Vesryn’s shield pulsed as distorted figures surrounded them, dropping from the sky.
The sky.
Lykor’s breath hitched.
His eyes snapped upward, heartbeat stalling.
Wings.
Scores of them. Blotting out the sun.
The air shuddered with their descent as the figures swooped low, the obsidian scales on their arms glittering. Landing, the creatures joined the ranks closing in around them. A living vise of fangs and claws.
Wraith. Wraith with wings.
Or something far worse.
Tiny intricate scales swirled across their faces, the near-decorative patterns shifting. What skin that wasn’t covered by armor or scales rippled with the indigo iridescence of his own people, but their hair was silver, brighter than the stars. And their eyes—vertical slits—burned a molten red.
A brutal arc of gold slashed through the air, ravaging a section of Vesryn’s shield. A staff. At the tip of it, a wicked, gold-plated hook curved like a raptor’s talon—a crescent moon poised to reap both magic and flesh.
Lykor lashed out, punching a tidal wave of rending forward through the gap. Shadows streaked toward the winged attacker, meant to obliterate.
But before his magic struck, the air screamed.
A high-pitched shriek split his skull, the piercing sound terrifyingly familiar. His magic was ripped from his control, slipping through his grip like oil. Heart ramming his ribs, Lykor’s gaze snapped to the prince, who staggered forward.
“Fuck!” Vesryn swore. “They have a Starshard!”
Lykor followed his stare to another staff, this one crowned with a crystal gem.
A metallicpingricocheted off his gauntlet. One of those objects that had struck the prince—a feathered dart—dropped to the sand at his feet.
Lykor blinked as a sharp sting lanced through him, another one finding its mark. For a disorienting moment, he stared at the quivering fletching biting deep in the exposed flesh of his arm.
Then ice bloomed in his veins. Fire and frost warred inside him, venom—or poison—snaking through his blood. It moved too fast, burning along his limbs, slithering around his ribs, clamping over his lungs.
A snarl wrestled its way up Lykor’s throat. He had to act. He had to protect them. But his hold on Essence wavered, his thoughts unraveling.
Aesar’s grip on the glaives tightened as the winged figures closed in, their approach a blur of motion. Yet Lykor’s eyes dashed to Jassyn, still braced against sand, the prince stumbling to stay upright beside him. Only seconds had passed, but everything was spiraling into chaos.
A burst of thought slammed into Lykor’s mind—Aesar’s frantic voice.We need to get out of here!
Aesar tossed his glaives into one hand, freeing Lykor just enough to seize Jassyn’s arm and haul him up.
“Prince!” Lykor barked, ripping open a portal as far into the Wastes as he could reach. “We have to go. Now!”
Another piercing whine screeched through the air. The last fragments of Vesryn’s ward shuddered, buckled, and then disintegrated in a violet flash as the Starshard struck.
Lykor’s pulse pounded in his ears, a drumbeat counting down to their doom.
The venom gnawed at him, turning his limbs into sludge. Still, he gritted his fangs, locking his grip around Jassyn. His mind reeled, too clouded to even consider warping through the portal.
The air thickened with the rustle of leathery wings.
There were too many. Everywhere. Claws clacking, fangs flashing, reptilian eyes burning.
The prince’s struggle became frenzied—wild, erratic swings slicing through empty air, a display teetering on absurdity. If not for the grim certainty that he too was succumbing to the venom.
