A pulse of force gathered the warmth between them and swept it aside. With a flick of his wrist, the air shimmered as he cast the remnants tumbling over the cliff, scattered into the sea below.
Serenna stared. “You did not just—”
“Consider it a tribute,” Fenn said, fangs flashing in the moonlight. “To the sea. Or the stars. For luck in finding the Maelstrom tomorrow.”
Serenna groaned, pressing her palms over her eyes before pulling on her clothes. “That isnothow offerings work.”
Fenn only shrugged, wicked satisfaction tugging at his mouth. He dragged his trousers back into place and dropped onto the grass beside her, arms winding around her waist. Expelling a sigh threaded with weariness and smug delight, he pillowed his head in her lap and nuzzled into her thighs.
“Fenn,” Serenna chastised softly. “You should rest.”
“I am.” His eyes drifted shut, voice low and drowsy. “Still helping you keep watch.”
With a small smile, Serenna shook her head as Fenn settled heavy against her, boneless with quiet satisfaction. Weaving her fingers in his hair, she smoothed strands away from his brow as his breathing steadied and deepened.
Fenn’s comforting weight pressed her into the earth, but she knew peace never lingered. Before long, they’d have to face the Maelstrom, still waiting somewhere beyond the dark horizon.
CHAPTER 45
LYKOR
Lykor ripped Essence from his chest, wrenching mending and shielding from his Well like tearing sinew from bone. He stripped his power down to what survival in the mountain prisons might demand—rending, force, portaling—shedding the rest to tilt himself closer to a wraith, where he could access cloaking and warping at will.
His frame lengthened, senses twisting as his vision sharpened. Night bled through his flesh as the transformation painlessly slid into place, shaping him like a shadow.
Across the druids’ armory, Vesryn froze, his knife hovering above its sheath at his hip. He stared at the severed abilities, two globes of light orbiting Lykor like captive stars.
Lykor bared his fangs. “Have something to say?”
Leather whisked as Vesryn slid the blade home. “I didn’t expect you toripEssence out like that. Even for you, it’s a little…dramatic.”
Lykor rolled his neck until a crack raced down his spine, his body settling into its altered form. “It’s strategic,” he growled, flinging the talents at the prince. “Augment your power. Keep mine until we return.”
Vesryn pursed his lips but complied, fingers flexing as he pulled the orbs of mending and shielding into himself. He shuddered when the abilities sank under his skin, light flaring in a flash through his veins—a sliver of Lykor’s power now branded into his Well.
An amused hum stirred in the back of Lykor’s mind as Aesar surfaced, tugging their eyes toward the rows of weapons where Kal was cramming yet another blade into his boot.
“I DON’T SEE WHY WE NEED TO STOCK AN ENTIRE ARMORY ON OUR BELTS,”Lykor muttered, sensing the argument Aesar had primed,“BUT IF YOU INSIST, MAKE IT QUICK.”
“We don’t know what waits in the mountain,”Aesar countered.“Eighty years is a long time. If we’re lucky, no sentries. If we’re not—”
“WE STILL HAVE RIMECLAW’S POWER,”Lykor snapped.
“In any case,”Aesar replied dryly, slipping deeper into their limbs before steering them toward Kal,“I’ll ensure we have more blades than fingers to hold them. If the stars favor us, it’ll be a clean extraction. But I know you—your hunt won’t end with freeing the prisoners.”
Kal glanced up as they approached, binding his golden hair back with a strip of leather. “I see you still glare the same even as a wraith.”
Lykor ignored him. “I’d prefer silence and stealth,” he growled, though Aesar had already begun arming them with his glaives. Lykor sneered at Kal’s belt, bristling with blades. “Tell me—how do you plan to sneak when your armor announces you louder than your mouth ever could?”
Kal’s grin hooked wider. “You’re all charm this morning. Jassyn is missing out.”
Lykor didn’t answer, but the look he leveled at Kal promised he’d abandon him in the mountain if he made so much as a whisper in those tunnels.
Aesar slung an equipped bandolier over their shoulder, and Lykor gritted his fangs, focusing on what he could still control—calculating the weight of steel, anticipating the scuff of boots on stone, the creak of leather, the way even a breath might betray them in the dark. Anything to drown out the name still ringing through his skull.
He should never have opened his mouth and let Jassyn fly into the Maelstrom without him. The image of him out there—wind-lashed and unreachable—gnawed deep beneath Lykor’s ribs.
By now, Jassyn had to be nearing the coast with Serenna and Fenn. And Cinderax, if that fragile little firestarter was worth the weight of his scales at all. Lykor strangled the dread before it could scrape open anything he wasn’t ready to bleed from.
