Fenn burst through the rift first, wings slick with mist, steam trailing from the membranes. Six wraith flew behind in tight formation, fanning out around him.
With a flick of his wrist and a click of talons, Fenn dismissed his squad. The wraith peeled away without a word, warping through another portal.
Fenn landed beside the tent and dispelled his wings. Ducking under the canvas, he adjusted the twin knives strapped along his spine. No smirk tugged at his mouth and the usual fire in his eyes had tempered into something cold.
That alone told Jassyn everything he needed to know.
“It’s not good, is it?” Jassyn asked.
Fenn gave a terse shake of his head, water flicking from his woven hair. “The fleet’s moving. Fast.” He crouched beside Serenna, tapping the illusion map where the broad river fed into the Crackling Maw. “They’re using magics—air and water together—to sail faster than should be possible.” He raked a claw through his damp braids, tightening the binding as he glanced back at Jassyn. “At this pace, they’ll sail into the Blackreach before nightfall.”
Jassyn’s pulse knocked hard out of rhythm.
Beside him, Lykor stood unmoved, as if the news hadn’t touched him at all.
“Elashor’s ground force?” Lykor prompted. “The razorwings?”
Fenn shook his head again. “Still holding position in the marshes. We couldn’t get an updated count and lost sight of the swarm when they vanished into thin air.”
Jassyn’s gaze swept the circle, landing last on Lykor. That look held. Long enough for heat to rise between them, the weight of everything unspoken closing in. He forced a slow breath into his nose, willing his heart to steady with the exhale.
Jassyn already knew what he’d have to ask of him.
Lykor might obey when the time came, but he’d never forgive him for it.
Jassyn didn’t want to make this call alone, not with the lives he was about to gamble pressing against his thoughts. But hesitation wouldn’t save any of them. So he straightened, voice quiet but steady.
“Then it’s time to fly.”
A ripple of murmurs slid through the circle, but no one challenged it. Vesryn dispersed the illusion with a wave of his hand, and they moved as one out of the tent toward the waiting storm.
As Bhreena and Daeryn split off with Kaedryn, Jassyn’s steps slowed near the ridge—the place where he would lift and fly straight into the Maw. Silent as a shadow, Lykor matched his pace at his shoulder.
Wind snapped from every direction, withheld rain in its breath. But the cold tightening in Jassyn’s chest had nothing to do with weather.
Only the next command.
He’d made every other call but this one, hoping that delay might dull the cost.
It hadn’t.
Ahead, Serenna and Fenn stood on the lip of the cliff next to Cinderax, silhouettes outlined against the flickering sky. Vesryn lingered beside them, though he wouldn’t follow. None of them looked back.
Jassyn stopped, boots grinding against scoured stone.
“Lykor,” he said quietly, the name catching halfway up his throat.
Lykor halted, turning with that level, waiting gaze.
Jassyn nearly recoiled from it. He’d felt this moment stalking him for hours, pacing closer with every minute. Foresight hadn’t softened the strike. It had only shown him where it would cut.
“I need you to return to Asharyn.”
Lykor blinked once. “Asharyn,” he repeated flatly.
The wind seemed to stall, or maybe it was only Jassyn’s heart slipping down his ribs.
“If we fall—or if we fail,” he said, the words scraping raw on their way out, “the city’s next.” He didn’t look at Lykor, only at the storm flashing across the horizon. “You’re the only one who can open enough portals to evacuate if the king turns his gaze there.”
