Grief roared through him, a force with teeth that tore through his body until nothing remained but violence.
Lykor’s fists erupted with spikes of ice. He rammed them against obsidian scales, every blow a strike in the shape of Kal’s name. Frost shattered on impact, shards scattering across the tunnel.
He didn’t flinch. Neither did Aesar.
No divide separated them now, only a blur where two wills twisted so tightly they burned. Air tore through his bared fangs in uneven bursts. Ice splintered from his scales, punching outward from every pore.
The Bramblemaw didn’t bleed under the assault. Or even breathe like a living thing as every strike glanced off its hide.
Lykor honed his shadows into blades and struck again, driving at joints, searching for softer scales to slice. And when that fury didn’t break past the beast’s plated armor, he changed tactics and warped away down the tunnel.
The dragon turned from the few warriors who’d remained behind, dragging its titanic form forward. Its root-knotted tail scraped a trench through the stone as it advanced, less dragon than demolition.
Crystalline eyes locked on him. Unblinking.
For a breath, Lykor stood beneath the weight of that sightless gaze. The pressure of Rimeclaw’s gift pounded in his chest, and he wrenched that torrent into more ice—spikes carving into the air, long as spears and twice as sharp.
They whirled in a frenzy, a constellation of blades falling into his orbit, each point angled toward the beast. Their edges hissed through the air, shrieking like a storm about to break.
With a snarl, he flung his claws forward as the Bramblemaw began to charge. Fungus burst under its talons, the stink of loam clogging Lykor’s throat with every seismic step it took. His ice descended in a single cascade, a hailstorm of knives clattering across the dragon’s hide.
The tunnel thundered with the impact. Shallow cracks fissured across its scales. Lesser beasts would have bled rivers.
The dragon didn’t even blink.
Not when ice hammered in wave after wave.
Not when rending clashed against its armor.
Not when every attack was a silent scream flung from Lykor’s claws.
The scales held. Unyielding. As if his rage couldn’t touch the dragon at all.
The Bramblemaw pursued him and the earth convulsed with it. Roots burst from the stone, snapping around Lykor’s boots.He slashed with his shadows, disintegrating the tendrils before they could drag him down.
Stone ground against stone, the corridor squeezing tighter, reshaping itself into a cage meant to devour. Every shudder thinned the air, each quake a reminder that the beast was the terrain’s master.
Through the haze of dust, a young wraith appeared at Lykor’s side. One of Kal’s blood. Her blades burned with fire, aimed for the dragon’s eye.
She bared her fangs and warped. Reckless. Despair turned feral.
The Bramblemaw’s tail bludgeoned sideways when she reappeared, smashing her into the wall. Rock exploded on impact, her body crumpling before fire could fly or steel could bite. Blood streaked the stone and then her limp form vanished between the dragon’s jaws.
Weapons clattered to the ground—still flaming, still spinning—as the Bramblemaw crushed and swallowed like she’d never stood there at all.
Glaives raised, one of Vesryn’s rangers flew across the tunnel, shadows writhing along his wings. He didn’t make it two paces. A vine lashed from the dark, snared his ankle, and dragged him screaming into the dragon’s maw.
The crunch of bone jolted through Lykor like an echo of Kal’s death, his ribs remembering the final shatter. Debris smothered the air as the stone groaned beneath his boots, splitting and reforging itself—faster now, reshaping with intent.
Aesar surged forward, Essence whirling from their fingertips as he hurled Lykor into motion with a roar.
They warped close, limbs moving as one, ramming a spike of ice between the beast’s fangs. Shadows raced within the frost—a javelin they forced down the Bramblemaw’s throat like a hunter’s arm reaching for the heart.
Rip it out.
RIP IT OUT.
The blow drove past fang and cartilage, ice fracturing with the violence of the plunge. The Bramblemaw lurched, wings twitching as a guttural sound tore loose, choked by the frozen spear lodged in its throat.
