Crescent City: A Court of Thrones and Glass

Chapter Twenty-Five: Bryce

A/N: Thank you @AshenFeather, @Hingisthepenguin, @Satans_Bae_666, @_dfendyr_, @KitiLover, @trinaskyemarie, @Tiny_Satan_666, @highlady_aelin and @SkylineMoonrise for voting! First of all, THANK YOU EVERYONE for reading this story. 10k VIEWS!! I never believed I would actually start writing, let alone have people read it. Makes me so happy. Secondly, can I just say how freaking excited I am for A Court of Silver Flames (ACOTAR 4!!!)!!! It comes out January 26, 2021 and I can't wait!!!! Thirdly, I apologize for the wacky update schedule, I started summer school......and I'm taking math 😬I'm hoping things will get back on track and I will finish this story *fingers crossed* before regular school starts. Finally, thank you all for reading this story and commenting. I love hearing your opinions! 💕💕

Sweat rolled down her forehead, stinging the many cuts and scrapes. Bryce wiped her brow, smearing the dirt and blood—her own and other's. Despite the no-kill rule, the Illyrian bastards didn't pull any punches. Lucky for Bryce, Manon, Aelin and Lysandra were badass fighters. Danika would fit right in. No. Bryce shook her head, banishing the thought. She needed to focus on not getting her face smashed in. She plastered a smirk on her face. Beating sexist alphaholes into the ground on a bet was the right way to spend the day. Without a doubt. Even if it hurt like Hel. The Illyrians were regrouping at the opposite side of the ring, like a black stain. Over half still remained, however Lysandra had done an amazing job forcing them to the ground. Bryce flipped the twin daggers in her hands. Once. Twice. The cold hilt bit into her palms. She loosed a breath. You took down Micah, a fucking Archangel. These overgrown bats don't stand a chance.
"Daggers?" Aelin teased, "Are you trying to steal my moves, Quinlan? What happened to your metal shooters of death?" Bryce huffed a laugh. How the Queen could joke, while fighting for her life, Bryce had no idea.
     "They're called guns, Your Majesty, and I'm conserving ammo. Plus, nothing like getting a male to surrender with a good old fashioned blade to the dick." Aelin chuckled. Bryce could've sworn she heard Hunt stifle a curse from outside the ring. Manon turned, the corner of her mouth twitching up.
     "As much as I love hearing you two chat, there are twenty seven warriors, itching for slaughter, sizing us up." Lysandra growled her agreement, puffy tail twitching. Like a switch, Aelin's face hardened, the scratch beneath her eye leaking fresh blood. Gone was the lighthearted queen, here stood the battle scarred assassin.
"Listen up," she whispered fiercely, so only they could hear, "the Illyrians are good, but we're better. Ten out of the remaining twenty seven are commanders—who are also the strongest. Take them out, and the rest will panic. Bryce, hammer the left flank, Manon, you take the right. Lys and I will drive apart the centre." Bryce nodded, too caught up in the action to argue. To her surprise, Manon did the same. "Stay sharp. Don't get killed or I'll kick your asses in Hell. These cocky, overgrown bats are going to try and get the drop on us in three....two.....o—" Battle cries flooded Bryce's ears as a tidal wave of black came charging towards them.
She darted left. Targeting the weaker, outermost warriors, Bryce ran. She met them head on, twin daggers blocking Illyrian steel. The warriors may have had the brute strength, but Bryce had her wits and speed. With a sweep of her leg, the hulking soldier fell flat on his ass. A move Hunt had learned from Rowan. Slamming the pommel on his temple, she knocked him out cold. A sliced achilles and a roundhouse kick, and the next Illyrian was down. Again and again, engaging warrior after warrior, Bryce fought and fought and fought. She pushed the left flank towards the centre, forcing the Illyrians to choose. Face Bryce, or the whirlwind of pain that Aelin Galathynius had become. Many decided to abandon formation and attack the Queen. Idiots. Bryce marvelled at her. Aelin was a living weapon, backed by a fucking shapeshifter. Where one faltered, the other was there. It was like a beautiful dance, one Bryce gladly was a part of. Pausing to catch her breath, she assessed the ring. The Illyrian's numbers were dwindling, however the 10 commanders remained. Cowards, for hiding behind lesser warriors, for waiting until they had exhausted themselves to join the fray. Bryce risked a glance down at her battered body. Dirt covered her tight, light armour and the little slices in her skin stung like Hel. And Cthona's tits her knee hurt! Sweat trickled down her spine. She would kill for a glass of water.
BEHIND YOU! Feyre's voice echoed in her mind as Bryce whirled. Shoving aside her pain, Bryce raised her daggers, blocking a sword in the air. From behind the blade, a commander snarled down at her. He pushed down. Bryce gritted her teeth, fighting, even as her arms buckled.
     "Surrender now and I'll consider not killing you," he growled. Bryce didn't deign to respond. She's told enough lies to spot them easily. Instead, she let go of her blades and dropped to ground, rolling away in a smooth motion. Before the commander could recover, she drew a handgun. And shot him in the knee. He howled, falling, clutching his shattered knee.
     "You're going to regret that," he hissed.
     "No, I don't think I will," Bryce responded coolly as she knocked him on the temple with the butt of her gun. The commander was out. Bryce snatched her discarded daggers off the ground and holstered her gun. Another howl of pain cleaved the air, almost an echo to the fallen commander's. This one, however, was distinctly more......feline. Lysandra's ever-changing scent stuffed itself up Bryce's nose, along with the coppery tang of blood. Lots of it. Bryce looked toward the centre of the ring where a mass of white and red fur laid, protected by a raging assassin and a bloodthirsty witch. She sprinted towards Lysandra. A pool of blood quickly gathered under the large ghost leopard's body. An Illyrian had sliced down the side of her body, striking deep and true. Bryce kneeled beside her, trusting Manon and Aelin to protect them. Bryce pressed her hands to the gash. Lysandra huffed, her breathing laboured. Were those her ribs peeking through the split skin and muscle? It took all of Bryce willpower not to vomit all over Lysandra's wound. She looked to the crowd, searching for someone to help her fallen friend. The healers would never be strong enough to carry her away from the fighting, and the Illyrians are trying to kill them, despite the rules. Rhys and Feyre couldn't physically interfere, and Bryce was no doctor, but even she knew a cut this bad would kill her if left untreated for much longer.
     "Lysandra surrenders!" Bryce shouted. The shifter growled in denial, but she tried and failed to lift her furry head. "Hunt! Rowan! Get your asses over here!" Aelin looked back at Bryce, gratitude shining amongst the utter rage on her dirt-streaked face. A heartbeat later, and another Illyrian was unconscious at the assassin's feet. Another heartbeat, and a mass of muscle and grey wings slammed into the ground beside Bryce, along with a white-tailed hawk. A flash, and two pairs of strong hands were pressing into Lysandra's wounds beside hers.
"Go," Rowan said gruffly, nodding towards Aelin, who was taking on three Illyrians at once, including a commander. "Help my Queen. We'll take care of Lysandra." Bryce looked to Hunt, as he fought to keep the blood inside her, while Rowan worked his healing magic.
"You've got this, sweetheart," Hunt said, kissing her forehead. "Look, there are only ten warriors left. Go beat those alphaholes into the dirt." Bryce nodded with a smirk. She took off, sprinting towards the remaining Illyrians. Behind her, Rowan and Hunt lifted Lysandra with the aid of Rowan's magic. The shifter yelled in pain, whimpering. At the noise, Aelin turned purple with fury. She faced the strongest warrior, the one who had injured Lysandra. An icy wrath spread over her features. The killing calm. The commander had a sadistic smile plastered on his face. That male had no idea what was about to hit him. Neither did Bryce, apparently. Pain exploded across her face. She reeled back, clutching her nose, smearing Lysandra's blood on her cheeks. Her eyes watered uncontrollably, blurring her vision. All she could see was a black blur standing in front of her. The bastard had punched her square in the face! Blinking back the tears, Bryce returned the favour. She punched him. Right the nose. Bone cracked and he doubled over, blood ruching down his face.
"Bitch!" He barked. Hands slick, Bryce drew a dagger and conked him on the head. With him down, only five Illyrians stood, all commanders. Aelin still battled the strongest, while Manon fended off the four others. Rushing to the witch's aid, Bryce snarled. She dove low, slicing, not stabbing, with her twin daggers. Manon had sheathed Wind-Cleaver, relying on her iron teeth and nails. The first warrior went down quickly. The second as well. The next two were more experienced, it seemed.
"Give up now, half-breed," ordered one, brandishing his sword. The other one sniffed, glaring at Manon.
"What are you, bitch?" So fast she was a blur, Manon slashed his shoulder with an iron claw. She sucked on her nails and grinned at the male. Blood, his blood, coated her iron teeth.
"The White Demon." The witch unleashed herself on the two commanders. Bryce just watched, amazed by her ferocity. One male fell on his ass, tripped by Manon's leg. Bryce seized the opportunity to knock him out. As for the other commander, his sword was no where to be found, and Manon had his arms pinned to his sides. Blood trickled down his arm where her nails were digging in.
"I'm going to kill you," he snarled. And spat directly in Manon's face. It was the last mistake he ever made. In a fluid motion, Manon shredded his wings with her claws and ripped his throat out with her teeth. The male didn't even have time to scream before his corpse hit the ground.
"The witch violated the rules! She is disqualified!" An arrogant, distinctly male voice cried. A camp lord, no doubt. Manon didn't even blink. She just stalked out of the ring, heading towards Lysandra. Bryce watched Manon prowl away, but it was Rowan who caught her attention. His eyes were wide, hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. Shaking with restrained rage, the king was staring at Bryce. No. Not at her, past her. Bryce whirled, to see Aelin pinned to the ground, the Illyrian's knee on her chest, his knife at her throat. The queen struggled, but he was too heavy. They were near the edge of the ring, opposite to Bryce. The ring felt impossibly large with the absence of bodies. She was no where near fast enough to reach Aelin before the commander slit her throat. Which meant she only had one option. A familiar weight settled in her hands, her finger resting on the trigger. Quickly, she checked the cylinder. Shit. Shit. There was only one bullet left. She had to make the shot count. Bryce drew a steadying breath. Time slowed. A light breeze caressed her face, cooling her sweaty neck. She lined up the shot, just like Randall had taught her. She squeezed the trigger. And the bullet passed clean through her target. Precisely where she had aimed. Not at the Illyrians head, but at his unprotected, sensitive wings. He roared and Aelin flipped him over. Before he could react, the assassin mustered all her might and punched him in the jaw. The last standing warrior was out cold before his face hit the dirt. Aelin stood on shaky legs and brushed the dirt off her battered assassin's suit. She staggered towards Bryce. Just like that, exhaustion hit Bryce like a fucking truck. The last of the adrenaline seeped out of her body, and she felt like she could sleep for days. Bryce forced herself to walk towards Aelin. She crashed into the female, embracing her. She didn't seem to care that Bryce's hands were stained red with blood. Finally, Bryce and Aelin turned to face the crowd. Many gaped at them. Heat encircled Bryce's head, and she realized Aelin had given them both a crown of flames.
     "We made a deal. Against all odds, we won. Now you bastards have to fight," Aelin called out, a Queen once again. "Now, we are going to get cleaned up and take a nap. If I hear one word that you lot aren't holding up your end of the bargain by obeying your High Lord and Lady, so help me I will burn you to ash." The flame crowns burned brighter for emphasis. Aelin glared at the camp lords. Bryce smirked with cool indifference. "Don't make me come back here." Bryce followed as the Queen of Terrasen limped out of the ring and into the awaiting arms of her mate.