And smacked straight into an invisible wall.
The impact jarred through his spine, snapping his head back and shoving the breath from his lungs. A shield.
Lykor’s fingers flexed against the barrier, the unseen weave of Essence humming beneath his touch—an inverted twist of illumination concealed it. A snarl rumbled in his throat as he slashed at it with shadows.
Only… The darkness brushed against the ward with no more effect than a feather caressing stone.
His hackles rose. That should’ve been enough magic. A single strike would have torn through any ordinary shield. But this one stubbornly clung, its power layered and knotted tight, woven thick as iron.
Excessive. Impressive.
Irritating.
For a moment, he considered letting it be. It was obvious that Jassyn didn’t want anyone entering his chambers. And if this was anyone else, Lykor would have let them drown in their nightmares. It wasn’t his problem.
But he couldn’t.
And Aesar could be as smug as he wanted when he needled him about it later.
Shadows twined up Lykor’s arms, storm-dark and roiling as he gouged the ward with rending again—harder. The air quivered and resisted, unyielding Essence thrumming beneath his fingertips.
Violet light flared as he shoved with all his strength. The barrier pulsed with a flicker of defiance, then began fraying. A final surge of shadows fractured the shield.
Lykor swept his gaze across the suite as he stalked in, adjusting to the darkness. The bedchamber would be to the left—the layout mirrored his own.
A muffled thud. Then another.
Warping the rest of the way to the threshold, Lykor braced himself.
Jassyn thrashed in the sheets. One hand gripped the leg of the nightstand—the source of the pounding against the wall—while the other clenched the blanket, white-knuckled and struggling against nothing.
Lykor knelt at the edge of the bed, chest unbearably tight. His hands hovered, suspended by hesitation as he swore under his breath.
How the fuck was he supposed to wake him when touching him might make everything worse?
Clearing his throat, Lykor tried a gentle word. “Jassyn,” he murmured.
Jassyn flinched, the scar in his brow contorting, sweat beading along his forehead. He released a strangled noise, but didn’t wake.
“It’s not real,” Lykor rasped, arms flexing as his fingers snapped into fists. But there was nothing for him to fight.
Fury ignited, white-hot—Jassyn shouldn’t be plagued like this. And it wasn’t just this moment. It was every night before it. Every memory that haunted him. Every mark that had been left behind. Decades of hurt.
Spasming, Jassyn clutched the nightstand tighter, straining against something only he could see.
Lykor’s magic pulsed before he realized it. Shadows rose like smoke, whispering through the air to land on Jassyn’s shakinghands. Barely there. No pressure, no pain—just an anchor of sensation. Something for his mind to grasp onto, a trail of magic to lead him back from the nightmare’s hold.
For the first time, Lykor hated that he’d relinquished all the talents he’d stolen. Had he remained an arch elf, he would have telepathy. He’d be able to reach into Jassyn’s mind, help yank him free. End this torment.
But he couldn’t.
All he could do was crouch on his heels and watch Jassyn tremble—watch the past sink its claws into him. If his shadows failed, he’d have to retrieve the prince—someone Jassyn trusted more—and have him help pull Jassyn out of it. But the thought of leaving, even for a moment, made his shoulders twitch.
Lykor’s breath hissed through his teeth as his shadows writhed around him, frantic for an outlet. Sitting still was unbearable. His mind whirled for a solution, a target, a direction—
Jassyn twitched again, his breath stuttering.
Lykor flared his magic, this time sending a more urgent jolt.
