Lykor stalked across the Splitfang’s plateau, sand grinding into his molars. Heat pricked beneath his leathers, the damp cloth tied at his forehead already drying out. Useless as relief.
Above, the sun hammered too bright for this early hour, like it meant to char them before the day even drew breath. He squinted into the glare and yanked at the strip of fabric plastered to his skull.
“If you’d stop fixating on it,”Aesar murmured in their mind, dry as the wind. “You wouldn’t be so uncomfortable.”
Lykor scowled as Aesar slid out of their thoughts and flickered into step beside him, a heat shimmer given form. An irritation no one else could see.
“OR, BETTER YET,”Lykor growled back silently,“I COULD SHAVE OFF THIS RIDICULOUS HAIR YOU INSIST ON KEEPING AND WEAR SCALES ON MY SCORCHING SKULL.”
“We arenotarguing about this again.”Aesar rolled his eyes skyward.“I let you have everything else you want—even the battles you pretend not to care about.”
Right. Because Lykor’s favorite pastime happened to be dictating war plans, browbeating Kaedryn’s guildmasters, andcinching command around his own neck like a noose. Every decision another leash. But cutting his hair for practical comfort? Too far, stars forbid.
Dispatching orders to surrounding wraith, Kal stood at the rim of the canyon, orchestrating the morning’s formations like the sky would collapse if one flight veered wrong.
Kal had shed every trace of wraith the moment Lykor had shoved Essence talents back down his throat in the druid jungle—returned to polished symmetry and luminous skin, an arch elf carved back into perfection. He hadn’t relinquished the wraith piercings, but his golden hair now hung twisted in ceremonial braids, the full spectrum of his power radiating in steady waves that lifted the hairs on Lykor’s arms whenever he drew too close.
Not that he made a habit of it.
Along with Mara and Thalaesyn, Kal had been one of the few Lykor had handpicked to bear the magic he’d plundered from Vaelyn’s shores. That night from weeks ago still clawed through his memory—armor shattering under his shadows, Trella ripping ships apart while he leeched enemy Wells dry, every stolen talent searing through his veins. He’d barely bled that power back out before it incinerated him, fracturing abilities into shards to be distributed among his people—half the wraith carrying the edge of Essence now.
“Where the fuck is Fenn?” Lykor barked across the cracked earth, reaching the captain in a few pounding strides.
He halted short of the illusion Kal was weaving, a scrawled web of names and flight paths glowing turquoise in the air between them. Lykor barely glanced at the training roster. But Aesar thumbed his chin and paced in his periphery, parsing every note through Lykor’s unwilling eyes.
Kal didn’t look up. Of course he didn’t. Why bother acknowledging his presence in the flesh when Aesar’s mind was close enough for him to slip into instead. A sliver oftelepathy unfurled as Kal skimmed past Lykor’s mind, pouring his thoughts straight into Aesar’s.
Typical.
It wasn’t even a fresh insult, just another layer of erosion. Some bitter part of Lykor tallied every slight, each one a spark against dry tinder. Kal’s indifference struck flame in his throat—nothing to do with the druids’ so-called beastblood. Everything to do with rage.
Baring his fangs, Lykor hurled a streak of shadows straight into Kal’s meticulous illusion. The threads of Essence shattered on contact—names, maps, and orders scattering like flung embers.
That cracked Kal’s composure. He rounded on Lykor as the luminous fragments vanished into the air.
Aesar threw up his hands.“Very mature.”
Kal tugged at one of his brow piercings, polished restraint settling back into place as if Lykor’s rage were a weather pattern he’d already charted. “A good morning to you too, Lykor.”
“I asked you a question,Captain.” Shadows wreathed Lykor’s fists, his snarl spitting the word like a curse.
“Fenn’s moving his squad into position for another flight trial,” Kal finally answered, waving his hand toward the far rim of the canyon.
Lykor squinted across the half-mile chasm to where a knot of wraith whooped and bellowed, flinging whips of fire with reckless abandon, forcing one another to warp or burst skyward in a flurry of wings. One flare veered too close to a female, but she grinned and twisted into it, scales flashing to absorb the blow.
They looked less like warriors and more like wraithlings drunk on their druid power, sparring with the frenzy of beasts who’d already tasted blood, ravenous for more. Discipline burned away by survival. As if destruction had become the point.
He’d built a fucking army of arsonists with wings. And now he stood ready to gamble the one life he couldn’t afford to lose on their chaos.
Lykor’s scowl deepened, jaw ticking. “You’re telling meFennis the one in charge of that mess?”
Kal smirked, blue eyes glinting like seaglass. “Interesting complaint from the one who shoved a command at him.”
Trella shrieked overhead, the sound needling through Lykor’s skull—a reminder that this detour had already made him late. Above, the dracovae wheeled restlessly, wings blotting the sun.
He’d missed the portals Vesryn’s rangers had taken into the Dreadspire Range, scouting the path to where Skylash lay chained in the Maw. Every wasted minute let Galaeryn’s fleet creep closer. Every ship another blade aimed to gut the last dragons before Lykor could reach them first.
And here?
