“Get the others out of the lake,” he said, voice somehow steady, the magic beneath his palms threading through the wounded warrior. “Anyone dying comes to me. Those stable enough go through a portal to Asharyn—Thalaesyn and the magus will heal there.”
The druids launched at once, wings scattering rain into the air. But the wraith hesitated, their eyes cutting sideways toward Lykor.
“You heard him,” Lykor growled, a command layered over Jassyn’s. “Move.”
Pivoting on his heel, Lykor didn’t wait to see his warriors comply. He stalked toward the Kyansari soldiers tending to their injured. Shadows bristled along his arms, a storm preparing to strike.
Jassyn’s voice cracked as he raised it. “We’re not here to fight.”
Lykor halted. His jaw flexed, a halo of darkness writhing around him.
A spark of irritation raced through Jassyn, charged with exhaustion. Skylash hovered above, bodies drowned below, and Lykor stood volatile beside him.
“Unless someone else takes over,” Jassyn said tightly, knowing no one would, “I’m giving the orders. I need your portals back to the city.”
Lykor’s gaze pinned him with unreadable scrutiny that once would’ve buckled Jassyn’s knees.
A heartbeat passed.
Then another.
Finally—wordlessly—Lykor jerked his chin at the nearest wraith, shadows coiling tight as he ripped open a portal with a sweep of his hand. They scrambled to obey, hauling the wounded warrior Jassyn had stabilized through the rift.
Jassyn exhaled, breath shaking loose in his chest. Druids dropped from the sky, dragging a limp ranger between them, the male’s leg a mangled ruin.
Skylash roared overhead, the sky shifting with her. All Jassyn could do was hope Serenna found a way to reason with the dragon.
Lykor stayed silent but anchored himself at Jassyn’s back—a furious shadow Jassyn hadn’t asked for, yet the knot in his shoulders eased as he returned to healing.
The injured blurred together—ranger, druid, wraith. Living. Dying. Half-drowned. Jassyn swept a brief thought toward Vesryn when he sensed the prince pass overhead again—asking for more menders, more fliers, anyone who could drag bodies from the Blackreach before they vanished.
For now, three magus had joined him, but the lake coughed up the dying faster than any of them could keep pace with. Rain sheeted through the storm. Between jagged flashes of light he caught glimpses of Skylash hovering, Serenna a lone speck before the dragon.
Two druids skimmed low over the water, hauling another wounded figure between them.
Elbow-deep in a wraith’s shattered ribs, Jassyn coaxed a faltering pulse into a collapsing heart, refusing to let the tremor in his fingers cost the warrior his life.
Lykor’s voice rumbled beside him, lethal and final when the druids landed.
“Not that one.”
Jassyn’s head snapped up.
Armor charred nearly beyond recognition, scraps of white leather marked her allegiance. Academy-trained. Elven-blooded. Not one of their magus. And yet she sagged motionless in the druids’ grip, chest barely stirring.
If the stars had tilted fate differently, that could’ve been him dying in a stranger’s arms—forgotten, written off, left to sink.
“Bring her here,” Jassyn said.
Exhaustion shuddered through his arms, his Well running thin, but he shoved the weariness aside. He reached toward the lake, pulling a sphere of water from its surface to cleanse the blood from his palms before sending it back into the froth.
The druids started forward.
Wings flared, Lykor stepped into their path, a barricade of shadow and muscle and barely leashed wrath. “Let her drown with the rest.”
“I said bring her here,” Jassyn snapped at him, pulse pounding painfully behind his eyes. “If you keep disregarding orders, you can return to the city.” The words tasted like ash, crueler than he intended.
Lykor bared his fangs, the claws on his wings clenching.
