Lykor’s lip curled as he grabbed Jassyn by the front of his armor, hauling him close in a gesture that the elf’s height made more awkward than intimidating.
“Fine,” he hissed. “But if you eventhinkabout bending my will, I’ll eradicate you from existence.”
Aesar tossed up his hands.Do we really have time for this?
Lykor’s irritation flared, but Aesar was right. Concessions. Jassyn could be used for now, and discarded later. Accepting his help wasn’t surrender—it was strategy.
With a glance at the next tier, Lykor yanked Jassyn into another warp. He jumped from bridge to bridge, each shift carrying them closer to Kal’s location.
Eventually, they reached a slender path suspended high above the fray. A few levels below, a landing stretched between them and the wraith, bristling with archers. Their volleys tore through the air in deadly arcs, slicing downward toward Kal’s fighters.
The violet glow of a shield drew his attention—Serenna’s—the fragile canopy flickering under the relentless hail of arrows. Her ward deflected the attacks from above, but the sides gapedopen, leaving the wraith exposed as they clashed with the mortals.
The human horde churned like a storm-fed river, flooding from tunnels on the ground level. Steel rang like distant thunder, the wavering torches casting shadows across the stronghold walls. Hundreds of mortals clad in mismatched scraps of armor pressed in from every direction, shoving Kal’s fighters toward the cusp of slaughter.
Lykor edged along the narrow path while Aesar murmured suggestions about where to descend. No longer having the wraith ability of cloaking—a price paid weeks ago when he’d siphoned that ranger’s talents—left him vulnerable. Exposed. And he felt it now, the prickle of hostile eyes latching onto them from below.
A shout rang out from one of the archers, followed by the whistle of arrows shrieking toward them. Before Lykor could warp, Jassyn’s hands flew up. A shield webbed out between them and the hail of quarrels, solidifying just in time. The arrows struck the barrier, clattering to the stone.
Lykor’s scowl tightened, a flicker of grudging acknowledgment creeping in. Maybe the elf would prove more useful than he’d expected. But that didn’t mean he trusted him.
“We’ll have to kill them,” Lykor said bluntly, ignoring the archers for the moment. Decades in the Wastes had honed his instinct for survival, but he’d always avoided taking the lives of helpless mortals. That restraint cracked now under the weight of necessity. “Are you prepared for that?” He clenched his gauntlet at his side as he met Jassyn’s gaze. “Or should I leave you up here?”
Jassyn folded his arms, a fresh volley of arrows ramming against his shield as he scuffed a boot against the stone, pointedly staring down. “There might be another way.”
“There’s not,” Lykor snapped, jerking his chin toward the incessant archers firing at them. “This is war, not a debate.” He jabbed his finger into Jassyn’s chest, baring his fangs. “Unless you can burrow into every brain down there and force them to stand down, their lives are forfeit.”
Jassyn’s jaw tightened, but resignation settled heavily onto his shoulders. He gave a reluctant nod, abandoning any further argument.
Stalking toward the edge of the barrier, Lykor pressed his palm against the shimmering surface. Essence flared around him as he moved to unravel a small window in the ward, but Jassyn beat him to it.
Lykor grunted, sparing Jassyn a glance that might’ve been a glower before fixing his focus on the mortals assaulting them from the bridge below. Igniting the scant power he’d restored, shadows erupted from his palm. The writhing cloud of darkness plummeted toward the archers, expanding as it fell.
Brief screams rang out before the blanket of rending smothered them. When the fog finally dissipated, the bridge stood eerily silent—except for the steady drip of blood falling on stone.
Next to him, Jassyn shifted his weight but remained quiet. Lykor unsheathed the twin glaives strapped to his back. The blades felt unwieldy, the strain they put on his spine a nuisance.
Essence had always been his weapon of choice—brutal, efficient, unburdened by the weight of steel. But with his reserves running low, he needed to conserve what remained for a portal once they reached Kal.
Lykor stiffened as Aesar’s voice broke through his thoughts.
I can do it.
Grinding his molars, Lykor choked back the retort clawing its way to his tongue. This wasn’t the time for one of their disputes. Not while his people were dying. They needed speed—precision.And as much as it blistered his pride to admit, Aesar’s mastery might be the necessary edge when they warped down.
NO HALF MEASURES,Lykor growled into the depths of his mind.WE WON’T MAKE IT OUT IF WE’RE TRYING TO SPARE EVERY LIFE. OUR PEOPLE COME FIRST.
Aesar exhaled slowly.I know.
The droning thunder of his heartbeat punched between his ears, cold sweat sliding down his neck. Lykor’s grip on the glaives tightened before he forced his fingers to slacken, hesitantly relinquishing control.
A cold shiver ignited at his fingertips, snaking up his limbs with an eerie numbness as Aesar slipped into place. Lykor braced himself, a knot in his gut twisting tighter as he fully ceded. Becoming the observer. Watching through their eyes.
Rolling their neck, Aesar hefted the glaives to test their balance—a bird stretching its wings, recalling how to fly.
The slight crease in Jassyn’s brow, his perceptive frown seeming to detect their shift, scraped against Lykor’s nerves. Muttering to himself that it didn’t matter—any halfwit could tell them apart—Lykor hovered at the brink of Aesar’s awareness. Close enough to intervene, yet careful not to disrupt.
Feeling their body move without his command felt like teetering on the edge of a chasm. Every instinct screamed at him to seize control. But he had no choice—he had to trust.
