This so-called duty still felt like exile, muzzling him behind the fight. The pull toward the Maw—toward Jassyn—hooked deep in his ribs. The storm wasn’t in the clouds but in his chest, shredding restraint with every breath.
Trella screeched beneath him, tensing in a way that echoed the agitation rippling through him.
Something shifted in the wind.
Lykor stilled. A sharp tug pulled in his gut, like the sea sucking back before the break of a wave. His pulse raced, answering some primal summons buried in instinct.
Spine tight, he twisted in the saddle, eyes raking the vast stretch of empty sky. At first he saw only a flicker, a meaningless blur against the light. Perhaps a druid or a bird.
His vision sharpened, and the shape resolved into something undeniable.
Rimeclaw.
Flying fast. Flyinghard. A monstrous spear of darkness, hurtling straight toward the Maw.
Every muscle in Lykor’s body locked—boots bracing in the stirrups, hands clamping on the pommel, fury collapsing and crystallizing into dread.
He could stay. Hold position above Asharyn. Follow Jassyn’s orders. Wait for those razorwings that would never show up. Let his magic rot useless while others bled for a battle he’d been forged to fight.
Every breath Lykor wasted above this city stole one he should’ve been spending at Jassyn’s side—where he fucking belonged.
And if he wasn’t watching Jassyn’s back…who was?
Lykor’s lip curled. He wasn’t the kind of male who begged. Who knelt or pleaded, groveling for worth like something starved.
Hegavethe orders.
Didn’t take them.
Except from the one who’d looked at him like that with those stars-cursed amber eyes. Like he was more than a weapon. Someone who was trusted.
And still…Jassyn had sent him away.
Trella shifted beneath him, feathers rasping against the wind.
Far to the south, Rimeclaw vanished into the stormwall. Lykor—too wrapped in his own resentment to realize it sooner—felt the truth hit like a blow.
Rimeclaw wouldn’t have left his grave water in the jungle by choice. No, someone had yanked his leash.
Lykor bared his fangs, a snarl serrating his lungs. The dragon would lay siege to the Maw with Galaeryn steering every strike. And that slaughter would be on Lykor’s hands if he didn’t stop it.
Turning inward, Lykor sensed Aesar bracing for the choice he’d already made.
“Portal to the Stormspire outpost first,”Aesar said.“We have one duty left before we go rogue.”
Lykor flung out his claw and complied, ripping open a rift to the rangers’ cliffside camp in the Dreadspire Range. Apparentlythat’s what he did now. Took orders. Bit his tongue. Growled like a dog with nowhere to sink his fangs.
Trella didn’t need the command. She veered toward the seam in the sky and dove, wings folding tight.
Lykor’s stomach lurched. His spine slammed against the saddle as the world tilted, then disappeared—wind howling, vision swallowed in a flash of void.
On the other side, the earth rushed up to meet them. Trella’s talons struck the barren ground, claws gouging trenches as she galloped across the plateau. Dust detonated in their wake, grit pelting Lykor’s armor. Flaring her wings wide, she caught the wind and skidded to a bone-jarring halt.
Through the swirling haze, the command tent came into view—the place where the rangers were funneling reports from the Maw.
Lykor kicked free of the stirrups and leapt. Warping midair, he landed hard in front of the canvas wall, boots punching into dirt. He strode past a chestnut dracovae standing outside before stalking into the tent.
Zaeryn—of course it was her—stood at the center, pointing at the illusion map hovering in the air. Points of light spun into formations—ships, dracovae, druid scouts. She conferred with Mara and Kal in a low, clipped tone, tension in every word.
