Expecting some snide reassurance, Lykor glanced at Aesar, who’d materialized outside of their skull. But Aesar’s attention had locked on the illusion. He drifted around it, studying muscles peeling in layers, realigning vertebrae, nerves unspooling before reknitting. The sequence cycled again.
Ruin rehearsed. Repair promised. Neither convincing.
Lykor gestured at the hovering dissection. “And you’ve donethisbefore?”
“Not…exactly,” Jassyn admitted, tugging at the strap on one of his bracers. “I’ve been conferring with Magister Thalaesyn—since you didn’t want anyone else joining us. I would’ve preferred a circle of magus, but you left me no choice. I know I can do it.”
Lykor caught the exasperated edge in his tone. It stung more than it should have, but he shoved it aside with a grunt. “Reassuring.”
Aesar flapped a hand at him.“Just agree so we can get this over with.”
Fine. He’d get to the part where he regretted everything.
Lykor turned, surveying the place where he’d stopped. The hollowed trees that had once served as infirmaries loomed in the dappled sun.
He kicked at a gnarled root. “So, what? I lie here in the dirt?”
Jassyn shook his head, dispelling the illusion with a flick of his fingers. “We’ll do this inside.” He approached the central tree and stepped through its living threshold, motioning for them to follow.
Lykor lingered after Fenn and Vesryn vanished, the weight of what lay ahead creeping close.
“WHAT DO YOU THINK?”he asked Aesar, who had appeared beside him.
“I think his methods are sound. And if Thalaesyn agrees…”Aesar tilted his head, studying him.“This won’t be the worst thing you’ve endured.”
Lykor scowled.“THAT’S NOT EXACTLY COMFORTING.”
“Don’t act like you’re looking for comfort,”Aesar volleyed back, voice smooth as a blade sliding into its sheath.“You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t trust him.”
“I’M ONLY ASKING BECAUSE IF THIS GOES WRONG…”Lykor trailed off, claw clenching at his side, every knuckle cracking.“IT’S NOT JUSTMYBACK THAT BREAKS.”
“It’s worth the risk,”Aesar murmured. His eyes met Lykor’s, shining steady.“And like you, I’d rather gamble on flight than rot on the ground. We were never built to survive by crawling.”
Apparently that settled the matter. Aesar didn’t wait for an answer before dissolving like mist, his presence curling back into the quiet recesses of their mind.
Lykor exhaled, the sound thin as a last reprieve, then rolled his neck and stepped into the tree.
Vesryn waited by the curve of the trunk, unusually still, as Fenn settled Lykor’s flight armor on the ground. Jassyn knelt at the chamber’s center, palm pressed to the tree’s polished floor. Essence whirled around him, and globes of illumination spiraled upward, casting the trunk in a dim glow.
Lykor didn’t feel the next surge of power, but he saw it ripple through the earth. Roots writhed in first, dragging in the scent of loam. Vines spilled from high in the trunk, veiling the chamber in green. Moss spread thick across the floor, damp and breathing, until the space itself seemed alive.
The tendrils rose and fused, shaping into a low structure of woven root. The tilt was too familiar. A platform meant to bear a body.
Lykor’s breath went cold, his chest snared in old memory.
Jassyn looked up. And in his eyes Lykor saw it, the worry and concern at what he’d created. The echo of an altar, not stone but living earth and root.
“I tried to make it different,” Jassyn said softly as he rose. “Is this…okay?”
Lykor’s heart jammed in his throat. No one had ever asked him that, and the gentleness scraped deeper than his oldest scars.
He said nothing. Instead, his gaze slid past Jassyn—to Vesryn, lounging with one leg propped against the trunk, and to Fenn, eyes burning with far too much enthusiasm.
Something bristled back into place. A sharper edge. One he could control.
“I don’t want them here,” Lykor growled. “Spectating like that.”
Jassyn’s voice didn’t rise, but steel threaded through it. “Vesryn. Out.”
