Lykor released a disbelieving blast of breath. Dreading what fresh horrors his mind would conjure next, he refocused above, eyes tracing the jagged cracks in the ceiling. Galaeryn had chosen Jassyn’s face to wear this time, a new twist to an old torment—a mocking reminder of Lykor’s own folly.
Memories from their chance meeting in the jungle clawed their way up. He’d left Jassyn paralyzed in the stream, facedown to drown.
Necessary, he’d told himself. Jassyn had been a threat—to Aesar, to everyone—capable of wielding the same manipulative power as the king. He wouldn’t regret the choice to end his life.
For one fleeting moment, before betrayal had eviscerated him, Lykor had dared to believe that Jassyn could be his salvation, a hand reaching into the darkness to pull him free. But the elf had turned that trust into a weapon, invading his mind. Splintering that last illusion of hope.
Acceptance constricted around Lykor, his fate sinking its teeth deep. There had never been an escape from the coercion. He was cursed to endure this torment, now suffering under those traitorous amber eyes.
The proximity of the whispering footsteps yanked Lykor back to the present. He clenched his jaw, shoulders twitching as shallow breaths rasped through his nose.
Wearing Jassyn’s face, the king approached the slab where Lykor lay bound like some offering to a deity who reveled in blood and suffering.
“No gloating this time?” Lykor’s words tumbled out—taunting the king his only option for defiance in this endless torment. “Or are we saving that indulgence for later?”
White leather armor dominated his vision, nearly glowing in the dim illumination. “What is this place?” The question, laced with a note of disbelief, was Jassyn’s voice too, his wide eyes sweeping around the chamber.
Lykor jerked as Essence sparked, a cold tremor racing down his ruined spine. His awareness ruthlessly sharpened to a single point, where magic shimmered around Jassyn’s palms.
“It doesn’t matter what face you wear,Galareyn,” Lykor snarled, wrestling steel into his voice despite the terror windingthrough him. “The outcome is always the same.” He glared up at the ceiling. “Just get it over with.”
“I…” Jassyn’s voice faltered as Essence coiled around his fingertips. A ribbon reached out almost hesitantly before skimming the chains. “I can free you.”
Rage boiled in Lykor’s veins. Of course this was the new form of torture. A cruel masterpiece of his mind—the promise of freedom dangling just beyond reach, offered by the one in whom he’d once placed his hope.
“I know this isn’t real,” Lykor growled. It couldn’t be. “I killed the face you’re wearing.”
“I would have deserved it,” Jassyn said quietly, his voice carrying a resigned weight. “Hurting you was never my intent.”
Lykor’s gaze snapped to him, chest compressing as he caught that false flicker of emotion deepening Jassyn’s brow. He hated it, wanted to lash out and scorn the excuse of an apology.
But his eyes betrayed him, lingering despite himself. And Lykor loathed himself all the more for being helplessly drawn to the way Jassyn swept dark curls from his face.
A shackle around his wrist cracked, the sound fracturing the silence. The suddenness made Lykor flinch. He considered testing the collar’s limits, gauging how short the leash was. His freed fingers itched to crush the elf’s throat for that unforgivable violation of his mind. But those treacherous amber eyes held him captive—more binding than any chain.
Breaths coming shallow and quick, Lykor fought the impulse to look away. This couldn’t be real. Galaeryn had never entertained mercy, never toyed with the idea of freedom—not even as a cruel game to cultivate hope.
Lykor bared his fangs. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“I meant it when I said I would help you.” Jassyn rested a hand on one of the shackles binding Lykor’s ankle. Another resounding crack echoed as the metal shattered.
Lykor remained motionless, tracking the elf as he worked. Chain after chain fell away, clanging to the stone floor as Jassyn moved with methodical purpose from one to another. Essence spiraled around him, weaving through the air. Lykor felt an invisible force settle over him, something that scratched against the walls of his mind.
Unable to endure this new torment any longer, Lykor growled through his teeth, “What do you want me to do? Make a show of bolting for the door so you can haul me back?” He nearly sighed as he stared unseeing at the ceiling. “What more do you want from me, Galaeryn? You’ve already won.”
“He’s won nothing.” Jassyn hesitated, his hands hovering just above Lykor’s neck. “What he’s done to you—to your mind—shouldn’t be called a victory. It’s a crime no one should have to endure.”
Lykor recoiled. Not from the hollow sympathy this figment of his imagination had offered, but from the jarring snap of the collar breaking free from his throat.
He blinked stupidly up at Jassyn, realization dawning. This was his own brain spewing the nonsense he was so desperate to hear—a fragile hope that he clung to because he was too broken to reject it.
“I’m getting you out of here.” Jassyn suddenly clasped Lykor’s claw, pulling him upright to sit.
“Why?” Lykor’s question tore out in a snarl as he wrenched his arm free.
He swiveled to stand, his feet thudding to the floor. Eyeing the chains draped across the room, his gut clenched, half-expecting them to rear up like vipers—striking him down, binding him back to the cursed table.
“I want to make it right.” Jassyn’s voice softened, but an unwavering firmness lay beneath it, a sincerity that made Lykor’s shoulders twitch.
