like the fire was consuming her, burying her within its raging depths, devouring her very soul. The ice, well the ice was from the weakness stealing through her and dousing the fire beneath it.

But the handsome man I had come to love didn’t respond he just watched me before taking my hand and letting his own ice mix with my fire. With a deep breath and a nod, I turned my eyes back to the battlefield and let the flames fly free directing them first to aid our men, providing a distraction that proved fatal for the attacking northerners as they were wiped out, once it appeared that none of our men were in immediate danger I focus on the attackers in front of us, noting as I turned that Tristan had developed a skill of his own. Half a dozen wolves lay dead on the ground before us covered in ice. I lashed out at an attacking wolf catching him in the side just as he lunged toward Tristan

"Went straight through. No bone damage, no arterial involvement. You're lucky." "Doesn't feel lucky," I muttered. "It will once I'm done." He began cleaning the wound with practiced efficiency, and I gritted my teeth against the burn of antiseptic. "You'll need to keep this immobilized. I'm going to put you in a sling." "For how long?" "Two weeks minimum. Longer if you don't follow orders." He glanced at Cat. "I trust you'll make sure he behaves?" "I'll do my best," she said dryly. "But he's stubborn."

He looked at me with eyes full of terror—the look of a man who knew he had failed. ​“The West Wing is a furnace, ma'am!” a firefighter shouted, his voice muffled by his mask. “The fire started in the crawlspace—it went up like tinder! We can’t get a team inside yet!” ​I looked up. The West Wing. The stone was blackened, and orange flames were licking out of the windows like greedy tongues. ​That was Finn’s wing. He was supposed to be napping. I left him sleeping. ​“Finn!” I screamed, the sound tearing my throat raw. I tried to run toward the heat, toward the screaming orange light, but a pair of strong arms caught me around the waist.

She smelt of rain. Misha always smelt of flowers. She... She smelt of rain. Suddenly, Axel wished it was raining. * The two figures came closer, Fire and Ice, with the moon shining at both of them, glad that they would meet under Her watchful gaze, smiling when the two clashed finally and would prove once and for all, the power of love itself. Let the magic begin.

He added quickly, angrily, as if hating the softness in himself: “Don’t make me regret it.” Then he turned away, leaving Elara with the unspoken truth burning between them— The Fire King was not cold. He was burning too hot to touch.

"You’re the one who whispered to me in the dark when the Council was carving into my bones. You’re the 'Extinction' they were so afraid of." The figure—the Red-Winged Dante—stepped into the light. It was a perfect, terrifying blend of us. It had Dante’s lethal, massive frame and his predator’s stance, but from its spine erupted a pair of wings that were an exact, burning replica of mine. They weren't made of "Void-Lead" or "Obsidian-Gold." They were made of Primal Fire, a deep, arterial red that seemed to drink the light from the room.

“Impossible-” Wings of fire unfurled from Freya’s back, vast and radiant, their feathers forged from golden embers. Her hair streamed upward in currents of molten sunlight. Her eyes burned, not mortal, not borrowed, but as twin cores of dawn. Every line of her body blazed with raw sovereignty, not given, not inherited, claimed. Freya lifted the Sword, her voice rising steady and final above the storm. It was not a scream. It was a vow. “This flame was never yours. It was waiting for me.”

he exclaimed, bringing his hands over her frigid cheeks. Vapor exploded out of her mouth and then she spoke. “You’re back?” she asked, the movement brows crinkled noisily as ice flew off of her face with each movement. Miles moved to wipe her forehead, but a menacing growl vibrated up his arm. He pulled back, his wrist suddenly feeling like it was on fire. “He’s very protective,” she whispered. “Destroyer, it’s him. It’s Milo. He’s back.” Miles frowned down at the white wolf, who bared his fangs and snapped at him. Drool gathered and began to drip from his gleaming teeth.