Below, smoke curled from the wreckage of her fallen mount. Guilt lodged beneath his ribs. He’d called Zaeryn into this storm, and her dracovae had paid the price.
Between lightning flashes, Lykor caught sight of Rimeclaw sweeping lower through the clouds. His pulse lurched. Each flare carved the dragon’s shadow across the sky, a heartbeat of light revealing desolation poised to strike. He had to reach Rimeclaw before the beast entered the fray and turned the tide.
Trella released a shriek, wings pounding like war drums as she rose through the storm toward them. Fierce. Focused.
She swooped to catch them, and Lykor slammed into her spine, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs. The shock nearly tore Zaeryn from his grip, but Trella held steady, driving them back into the sky.
And Zaeryn—stars scorch her—didn’t hesitate. Her wings vanished as she slid into the saddle in front of him, every motion honed with training, though none of them had prepared for this kind of ride.
Essence flared beneath her palm as she pressed her hand to Trella’s neck, a thread of telepathy unspooling.
Violet and ravenous, lightning screamed in answer, raging toward them.
Lykor snarled, biting back a curse at her for channeling magic. He flung a hand skyward, and a glacial sweep burst from his fingers—frost spearing into a curved shield of ice.
The bolt struck dead center. Ice detonated on impact, a blizzard of snow and sparks exploding outward.
Funny. Seemed he could block the fucking lightning after all.
Trella veered hard, wings shredding the wind.
“She’ll bear me,” Zaeryn said in front of him, her voice unsteady as she released her power.
Lykor said nothing. He only looked at her profile—soot streaked, soaked to the bone, still trembling from the fall—and all he could think was how much it had cost her to be here, defying the storm.
Trella caught a draft and leveled into a glide, rain sheeting off her feathers. No razorwings in sight. For now.
Below, the Blackreach churned. Across the western inlet, Vesryn and the rangers swept low above the water. Fire and lightning crashed into the enemy fleet. Sails charred and hulls blackened, the sea turning to smoke.
“Vesryn won’t be able to hold the line if Rimeclaw joins the battle,”Aesar said quietly.
“Go,” Lykor ordered Zaeryn. “Take Trella. Aid the prince. He’ll need your fire.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but his glare severed her words before they could form. He’d brought her into this carnage, but perhaps she and Trella could survive it.
Already, the dragon barreled through the Maw like a living siege, closing on the divide where the Blackreach rammed into the mountain’s northern rise. Sunfire still burned from the peak, the storm focusing its fury on the summit.
Lykor refused to follow the thought that came next, the shape of dread uncoiling. Whether Serenna was failing or prevailing, he couldn’t afford to know.
Wrenching himself free from the saddle, Lykor warped. The world folded, then spat him out clear across the Maw, above the dragon’s descent.
Flaring his wings wide, Lykor snagged the wind just as Rimeclaw thundered beneath him. The wake tore the sky apart—currents rupturing, air spinning, rain slicing sideways.
This was his fault. Rimeclaw existed in torment because Lykor had stayed his hand. Had spared the beast when killing would have been the kinder act. He’d mistaken mercy for grace, and now the world bore the cost.
And yet, a part of him still wanted the dragon to remember what it meant to fly without the noose. Whatever magic bound Rimeclaw through the Heart of Stars—whatever collar Galeryn gripped—wasn’t absolute.
Lykorknewsomething in the dragon fought against it. A sliver of self, an ember of choice smoldering in the dark. He gambled everything on that ember.
He hadn’t come to slay the beast. If he even could. He only needed to hold Rimeclaw’s gaze and keep him away from the summit. Away from the others. If the dragon still remembered choice, could fight for a breath, that had to be enough.
Aesar braced.“Let’s hope.”
Lykor hauled on the pressure in his chest. Rimeclaw’s gift rose like a tide. Ice crackled across his scales, plating his limbs in frost until he gleamed like a shard of the storm itself.
Then he snapped his wings shut and dove, racing headlong into the dragon’s path. Lightning slashed around him, blinding trails cleaving the sky. Ice and hail battered his body, sleet scouring his vision.
He plunged faster, until the world became nothing but motion and blurred sound.
