Here, his most seasoned warriors flung fire in a carnival of chaos, arrogant youth mistaking raw power for readiness. No formation. No control. And if Fenn couldn’t keep a squad in line during drills, how in every scorching star was he meant to lead when the storm truly broke?
A brittle edge inside Lykor began to crack. They weren’t ready for the war creeping toward them. And neither was he, no matter how often he snarled otherwise.
He could summon flame with Cinderax’s gift, but he couldn’t lift himself into the sky.
Lykor shoved the thought away, smothered it under layers he never let himself touch. He wasn’t broken. That was the lie. The shield. And if he whispered it often enough into the hollow behind his ribs, maybe someday the echo would die.
“There should be more ceremony,” Kal said, yanking Lykor out of his thoughts. “Not for my son’s sake. For theirs.”
Lykor’s gaze cut to Aesar, still poised beside him, silent but nodding. Of course he’d told Kal what Lykor intended. Always the scheming diplomat.
“Ceremony?” Lykor growled, flinging out a hand across the canyon. “For that rabble? Fenn’s the oaf least likely to set himself on fire. He gets the rank. That’s the ceremony.”
“They’repracticing,” Kal clipped, sharper now. “Stars forbid they train with anything other than brooding stares and grim silence.”
“We’re preparing forwar,” Lykor bit back. “If they can’t hold formation without turning it into theater, then why the fuck should I trust them to survive the real thing?”
“Life is more than the next battle, Lykor.” Kal shook his head. “You’ve never known what living looks like.” He exhaled that long-suffering calm, and Lykor’s hands twitched to crack his nose off his face.
“You’ve already decided to give Fenn this task,”Aesar murmured beside him.“If you won’t see it through, I will. But it’ll mean more coming from you—they need to believe you’ll trust them with more than fury.”
Of all the people to hand more responsibility, it had to be Kal’s son. Training and trials meant nothing. The real question was whether Fenn could bear something more than a squad—and whether Lykor could delegate without choking on regret. If he misjudged, if Fenn faltered, Jassyn would bleed for it.
Swearing under his breath, Lykor rolled his shoulders as if motion alone could dislodge the ache from his bones. It didn’t. The tension gnawed between them, refusing to fade.
“Fine,” Lykor snapped, jabbing a finger into Kal’s chest. “But you’re reorganizing his squad.”
“Would’ve been done five minutes ago,” Kal muttered, shoving him off, “iftheatricsweren’t part of your morningroutine.” With a flick of his fingers, turquoise light spiraled, ranks and names scribbling back into place.
Lykor ground his fangs. He should’ve demanded discipline over spectacle. Instead, he turned toward the canyon’s edge and plunged his awareness inward.
Pressure built behind his sternum, air cinching tight as space compressed on itself. Heat vanished. Sound dimmed. Ribs contracting with the strain, he folded himself into darkness and warped.
Lykor reappeared across the canyon, stone cracking under his landing as dust billowed outward. The wraith froze mid-skirmish—claws still wreathed with fire, laughter strangled short.
He stalked through their ranks, his presence alone parting the warriors. Wings twitched and eyes flared as they shuffled back.
Gaze fixed on Fenn, Lykor didn’t look at them. The lieutenant hadn’t been a gangly youth in years, though Lykor still saw him that way. A part of him braced for Fenn’s foolishness, the slip of arrogance that would prove him unready.
But it never came.
Lykor reached into his pocket, cool metal biting his palm as he halted in front of Fenn. All eyes tracked him as he thrust his hand forward.
He hadn’t prepared a grand speech like Kal wanted. Ceremony was for those with time to pretend. Lykor didn’t believe in symbols, but if this farce bought Jassyn even a sliver of protection, then fine. Let the title speak louder than the sentiment.
Lykor uncurled his fist, revealing twin earrings. Not the standard loops and studs designating wraith rank, but silver bands set with lacquered obsidian—scales shed by Cinderax.
He forced the words past his teeth. “You’re promoted. To Skyclaw Captain of the Emberguard.”
Fenn blinked, eyes blazing with a sudden glow. His wings rustled once, then folded. He didn’t look at the others, only stared at Lykor. Disbelieving. Like this mattered to him.
He held himself in wraith stillness, the claws at his wing tips curling tight, trembling before he straightened to attention. The others watched in silence as Fenn reached forward and claimed the earrings from Lykor’s palm.
“A captain?” he asked. His eyes flicked toward his father across the chasm.
“It’s a new post.” Lykor grunted, studying the druids gliding through the ravine below. “Outside the chain of command. You’ll have the details tonight.”
A snort brushed his mind.“Very catchy,”Aesar drawled.“Rolls right off the snarl.”
