Page 28

CHAPTER 28

JASSYN

W hat had begun as a mere flurry at the fringes of the fortress had swelled into a blizzard, the wind howling mercilessly. Jassyn lost track of the portals after forty—he doubted even Vesryn could manage that many without stopping to regenerate.

But nothing could match Lykor’s unyielding pace. He stayed ahead, always just out of reach, a force of nature tearing open rift after rift.

The landscape they crossed blurred—jagged ridges, barren valleys, and frozen hills shifting with every leap through storm and void. Lykor showed no sign of relenting, even as night descended and the distance between his portals started to shrink.

The cold burrowed through Jassyn’s boots and exhaustion sank deep into his bones. His shield sputtered like a guttering flame, struggling against the wind’s stinging assault. He sensed the first stars igniting behind the cloud-darkened sky, a reminder that he needed to regenerate his depleting Well—and that they needed to return to the jungle.

Jassyn shouted Lykor’s name over the gale, the first time he’d spoken in hours, his voice sounding small.

Lykor didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow.

Squinting through the storm, Jassyn glimpsed spindly silhouettes clawing at the horizon—skeletal trees emerging from the endless white. The next portal dumped them out at the edge of a frozen forest, the blizzard’s gusts winding between the trunks.

Stripped of bark, the lifeless trees loomed, their broken limbs encased in sheets of ice. Jassyn pulled his cloak tighter, shivering as the bare branches scraped together, the spine-chilling screech needling into his skull.

But Lykor trudged on, his scowl fixed on the depths of the wilderness. His shoulders curved inward, and with that subtle slump, Jassyn glimpsed the fissures in his resilience—the confession of weariness he’d never voice.

Lykor drew to an abrupt halt, raw Essence eddying around him in a wavering stream of stars. The faint outline of a portal began to shimmer, but the glow flickered before collapsing in on itself.

He swore as Jassyn closed the distance to reach his side.

For a moment, neither spoke. Their breaths curled in the freezing air, wisps dissolving as quickly as they formed. Even with some measure of wraith blood warming his veins, Lykor’s cheeks were flushed dark, lips pressed into a hard line as though sheer willpower could deny the cold.

Jassyn swallowed, his throat raw and aching with thirst. His limbs shook, his gut hollow from how long they’d pushed themselves. He’d give anything for respite in the warm humidity of the jungle—or for a steaming bowl of that spiced soup Fenn had introduced him to, the memory of it taunting him now.

“Haven’t we traveled far enough for one day?” Jassyn rasped, burrowing his hands deep into his ice-crusted cloak. “We should go back, rest, and gather supplies before we push any further.”

Staring at the spot where his portal had unraveled, Lykor drew uneven breaths, his chest rising and falling in bursts. Jaw tightening, tension coiled in his shoulders before he sagged, exhaling a disgusted sigh. He parted his lips to speak, but the words never came.

A sudden gale ripped through the forest, its monstrous howl rattling the frozen canopy. The treetops groaned under the wind, their branches colliding in a cracking cacophony. A cascade of ice broke free, spiraling downward in a razor-edged storm.

Jassyn shoved his hands forward, pouring the last of his strength into his fraying shield. Violet light fountained from his fingertips, twining together in trembling strands.

The ice struck his barrier with sharp pings, splintering into gleaming fragments that scattered across the frozen ground. Splitting his focus, he reached for his elemental power and tried to seize the descending shards.

Before he could halt the deadly barrage, the wind slammed into him from the side, slicing through his weakened ward. Knocked off balance, Jassyn stumbled, the snow shifting beneath his feet.

In a blink, Lykor’s gauntlet shot out, snatching the front of his cloak.

Jassyn’s stomach twisted with the churn of nausea as he was wrenched into a warp.

The world lurched when he reappeared, his magic yanked out of his control. Jassyn’s back smashed into a snow drift wedged between a tangle of trees, the impact driving the breath from his lungs.

Lykor had somehow remained upright, standing in defiance against the storm. The torrent of ice struck just beyond them, the onslaught shattering against the earth in a lethal assault.

A sickening thud and a grunt snapped Jassyn’s attention back to Lykor. Fangs bared, he clutched a shard of ice, its jagged tip buried deep at the slope where his neck met his shoulder. His knees trembled, then buckled, and he crashed to the ground.

“Lykor!” Jassyn’s voice cracked as he called out, panic hooking a noose around his throat as he scrambled to Lykor’s side.

“I’m fine,” Lykor gritted through clenched teeth, swaying as he sat upright.

But the black-red blood pouring through his fingertips told a different story. With an almost feral motion, he ripped the icy fragment free and hurled it aside.

“ Fine? ” Jassyn’s voice pitched higher, skepticism biting into his words as Lykor clamped a hand over his gushing wound. “That icicle was practically a harpoon.”

Scraping the dregs of magic from his Well, Jassyn reached out, ribbons of mending light springing around his palm.

“I said I’m fine,” Lykor snarled, his glare flaring hot, his growl stopping Jassyn cold.

Frustration sliced through his exhaustion, and Jassyn shot back, “Then by all means, let me know when you’ve had your fill of bleeding out.”

The silence hung between them, brittle as the frosty air. Jassyn pursed his lips as Lykor’s erratic pulse spilled his blood in the fading light, each beat steadily draining him of life.

His hands itched to shake sense into Lykor, to snap him free of this needless defiance. Though he doubted it would do any good to try.

Instead, Jassyn exhaled warmth into his numb fingers and folded his legs beneath him, forcing the irritation down. If he couldn’t do anything about Lykor’s pride, he could at least shield them from the storm.

He reached for the familiar hum of earth locked within the snow. The icy flakes stirred in response, swirling into a vortex under his control. Directing the fine powder with his focus, Jassyn pressed it tighter, weaving it into compact layers.

Slowly, a dome took shape, walls rising to wrap around them. He left a narrow entryway, just wide enough to slip through, before sealing the rest shut.

Blood drenched the snow around Lykor, his stubbornness clearly knowing no bounds. His labored breathing filled the space as the wind outside muted to a muffled hum.

Jassyn ground his molars but ignored him.

Sacrificing a faint spark of Essence, he conjured an orb of illumination, its soft glow reflecting against the frosty walls. He risked a hesitant glance toward Lykor, his pulse stuttering when he realized Lykor was already watching him, that unreadable gaze burning steady like the core of a smoldering star.

“We can portal back,” Lykor growled around a shallow breath. “But I’ll need more Essence.”

Jassyn swallowed, gauging his depleted reserves before admitting, “I don’t have enough for that.” Lykor’s eyes ignited, but he rushed on. “Not until the storm passes and I can regenerate. But I have enough magic to mend you.”

Clearly intent on brooding, Lykor didn’t respond.

“Would you truly rather bleed out than accept my help?” Jassyn bit out.

The muscles feathered in Lykor’s cheek as his jaw worked silently. “I don’t…” He shifted, his leathers creaking before he finally muttered, “I don’t tolerate magic touching me.”

The admission struck Jassyn like a hammer to the chest, driving a weight into him that he didn’t want to acknowledge. I should’ve known.

Their gazes locked, Lykor’s eyes simmering with challenge, daring him to mock what he couldn’t change.

Jassyn’s hands curled into fists on his knees. He understood. Maybe not entirely, but enough. Avoiding what cut too deep—what threatened to reopen old wounds—was a pain he knew far too well.

“I’m sorry,” Jassyn whispered. He assessed Lykor without his power, reading the blue tinge creeping across his lips, the tremor settling into his limbs. “You’re losing too much blood. I need to do something for you now before it’s too late.”

Heartbeats ticked by, each one tightening the band around Jassyn’s ribs.

At last, Lykor’s resistance cracked. He sighed begrudgingly through his teeth. “Fine,” he hissed, the word landing like a defeat, as though Jassyn had wrestled his surrender by force.

Movements stiff and disjointed, Lykor slipped his cloak from his shoulders in halting motions. Unwilling to sabotage this uneasy truce, Jassyn remained silent, not daring to offer any help—or point out that there was no need for Lykor to expose the wound.

Fingers clumsy, gauntlet catching at every buckle, Lykor battled with the straps of his armor. When he peeled away the blood-soaked tunic underneath to bare his chest, he gave a curt nod. Not acceptance, but a command to proceed.

Exhaling slowly, Jassyn extended his hand, streamers of Essence unfurling from his fingertips. The magic braided together before flowing into Lykor’s flesh, weaving broken vessels back together.

Though his breath came rough and heavy, Lykor remained unnervingly still while Jassyn swiftly mended him.

Keeping his focus on the fresh injury, Jassyn resisted the urge to linger on the scars etched into Lykor’s shoulders and twisted along his spine—ravaged remnants of torment endured. He idly wondered if he could reconstruct the damage—he’d done it before using the prince’s shadows on Serenna’s “mended” finger—but he doubted Lykor would ever allow it.

When the puncture fused shut, Jassyn dug beneath his armor, his numb fingers fumbling as he retrieved a knife. He sliced a strip of lining from his cloak and packed it with snow. Cupping the fabric in his palms, he transferred what little heat he could muster, softening the frozen crystals.

With the damp cloth poised in his hand, Jassyn hesitated, hovering above the streaks of blood. Lykor didn’t look at him, but he gave the barest nod. When Jassyn pressed the cold fabric to his skin, Lykor flinched.

“Sorry.” Jassyn cringed as he wiped the area clean. “I know it’s cold.”

“It’s…not that.” Lykor’s voice was rough, even for him.

Jassyn stiffened, his gaze drifting down to where his hand rested against Lykor’s chest. Healing him was just another task, no different from any other. He’d done this countless times before.

Except this time, a glimmer of something unfamiliar stirred, a subtle nudge urging him to pull away. But the heat radiating from Lykor’s skin anchored his palm in place like ivy clinging to a sun-drenched wall, starved for warmth.

Jassyn forced himself to speak, his words tumbling out in a rush. “I’ll—I’ll try to hurry. I can heal without contact, but regenerating blood…”

Trailing off, he focused on Lykor’s marrow, rapidly weaving strands of mending through the intricate tapestry of his bones, restoring what had been lost.

“You’re a skilled healer then,” Lykor murmured, the words oddly distant, as if exhaustion had ground away the edges of his usual scorn.

Jassyn’s eyes darted across Lykor’s face. It was still him—not Aesar—who’d dispensed the compliment. Probably blood loss.

Unsure how to respond, Jassyn stayed silent, lacing together the healing lattices to restore his blood. Beneath his palm, Lykor remained an unyielding stone, but his heartbeat hammered in a way that clashed with the erratic drum of Jassyn’s pulse. The thumping scattered his concentration away from the delicate procedure, drawing his attention to the distracting warmth where their skin touched.

I’m just exhausted. Talking would be a better way to occupy himself than letting his thoughts brew in silence.

“The wraith…” Jassyn began, the question teetering on his lips. He cleared his throat, searching for words that wouldn’t betray his ignorance or provoke offense. “You’re…warm. I noticed the first time I mended you—and when I healed Fenn too. But you and Kal… Fenn has one talent, yet he looks fully wraith, while both of you…”

The words unraveled into uncertainty. He hadn’t premeditated whatever he was trying to ask, and it showed. So unlike him to lose the thread of his own thoughts.

“The transformation is a spectrum,” Lykor offered, saving Jassyn from any further stumbling. “It manifests differently in everyone.” His gauntlet creaked as he flexed it, forming a fist in his lap.

“Why does the shift happen?” Jassyn asked softly.

Lykor’s eyes briefly unfocused before he rolled them. “Aesar would be thrilled to indulge you with that conversation.” He grunted humorlessly before shaking his head. “Only the stars remember the past, but perhaps the Aelfyn were all wraith before harnessing Essence. Their greed didn’t end there—it stretched beyond their homeworld, consuming this one too.”

Having never heard that theory before, Jassyn frowned thoughtfully, tucking away the information for later. His illumination drifted around them as the storm pressed faintly against their icy cocoon, the wind a muffled whistle.

Lykor’s lip curled, his expression darkening as he continued. “The king destroyed any history we had. He buried our ancestors’ folly—their attempt to steal the dragons’ magic. And perhaps more. Galaeryn intends to finish what they started, but I’ll do everything in my power to stop him.”

The storm outside suddenly felt like the least of their worries.

Jassyn blinked as Lykor shifted. Crimson eyes lifted to his face, pausing to trace the scar slashed across his brow. For a fleeting moment, their gazes locked.

Only then did Jassyn realize his hand was still pressed against Lykor’s chest, the mending long since finished. Heat rushed to his face as he jerked away, the movement quick and awkward.

Jassyn’s pulse hammered in his ears, a frantic rhythm that felt too loud in the stillness. Lykor didn’t move, remaining steady, unblinking. Thoughts spinning, Jassyn inched away, searching for anything to ground himself.

“This haven we’re trying to find,” he began, voice tight as he scrambled to redirect the moment. “You hope to discover where the dragons are chained—”

“It’s our only chance,” Lykor growled, punctuating his words like he’d explained this a hundred times before. “The dragons were thought to be immense vessels of strength, conduits of elemental power. If we can find one and release it, I have to believe the beast would protect us. Their might would make a difference if we’re to stand against the king.”

Lykor reached for his armor, disregarding his soiled tunic. He added quietly, “I just want a world where my people no longer live in fear.” The glow in his eyes dimmed. “We’ve already suffered enough.”

Jassyn averted his gaze and twisted a curl between his fingers as Lykor donned his armor. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed each movement was dragging, slower than the last. But beneath the exhaustion, that unyielding force burned on. The same drive that had pushed him to the brink of collapse from overusing his power. It wasn’t just recklessness. It ran deeper than that—resilience and purpose propelled him forward.

A faint brush of Essence hummed within the dome. Jassyn glanced back to see magic sputtering weakly above Lykor’s gauntlet. He glared at the power that refused to form, now apparently determined to portal back to the jungle despite his dwindled reserves.

Lykor’s body trembled as he wrestled with his depleted Well. Breath coming in rapid bursts, his eyes glazed over—undoubtedly attempting to wring every last drop of power.

“Wait—” Jassyn began, but the warning never left his lips.

Lykor crumpled forward, his fall muffled by the snow.

“Stars,” Jassyn muttered, shoving both hands through his hair.

He stared as Lykor remained motionless, each slowing breath curling into the air. Facedown, he showed no signs of waking as the minutes ticked by.

Jassyn rubbed at the ache latching onto his temples, grappling with the absurdity of Lykor’s stubbornness. It was as impressive as it was infuriating.

Determined to prevent Lykor from getting frostbite again , Jassyn pushed himself into motion. It was up to him to ensure that they both survived the night.

Gritting his teeth against the effort, Jassyn cursed Lykor’s bulk as he rolled him over. Slowly, he dragged Lykor out of the blood-stained snow, arranging his cloak more securely around his limbs and brushing off the lingering frost.

When he finished constructing what little comfort he could, silence pressed in, broken only by the brush of wind against their shelter. It was then that he felt the full weight of his own weariness, the cold burrowing deeper as he shivered uncontrollably. Blowing warmth into his hands, he tried to chase the lingering numbness from his fingers, though it felt like a losing battle.

Jassyn hesitated before deciding to sit next to Lykor, wrapping his fur-lined cloak tighter around himself. He glanced down, watching the slow rise and fall of Lykor’s chest. No sharp commands, no biting retorts. Just the quiet, unguarded stillness of sleep.

Jassyn sighed, scooting even closer to the warmth radiating from Lykor’s body, drawn more by instinct than intent. He doubted Lykor would forgive him for it, but in this moment, survival mattered more than pride.

Tucking his legs up and resting his head on his knees, fatigue began tugging at Jassyn’s eyelids. Every blink became a battle against the chilly embrace of oblivion.

He thought he sensed Lykor stirring beside him, but he couldn’t tell if it was his mind drifting between dreams or reality.

He needed to stay awake—to ensure their shelter held through the night.

But darkness began to claim him.