A flicker of rage surged, a stubborn defiance loathing the crumbling wreck of his body. This was pathetic. Brought low by his own strength, unraveled by the very power he relied on.
It wasn’t evenforhim. The wraithneeded this advantage, this weapon he could become.
But there was another way.
Snarling at his own weakness, Lykor slammed a hand to his chest, fingers curling against his armor as he wrestled with his Well. Tremors wracked his body as magic erupted from him, spilling out in blinding waves of light.
Clenching his teeth, Lykor forced the chaotic flow into eight blazing globes—one for each talent. The orbs hovered in the air around him, crackling shards of energy that had nearly obliterated him.
He’d divide these talents among his people—the ones most ravenous for revenge. Perhaps the original wraith who’d endured life in the prisons or those from the academy who’d been transformed.
It wasn’t the advantage he wanted, but this power wouldn’t go to waste.
Hollowed out, Lykor’s breaths came in rapid bursts, each inhale raking down his throat. The world wavered and tilted, but the edges sharpened as his body settled back to a form thatfelt natural to him. Half-elf, half-wraith, his former five abilities condensed back into place.
Lykor shoved himself off of the ground, forcing his trembling legs to bear his weight, though his muscles screamed in protest. But more fragility wasn’t an option.
Someone moved toward him.
His gaze snapped to the one who dared to step closer, hand extended in a misguided offer of help.
Jassyn.
Lykor bared his fangs, the fires of resentment igniting. Jassyn wasn’t here out of concern. He was here to leash him, to fasten submission around his throat like a collar.
Lykor stalked past, dismissing him without a second glance.
Answers. He needed definitive ones. Now.
Vesryn stepped into his path, planting a palm against his chest. A mistake.
Lykor snarled and shouldered the prince aside, his attention slicing between Serenna and the boy. Both of them stared at him with those unsettling glacial eyes, twin mirrors of judgment.
“Does he know anything useful?” Lykor demanded. “Or is he under the capital’s influence?”
Serenna scowled, tilting her chin up in challenge. “Saundyl isn’t compelled,” she snapped, her grip tightening on her brother’s arm. “If that’s what you’re implying.”
Lykor’s eyes flicked over the golden rings at the tips of his pointed ears, then to the golden circlet resting on his brow. The symbol of submission. Obedience worn as a crown. “Why not?” he demanded.
Saundyl straightened and adjusted the tether perched on his mahogany waves, as if the motion restored some of the composure Lykor had stripped from him. “Because my sire,” Saundyl grated out, “took my wife and son weeks ago to ensure mycompliance. Elashor has no need to…coerce me.” He glancedat Jassyn, who’d undoubtedly explained the magic’s nature, given his abhorrent proclivity for it.
Lykor grunted. “Riveting.” He tore open another portal and sneered. “Finish this touching reunion later. We’re leaving.”
Saundyl stumbled back, slipping from Serenna’s grasp. “I—I can’t leave. Elashor might be obsessed with my son’s bloodline, but he’s already promised to hurt my wife if I don’t oversee the ships—”
“What ships?” Lykor flung an arm toward the shattered bay, the wreckage drifting aimlessly in the dark.
“It’s not safe for you here,” Serenna urged. She shared a look with the prince before studying the castle above. “We could retrieve Mother too.”
Saundyl shook his head, voice trembling with quiet despair. “I’ve been ordered to depart with the next wave.”
The next wave.
The words landed like a blow, dread settling in Lykor’s gut like stones. Galaeryn’s forces were already advancing across the world. Every day brought them closer to the dragons, closer to seizing a power that would tip the scales irrevocably if they discovered a way to harness and control it.
Above them, the wind carried the harsh bark of orders. The humans were mobilizing, their ranks poised like an encroaching stormfront. Time wasn’t just trickling away from him—it was hemorrhaging out.
Lykor’s fingers curled into fists, his breath hissing through his teeth. “How many have sailed?” he demanded, needing to gauge the scale of what they faced.
