Jaw latched tight, Lykor remained silent. The moons cast shadows across his sculpted features as his gaze flickered—breaking from Jassyn’s eyes to trace the scar bisecting his brow, as if the carved skin were answer enough.
“I think…” Jassyn’s voice wavered as he spoke, trying one last time to break through Lykor’s armor of steel and scorn. “I think you’ve convinced yourself that your worth lies in protecting everyone else. You’ve become a shield—a weapon—for your people because you had no other choice.” His gaze locked onto Lykor’s, searching for the cracks in his walls. “You’re more than that,” Jassyn pressed. “More than a survivor. More than a force of destruction to be wielded and discarded.”
A twitch bristled through Lykor’s shoulders, but he didn’t speak. His silence was heavy, looming like the mountains encircling them. Yet in the hard lines of his face, Jassynglimpsed a flicker of doubt—enough to encourage him forward. He drew a steadying breath, the chilled air biting his lungs as he pressed on.
“I know what it’s like,” Jassyn admitted, voice catching, his fingers trembling around the mugs. “In a way. I was reduced to nothing more than my bloodline—a thing to be used…”
Chest tightening, he hesitated, the confession too late to retract. But the fire in Lykor’s eyes dimmed and held him there, the unspoken question probing enough to draw the rest out.
“The elves took everything,” Jassyn whispered, the memories wrapping around him like a noose. His gaze dropped to the cups, the warmth barely reaching him now. “My body. My will.” The words hollowed him out, but he pushed forward.
“And for decades, I believed I wasn’t worth anything. But Serenna…” He paused, recalling how she’d been a lifeline in the storm—a friend who’d been at his side all those months ago. “She saw beyond my worth to the realm—she sawme. And for the first time, I didn’t have to bear my suffering alone.”
Jassyn lifted his eyes, meeting Lykor’s. “You’re not a weapon. Not a shield. You’re more than that. And I hope you can see it too.”
Lykor blinked, his breath hitching—barely, but enough for Jassyn to notice. As the words settled between them, his gaze darkened, a fracture in his stony expression. Heartbeats passed, pulsing against the crease of his throat.
Slowly, Lykor reached out. Not with his gauntleted claw—a source of protection and pain—but with his hand. In a brush of fingers, he breached the distance between them and claimed the previously offered mug.
For a moment, all Jassyn could do was breathe. The contact had been so brief he might’ve imagined it. Except the fleeting touch lingered like a conversation, silent yet full of words.
Neither of them spoke as Lykor stepped back, his gaze returning to the horizon. Streamers of violets and greens unraveled across the sky, dancing across the sea of stars. This time, the stillness between them wasn’t filled with tension or hostility—just quiet.
Even though the warmth had bled away, Jassyn took a slow sip of tea. His mouth twisted into a grimace. That certainly wasn’t the way he’d brewed it. He shifted his feet, unsure whether to return to the fire, but before he could decide, Lykor broke the silence.
“Sit.”
Gruff and clipped, it sounded like an order rather than a request. A male accustomed to command, Lykor jerked his chin toward the boulder, an invitation to his previous perch. He drank from his mug, coughed, and cleared his throat.
“If…” Another pause, his voice now tempered with uncertainty. “If you’d like.”
Heart still racing from their exchange, Jassyn lingered while Lykor strode back to the ledge. Moving forward felt like more than taking a seat—it was choosing to stay. Whatever spanned between them was no longer a wall, but a fragile bridge, covering ground they hadn’t yet dared to cross.
Slowly, Jassyn closed the remaining distance, gathering his cloak before sinking next to Lykor on the cold rock. He set his cup aside, stuffing his hands into his furs.
They sat in silence at the rim of the world, ethereal ribbons unfurling across the sky above, highlighting the snow-dusted peaks below. Just as Jassyn began to wonder if they would remain like this all night, Lykor’s armor creaked, his gauntlet scraping against his mug.
He released a long, measured breath before finally speaking. “What did they do to you?” he asked quietly, staring at the waving auroras.
His question carried no edge, only the guarded curiosity of someone burdened by their own scars. When Lykor finally turned, his expression remained unreadable, but something haunted simmered in the glow of his eyes. “If…that’s something you’d be willing to share?”
Throat constricting, Jassyn’s fingers grazed the shredded scraps of parchment buried deep in his cloak. Each inked name of his offspring was a record of suffering he’d once tried to erase. On Centarya, he’d torn the pages apart, convinced that destroying them would finally free him.
It hadn’t.
Vesryn had kept the tatters safe, and Jassyn had finally asked his cousin for the family tree after weeks of mustering his courage. Now, the edges were frayed, the creases worn thin from being folded and unfolded so many times, some part of him unable to stop retracing the past.
A tremor shuddered through Jassyn’s hands as he clutched the documents. He forced himself to meet Lykor’s eyes. Before he could second-guess, Jassyn shoved the scraps toward him, a wave of nausea twisting his gut. Lykor frowned, dark brows drawing together as he stared at the crumpled pages.
“This—this is what happened to me,” Jassyn said, fingers shaking, the papers feeling heavier than they should. Unable to hold Lykor’s gaze any longer, Jassyn dropped the folded pieces between them on the boulder.
A chill wind skimmed over the ridge, catching the tattered scraps, but Lykor snatched the papers before the breeze swept them away. His jaw tightened as he offered the documents back, never once glancing at the contents—only at Jassyn.
“I’d rather hear it from you,” Lykor said, voice as soft as falling snow. “Because what I’m imagining…” He shook his head, the conjured horrors unspoken but clear.
Jassyn’s heart rattled against his ribs, threatening to break free from his chest as he stared at the folded parchment. He had to speak, but he didn’t know where to start.
“I have one hundred sixty-five offspring,” he managed at last. The confession ripped open an old wound, but more words spilled out before he could stop. “That’s what’s in those documents.” Averting his gaze, he reclaimed the pages, tucking them away. “But I suspect there are more.”
