Keeping his focus on the fresh injury, Jassyn resisted the urge to linger on the scars etched into Lykor’s shoulders and twisted along his spine—ravaged remnants of torment endured.He idly wondered if he could reconstruct the damage—he’d done it before using the prince’s shadows on Serenna’s “mended” finger—but he doubted Lykor would ever allow it.
When the puncture fused shut, Jassyn dug beneath his armor, his numb fingers fumbling as he retrieved a knife. He sliced a strip of lining from his cloak and packed it with snow. Cupping the fabric in his palms, he transferred what little heat he could muster, softening the frozen crystals.
With the damp cloth poised in his hand, Jassyn hesitated, hovering above the streaks of blood. Lykor didn’t look at him, but he gave the barest nod. When Jassyn pressed the cold fabric to his skin, Lykor flinched.
“Sorry.” Jassyn cringed as he wiped the area clean. “I know it’s cold.”
“It’s…not that.” Lykor’s voice was rough, even for him.
Jassyn stiffened, his gaze drifting down to where his hand rested against Lykor’s chest. Healing him was just another task, no different from any other. He’d done this countless times before.
Except this time, a glimmer of something unfamiliar stirred, a subtle nudge urging him to pull away. But the heat radiating from Lykor’s skin anchored his palm in place like ivy clinging to a sun-drenched wall, starved for warmth.
Jassyn forced himself to speak, his words tumbling out in a rush. “I’ll—I’ll try to hurry. I can heal without contact, but regenerating blood…”
Trailing off, he focused on Lykor’s marrow, rapidly weaving strands of mending through the intricate tapestry of his bones, restoring what had been lost.
“You’re a skilled healer then,” Lykor murmured, the words oddly distant, as if exhaustion had ground away the edges of his usual scorn.
Jassyn’s eyes darted across Lykor’s face. It was still him—not Aesar—who’d dispensed the compliment.Probably blood loss.
Unsure how to respond, Jassyn stayed silent, lacing together the healing lattices to restore his blood. Beneath his palm, Lykor remained an unyielding stone, but his heartbeat hammered in a way that clashed with the erratic drum of Jassyn’s pulse. The thumping scattered his concentration away from the delicate procedure, drawing his attention to the distracting warmth where their skin touched.
I’m just exhausted.Talking would be a better way to occupy himself than letting his thoughts brew in silence.
“The wraith…” Jassyn began, the question teetering on his lips. He cleared his throat, searching for words that wouldn’t betray his ignorance or provoke offense. “You’re…warm. I noticed the first time I mended you—and when I healed Fenn too. But you and Kal… Fenn has one talent, yet he looks fully wraith, while both of you…”
The words unraveled into uncertainty. He hadn’t premeditated whatever he was trying to ask, and it showed. So unlike him to lose the thread of his own thoughts.
“The transformation is a spectrum,” Lykor offered, saving Jassyn from any further stumbling. “It manifests differently in everyone.” His gauntlet creaked as he flexed it, forming a fist in his lap.
“Why does the shift happen?” Jassyn asked softly.
Lykor’s eyes briefly unfocused before he rolled them. “Aesar would be thrilled to indulge you with that conversation.” He grunted humorlessly before shaking his head. “Only the stars remember the past, but perhaps the Aelfyn were all wraith before harnessing Essence. Their greed didn’t end there—it stretched beyond their homeworld, consuming this one too.”
Having never heard that theory before, Jassyn frowned thoughtfully, tucking away the information for later. Hisillumination drifted around them as the storm pressed faintly against their icy cocoon, the wind a muffled whistle.
Lykor’s lip curled, his expression darkening as he continued. “The king destroyed any history we had. He buried our ancestors’ folly—their attempt to steal the dragons’ magic. And perhaps more. Galaeryn intends to finish what they started, but I’ll do everything in my power to stop him.”
The storm outside suddenly felt like the least of their worries.
Jassyn blinked as Lykor shifted. Crimson eyes lifted to his face, pausing to trace the scar slashed across his brow. For a fleeting moment, their gazes locked.
Only then did Jassyn realize his hand was still pressed against Lykor’s chest, the mending long since finished. Heat rushed to his face as he jerked away, the movement quick and awkward.
Jassyn’s pulse hammered in his ears, a frantic rhythm that felt too loud in the stillness. Lykor didn’t move, remaining steady, unblinking. Thoughts spinning, Jassyn inched away, searching for anything to ground himself.
“This haven we’re trying to find,” he began, voice tight as he scrambled to redirect the moment. “You hope to discover where the dragons are chained—”
“It’s our only chance,” Lykor growled, punctuating his words like he’d explained this a hundred times before. “The dragons were thought to be immense vessels of strength, conduits of elemental power. If we can find one and release it, I have to believe the beast would protect us. Their might would make a difference if we’re to stand against the king.”
Lykor reached for his armor, disregarding his soiled tunic. He added quietly, “I just want a world where my people no longer live in fear.” The glow in his eyes dimmed. “We’ve already suffered enough.”
Jassyn averted his gaze and twisted a curl between his fingers as Lykor donned his armor. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed each movement was dragging, slower than the last. But beneath the exhaustion, that unyielding force burned on. The same drive that had pushed him to the brink of collapse from overusing his power. It wasn’t just recklessness. It ran deeper than that—resilience and purpose propelled him forward.
A faint brush of Essence hummed within the dome. Jassyn glanced back to see magic sputtering weakly above Lykor’s gauntlet. He glared at the power that refused to form, now apparently determined to portal back to the jungle despite his dwindled reserves.
Lykor’s body trembled as he wrestled with his depleted Well. Breath coming in rapid bursts, his eyes glazed over—undoubtedly attempting to wring every last drop of power.
