Page 32

CHAPTER 32

LYKOR

E ssence roared through Lykor’s chest, a storm battering his ribs as he stalked along the shore. He punched out his gauntlet and shadows erupted, racing across the sand.

The darkness devoured everything in its path, shattering armor and disintegrating flesh, tearing through the advancing elves. A few defiant warriors bludgeoned his shield with Essence, each futile blow sparking violet flares across the ward.

He’d shoved Aesar’s awareness deep into the recesses of their mind—a simple feat with his other half bound in the grip of slumber. But Aesar’s fury would come. And surely Kal’s too, since he’d been left seething and restrained in a tangle of rending back in the jungle.

Let them rage. By the time he finished destroying Galaeryn’s fleet, their indignation would be irrelevant. Their complaints too late.

Lykor strode across the gore-streaked beach, blood from broken bodies soaking the sand. The humans had already scattered, scrambling up the cliffs in a frenzied retreat. They weren’t his concern so long as they fled—mere insects scuttling away from his power, spared by his indifference.

Reaching the docks, Lykor’s boots thudded against wooden planks. He blasted out another wave of rending to clear the area, his jaw tightening as he surveyed the ships rocking against their moorings.

Starlight glinted off the main body of the fleet anchored farther out in the bay, the distance a silent taunt.

Time pressed like a blade against his spine—he’d have to cut the destruction short if the elves forced the humans into order. Assuming the flight captain’s report was correct, the mortal numbers camped beyond the castle walls were far too great for him to extinguish alone.

A piercing screech shattered the night, wrenching Lykor’s eyes toward the shoreline. He’d almost forgotten about the dracovae.

Trella’s devotion to Aesar had unexpectedly extended to him, though it was as volatile as the beast herself. Insulted by his attempt to leave her behind, Trella had nearly snapped his head off when he’d initially opened a portal too narrow for her massive form.

His fury seemed to fuel her bloodlust. Trella rampaged down the beach, a living weapon carving a path of devastation. Her scales gleamed in the light of the moons, a spray of blood splattering her feathered chest as she ripped an arm away from a soldier’s body. Whipping in a brutal arc, her tail smashed another elf into the sand, talons shredding them in two.

Lykor bared his fangs as a wave of rending streaked toward her. Throwing out an arm, violet light flew from his fingertips, crystalizing protectively around the beast. The shadows slammed into his ward, shattering harmlessly against the barrier.

He unraveled the shield, allowing Trella to resume her charge unhindered. Swearing under his breath, Lykor followed her erratic movements as she surged down the coast.

Without telepathy, he had no way to direct her aimless carnage—a force of nature with no leash. Rankled by the thought, he formed a fist, his gauntlet screeching. If only he could order her to fly—to shatter the masts of the ships anchored out in the waters.

A dark idea struck him. A twisted solution that should have made him pause.

But it didn’t.

He’d done it before. He could do it again. Hesitation was a luxury this war wouldn’t afford. He’d disregard the cost, no matter the stain it would leave on his soul.

Abandoning the docks, Lykor strode back to the beach, homing in on an approaching elf. With a flick of his wrist, a burst of force whipped through the air, coiling around the warrior and yanking her into his outstretched claw. The metal bit into her flesh when he squeezed her throat, snarling into her face as he hacked at her Well.

Essence surged into him, a molten wildfire blazing through his veins as he leeched the elf’s talents. Abilities Lykor had lacked now became his—while those he already possessed violently amplified.

He staggered back from the exhilarating rush, casting aside the husk of a wraith. Whether lifeless or merely stunned, she crumpled to the sand, forgotten before her body hit the earth.

Delving into the depths of Aesar’s knowledge, Lykor sparked the acquired telepathy talent. Extending his mind down the shore toward Trella, he wove his awareness into hers.

THE SHIPS, Lykor commanded, searing images of her splintering masts and ravaging decks to sink their hulls.

Trella’s reluctance echoed back to him, a flicker of instinctual fear. Images bled into his mind—the crash of her body against the jagged cliffs, the snap of wings breaking against unseen rocks.

The dracovae’s poor night vision was an inconvenience at most. A flaw easily remedied.

Lykor released a wave of light, the pulse of energy shooting toward the beast. Illumination wove into Trella’s feathers, igniting her wings with radiance, twin beacons slicing through the dark.

Trella shrieked and barreled forward, driven by unbridled purpose. Glowing pinions snapped out, beating the air in a blinding display. Her haunches coiled before she launched into the sky, taking flight.

Lykor tracked her ascent as she hurtled toward the first ship in a blur of primal beauty. She collided with the mast like a falling star, the pillar shattering with a thunderous roar. Shards of wood burst outward and the folded sails collapsed into a tangled heap, swallowed by the sea.

Trella’s triumphant screech rang out across the harbor as she dropped to land on the ship. She swung her tail through the air, slamming it against the deck with devastating force. Planks buckled and splintered, the wreckage plunging into the water as she leaped back into the sky.

A satisfied smirk tugged at Lykor’s lips as the vessel sank. Destruction was a language Trella spoke with brutal fluency.

Unexpected movement snagged his attention. A shift in the wind. The clash of magic and blades.

Squinting down the shoreline, Lykor muttered under his breath. Illumination revealed the prince and the girl locked in their own battle with a contingent of elves. Whatever they were doing was irrelevant—so long as they stayed out of his way. At least the pair served as a distraction.

Exhaling slowly, Lykor shifted his focus as another wave of warriors closed in around him, circling like a pack of wolves. Reducing them to puddles of gore would be a waste of their magic—too much potential to squander when he could use it instead.

Releasing a streak of blue light, force struck like a serpent, hauling another elf to him. The soldier screamed as Lykor ripped their talents away, siphoning the abilities into his Well.

He turned to the next, their feeble bursts of magic easily deflected. One after another, the elves fell around him, their magic harvested and reforged into his own.

A growing hunger prowled beneath his skin—an insatiable beast gnashing at the bars of its cage, ravenous for more.

Consumed by the squall raging within him, Lykor’s mind clouded with the tide of expanding power. Each pilfered ability augmented his strength, each vanquished pawn another weapon stolen from the king’s magical arsenal.

Wind lashed strands of silvery hair across Lykor’s face, his form fully shifted into that of an arch elf. As he discarded the final warrior, his limbs quivered beneath the weight of what he’d seized.

A heartbeat of uncertainty stretched into two, a whisper of guilt drifting through the storm. Lykor ruthlessly crushed the ember of doubt before it could kindle further. This was no time for regrets. No place for weakness.

He needed more. He couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop.

Destroy the ships. Strip Galaeryn of every thrall. The thoughts hammered into his skull, a relentless litany driving him forward as he stalked back to the docks.

With a snarl, he punched out a wave of darkness. The planks exploded beneath his fury, splinters raining into the sea.

Trella’s shrieks ricocheted around the cove, eclipsing the groans of shattered vessels as they sank into the abyss. White wings a molten blaze cutting through the night, she smashed into ship after ship, her destruction fury incarnate.

Shadows detonated from Lykor’s fingertips, obliterating the final docked vessel. Essence poured through him, an uncontainable flood he couldn’t release quickly enough. Power roared in his chest, a volcano on the verge of eruption.

Yet the intoxicating pull to collect more Essence was impossible to resist. Perhaps with this power he could challenge the king. End Galaeryn’s reign.

No. Not yet. That was reckless. Absurd. Not until he claimed more.

A sudden howl of wind slashed through the chaos capsizing Lykor’s mind. His ears pricked as the ocean’s hiss swelled, rising unnaturally.

That wasn’t Essence controlling the waves—it was something else. He looked down the shore, but Vesryn and Serenna were gone.

A snarl twisted Lykor’s lips as he spun, his gaze narrowing. He scoured the beach, the crashing tide—then finally, the cliffs.

Silhouetted against the star-flecked sky, a figure loomed high above on a castle balcony. Arms stretched wide, they commanded the elements, bending wind and water into a spiraling vortex.

The king had harnessed his shamans.

The sea churned violently, a wall rearing higher and higher until it blotted out the light of the moons, its crest trembling with untamed power—aimed directly at him .

Lykor tensed, peering up at the castle. He wouldn’t wait for the strike—he’d take the fight to the fool who dared to challenge him.

With a sharp inhale, Lykor centered his awareness deep in his chest and folded in on himself, warping up the cliffs to crush the shaman where they stood.

Nothing happened.

Realization speared through him. He wasn’t himself. No longer half-wraith.

The wave surged closer, its shadow swallowing the beach. He had no choice. He’d have to portal.

A rift tore open beside him, but it wasn’t his. The void spat out the prince and the girl in a rush of humid air.

Serenna threw her hands up as the towering wall of water began to roll forward to engulf the beach.

The wave halted, its immense weight bowing under her control. Her gasps for air came sharp and quick, teeth gritted against the strain.

Flinging her arms to the horizon, the ocean obeyed. The swell collapsed in on itself, crashing back into the bay with a deafening roar. Sea spray drenched the shore as the surge dissipated into froth.

Then Jassyn emerged from the portal.

Lykor’s breath hitched, confusion thrashing through him. Jassyn hadn’t been on the beach before—he would have noticed.

Suspicion boiling through his skull, Lykor sliced a glare toward the prince. Vesryn had fetched him from the jungle. But why? Certainly not to challenge the lone shaman roosted above.

Vesryn’s voice cut through the ringing in his ears. “Stop!”

Shoving damp strands of hair from his face, Lykor sneered at the command, the futility of it flaying his nerves. What could the prince possibly want?

But it wasn’t Vesryn’s useless order that grated at him. It was Jassyn—his infuriating, silent presence.

Those amber eyes were fixed on him, brimming with something Lykor couldn’t quite pin down. Judgment, perhaps. Or disapproval.

And Lykor loathed how that gaze wormed under his skin. Jassyn had no right to look at him that way—no right to condemn him. Not when he understood nothing of the cost. Vesryn dragging him here only fanned the flames of Lykor’s fury.

This was war, and he’d do what the others couldn’t—what they wouldn’t. Every life he claimed was another blow against the king, another step closer to ending Galaeryn’s reign. And if Jassyn couldn’t stomach it, then he could stay hidden in the jungle.

His presence was a distraction. Orchestrated by the prince. Nothing more.

With a growl, Lykor tore his focus back up the cliffs, locking onto the defiant shaman spawn. Essence hummed through his veins, a storm barely leashed, promising ruin with every pulse.

He could rip that castle apart stone by stone, scatter its bones into the sea, and revel as the hungry tide devoured its dust. Nothing could oppose him—not while he wielded the might of the stars.

Thrusting his gauntlet skyward, Lykor unleashed a rope of force. He lashed his magic around the elf, yanking them off their perch.

Any screams were lost to the wind as he hauled the body down the cliffside. Just before impact, Lykor arrested their fall, the elf’s throat slamming into his outstretched claw.

“Lykor, stop!” Serenna’s shrill voice rose with panic.

He ignored her and tightened his grip, the cold bite of metal crushing against warm flesh. Kicking futilely, the elf writhed as Lykor’s gaze burned through him.

A golden circlet glimmered in the moonlight. The question of why this boy was tethered flickered and died. It didn’t matter, he could still wring out every ounce of power.

“Stop!” Serenna shrieked again. She had the gall to grab his arm, her fingers scrabbling against his gauntlet as though she could halt the inevitable.

Lykor didn’t spare her a glance and didn’t bother acknowledging the prince, shadows whipping around him as he rushed to her side. Let Vesryn try.

He focused on the elf choking in his grip, delving into his Well, hunting for talents to strip away.

“Please!” Serenna’s voice cracked, her hands trembling against him. Wild desperation shone in her eyes as she cried, “That’s my brother!”

Lykor stilled, his eyes cutting to her, then to the prince. He bared his teeth—no longer the threat of fangs. They had the audacity to deny him this?

“He’s one of the king’s thralls,” Lykor snarled as the elf gasped in his claw, feet kicking feebly against the sand. “You expect me to spare him?”

“If he’s coerced, I can help him.”

The quiet words struck Lykor like lightning lancing between his ribs. His wrath stalled, his grip loosening against his will as Jassyn’s steady gaze pierced through the cracks of his control.

“You’re done,” Vesryn said. His voice was no louder than a whisper, yet it carried the bite of a blade pressing against Lykor’s throat. He stepped closer, fingers twitching at his sides, but he halted, hovering on the brink of action. “We can make you stop.”

Understanding crept over Lykor’s skin like hoarfrost, an insidious cold swiftly lifting his hairs in alarm. His gaze snapped to Jassyn’s. Breaths coming shallow, Lykor searched his face.

Jassyn would do it, wouldn’t he? That was why he was here—to force his compliance. Unravel him with barely a thought. Spin compulsion around his brain until he bent, cracked, and shattered.

Blistering rage scorched through Lykor like wildfire. All this boundless power at his fingertips and his mind was still defenseless. Vulnerable. Exposed. Anyone could slip in. Manipulate him. Strip him of his will.

It was too much. Lykor ground his teeth, detesting his own inescapable fragility.

Whispers slithered through his mind, urging him to drain them all. Drain the prince. Drain the girl. And Jassyn—especially Jassyn—before they struck. Hollow them out. Reduce them to wraith. Silence their meddling forever.

It would be simple. Easy.

Necessary.

They were all threats. Challenges to his authority.

Yet the thought of breaking them brought no satisfaction, only a bitter taste he couldn’t swallow. They were still more useful to him alive.

Or perhaps it was weakness.

The pathetic truth curdled into disgust.

Lykor’s chest heaved on the brink of indecision, Essence crackling like molten iron in his veins. He’d already come this far. Why not a little further? The only way to defeat a foe like Galaeryn was to become as strong as him. Stronger even.

Become the king.

Become everything he loathed.

The thought nearly strangled him. He’d soon be raving about hearing the voices of the Aelfyn, just like Galaeryn.

Lykor wrenched his gaze away from Jassyn’s and back to the boy struggling in his gauntlet, gasping face turning blue.

Snarling, Lykor flung the elf to the sand and muttered to the girl, “Of course there’s fucking two of you.”