Page 41

CHAPTER 41

JASSYN

J assyn hesitated at the edge of the firelight, the mugs in his hands growing heavier, anchoring him in place. A gust of wind swept across the mountain pass, spiraling into a sky streaked with fading strokes of rose and gold.

Lykor sat alone on a rocky outcrop, his silhouette darkening the horizon, shoulders hunched as though bearing the weight of the slopes. He stared at the skyline, where the mountains were shedding their frosty crowns.

Gathering his courage, Jassyn inhaled the crisp air, forcing his legs to move. But the closer he got, the more his feet dragged—each step feeling like an intrusion.

Maybe this was a mistake. Lykor obviously wanted solitude. Yet an irrational need to bridge the distance tugged him across this forbidden ground.

Lykor’s head snapped toward him, black hair whipping across his face. The sudden flare in his eyes made Jassyn halt, breath catching in his throat.

“What the fuck do you want?” Lykor demanded.

“I made tea,” Jassyn mumbled, cheeks burning as he offered a cup.

Lykor’s eyes clashed with his, unblinking, glare unwavering. For a moment, all Jassyn could focus on was the dangerous, magnetic stillness, drawing him closer without a clear meaning why.

A brisk wind sliced through Jassyn’s cloak, sending a shiver down his spine. “Serenna found some of those frost berries,” he continued before glancing over his shoulder. But she and the prince had abandoned the fire.

Lykor muttered something under his breath and turned away, his attention lifting back to the flickering stars.

Nearly compelled to fill the suffocating silence, Jassyn blurted, “I thought… Well, I figured… Fenn’s usually better at brewing tea, but since he’s still away…”

Feeling ridiculous, he trailed off as heat crawled up his neck. He knew he was rambling, but he didn’t know what else to do as he awkwardly held out the unwanted mug.

Jassyn shifted his weight, boots scraping against frosty stones. “I…added cinnamon,” he ventured, still talking while Lykor ignored him. “Vesryn had some in his pack. No idea how it got there, but…” He swallowed past the tightness in his throat. “I noticed Aesar doesn’t like it, but you always add it and—”

Lykor’s gauntlet snapped shut with a grating screech, silencing him. Crimson eyes latched onto his, scalding with barely restrained ire as Lykor bit out, “Is there a reason you’ve seen fit to plague me with your presence?”

Battling the instinct to retreat, Jassyn’s pulse stumbled. “I wanted to thank you,” he said, fingers tightening around the ceramic, the offering feeling increasingly absurd under the heat of Lykor’s scorn. “For saving me today.”

Lykor’s lips twisted into a sneer. His gaze seared into the mug before returning to the stars, dismissing it—and Jassyn—entirely again. “A mistake, I’m sure,” he muttered.

Jassyn flinched as if the words had been shouted in his face, his grip slipping. Tea sloshed over the rim, steaming where it struck the frozen ground. The chill of Lykor’s contempt sank into his bones—he’d been foolish to believe that anything beneath that icy demeanor had begun to thaw.

Silence stretched between them, every second straining like a drawn bowstring. A muscle ticked in the profile of Lykor’s jaw. Tendons coiled in his neck, tension rolling off him—an impending storm.

In a sudden burst, he launched to his feet, the motion so violent it blurred.

Jassyn retreated a step and then another, pulling both mugs closer to his chest. A flimsy shield. Regret flooded his veins. He should have known better than to trespass on Lykor’s brooding solitude.

The night folded around Lykor as he stalked across the distance, halting in front of Jassyn.

Heart pounding a frantic rhythm, Jassyn became acutely aware of the heat radiating from Lykor as they stood nearly chest-to-chest.

“Would you have done it?” Lykor hissed in his face.

“Done…what?” Jassyn asked, the words barely more than breath.

“The harbor,” Lykor snarled, fangs flashing under the rising moons. “Would you have stripped me of my will? Bent me with coercion?”

Suspended in the raw ferocity of the unexpected question, Jassyn blinked. Lykor’s glare didn’t waver, burning through him and scorching him from the inside out.

So that’s what had been festering between them this past week. Why Lykor had kept his distance. He recognized it now in Lykor’s eyes—a darker resentment flaring, more than mere mistrust and wounded pride.

“I…” Jassyn’s mouth went dry, words vanishing like dust on the wind.

The vivid memory of the harbor returned—Lykor’s wrath unleashed, the sheer force of his ruinous power teetering on the thin path between chaos and control.

Something different drifted across his face, as though Jassyn’s silence had answered the question—and kindled disappointment.

“I would have,” Jassyn whispered, the truth a knife twisting in his gut. “If you’d lost yourself, I would’ve done it to bring you back.”

Lykor’s chest rose and fell as the admission lingered between them. “Why?” he demanded. “Why do you think I’m worthy of saving?”

Jassyn met his stare, refusing to look away. “Why do you think you’re not?” The words came quiet but sharp, a challenge, a dagger turned in Lykor’s direction, forcing him to face the truth he buried.

Jaw latched tight, Lykor remained silent. The moons cast shadows across his sculpted features as his gaze flickered—breaking from Jassyn’s eyes to trace the scar bisecting his brow, as if the carved skin were answer enough.

“I think…” Jassyn’s voice wavered as he spoke, trying one last time to break through Lykor’s armor of steel and scorn. “I think you’ve convinced yourself that your worth lies in protecting everyone else. You’ve become a shield—a weapon—for your people because you had no other choice.” His gaze locked onto Lykor’s, searching for the cracks in his walls. “You’re more than that,” Jassyn pressed. “More than a survivor. More than a force of destruction to be wielded and discarded.”

A twitch bristled through Lykor’s shoulders, but he didn’t speak. His silence was heavy, looming like the mountains encircling them. Yet in the hard lines of his face, Jassyn glimpsed a flicker of doubt—enough to encourage him forward. He drew a steadying breath, the chilled air biting his lungs as he pressed on.

“I know what it’s like,” Jassyn admitted, voice catching, his fingers trembling around the mugs. “In a way. I was reduced to nothing more than my bloodline—a thing to be used…”

Chest tightening, he hesitated, the confession too late to retract. But the fire in Lykor’s eyes dimmed and held him there, the unspoken question probing enough to draw the rest out.

“The elves took everything,” Jassyn whispered, the memories wrapping around him like a noose. His gaze dropped to the cups, the warmth barely reaching him now. “My body. My will.” The words hollowed him out, but he pushed forward.

“And for decades, I believed I wasn’t worth anything. But Serenna…” He paused, recalling how she’d been a lifeline in the storm—a friend who’d been at his side all those months ago. “She saw beyond my worth to the realm—she saw me . And for the first time, I didn’t have to bear my suffering alone.”

Jassyn lifted his eyes, meeting Lykor’s. “You’re not a weapon. Not a shield. You’re more than that. And I hope you can see it too.”

Lykor blinked, his breath hitching—barely, but enough for Jassyn to notice. As the words settled between them, his gaze darkened, a fracture in his stony expression. Heartbeats passed, pulsing against the crease of his throat.

Slowly, Lykor reached out. Not with his gauntleted claw—a source of protection and pain—but with his hand. In a brush of fingers, he breached the distance between them and claimed the previously offered mug.

For a moment, all Jassyn could do was breathe. The contact had been so brief he might’ve imagined it. Except the fleeting touch lingered like a conversation, silent yet full of words.

Neither of them spoke as Lykor stepped back, his gaze returning to the horizon. Streamers of violets and greens unraveled across the sky, dancing across the sea of stars. This time, the stillness between them wasn’t filled with tension or hostility—just quiet.

Even though the warmth had bled away, Jassyn took a slow sip of tea. His mouth twisted into a grimace. That certainly wasn’t the way he’d brewed it. He shifted his feet, unsure whether to return to the fire, but before he could decide, Lykor broke the silence.

“Sit.”

Gruff and clipped, it sounded like an order rather than a request. A male accustomed to command, Lykor jerked his chin toward the boulder, an invitation to his previous perch. He drank from his mug, coughed, and cleared his throat.

“If…” Another pause, his voice now tempered with uncertainty. “If you’d like.”

Heart still racing from their exchange, Jassyn lingered while Lykor strode back to the ledge. Moving forward felt like more than taking a seat—it was choosing to stay. Whatever spanned between them was no longer a wall, but a fragile bridge, covering ground they hadn’t yet dared to cross.

Slowly, Jassyn closed the remaining distance, gathering his cloak before sinking next to Lykor on the cold rock. He set his cup aside, stuffing his hands into his furs.

They sat in silence at the rim of the world, ethereal ribbons unfurling across the sky above, highlighting the snow-dusted peaks below. Just as Jassyn began to wonder if they would remain like this all night, Lykor’s armor creaked, his gauntlet scraping against his mug.

He released a long, measured breath before finally speaking. “What did they do to you?” he asked quietly, staring at the waving auroras.

His question carried no edge, only the guarded curiosity of someone burdened by their own scars. When Lykor finally turned, his expression remained unreadable, but something haunted simmered in the glow of his eyes. “If…that’s something you’d be willing to share?”

Throat constricting, Jassyn’s fingers grazed the shredded scraps of parchment buried deep in his cloak. Each inked name of his offspring was a record of suffering he’d once tried to erase. On Centarya, he’d torn the pages apart, convinced that destroying them would finally free him.

It hadn’t.

Vesryn had kept the tatters safe, and Jassyn had finally asked his cousin for the family tree after weeks of mustering his courage. Now, the edges were frayed, the creases worn thin from being folded and unfolded so many times, some part of him unable to stop retracing the past.

A tremor shuddered through Jassyn’s hands as he clutched the documents. He forced himself to meet Lykor’s eyes. Before he could second-guess, Jassyn shoved the scraps toward him, a wave of nausea twisting his gut. Lykor frowned, dark brows drawing together as he stared at the crumpled pages.

“This—this is what happened to me,” Jassyn said, fingers shaking, the papers feeling heavier than they should. Unable to hold Lykor’s gaze any longer, Jassyn dropped the folded pieces between them on the boulder.

A chill wind skimmed over the ridge, catching the tattered scraps, but Lykor snatched the papers before the breeze swept them away. His jaw tightened as he offered the documents back, never once glancing at the contents—only at Jassyn.

“I’d rather hear it from you,” Lykor said, voice as soft as falling snow. “Because what I’m imagining…” He shook his head, the conjured horrors unspoken but clear.

Jassyn’s heart rattled against his ribs, threatening to break free from his chest as he stared at the folded parchment. He had to speak, but he didn’t know where to start.

“I have one hundred sixty-five offspring,” he managed at last. The confession ripped open an old wound, but more words spilled out before he could stop. “That’s what’s in those documents.” Averting his gaze, he reclaimed the pages, tucking them away. “But I suspect there are more.”

Lykor’s eyes widened at the admission, but he didn’t interrupt.

Drawing in a breath around the lead in his chest, Jassyn raked a trembling hand through his curls. “As one of the first elven-blooded, the council bound me to…repopulate the race. Forced me into contracts. For decades, the females blurred together.” His breath hitched, every lungful a battle, the past pressing down on him like a collapsing sky. “There was no end. I lost track—I lost myself—when things got worse.” The words tumbled out faster than he could rein them in, each one a fracture in his brittle composure.

“Farine…” The name curdled on his tongue. Jassyn faltered, bile rising in his throat. “She—she made me… With so many… Just for their entertainment.” He squeezed his eyes shut, as if he could shove the memories back into the shadows where they belonged.

“They forced themselves on you?” Lykor’s question was a rumbling storm, each syllable quaking beneath the surface.

When Jassyn dared to meet Lykor’s eyes, he found them burning—twin embers aflame in the darkness, smoldering with fury.

“They hurt you?”

Too exposed, Jassyn focused on the ground. He nodded, toeing the snowy rocks beneath his boots.

“Sometimes physically,” he admitted, voice hollow. “Sometimes just through…humiliation.” A bitter laugh scraped his throat. “What they made me do… It never felt like I was serving the greater good.” He braced his palms on the boulder, the wind tousling his curls. “And I know it’s nothing compared to what you endured—”

“Who?” Lykor’s demand boomed like thunder. “Who did this to you?”

Jassyn shook his head, refusing to meet Lykor’s burning gaze. “It doesn’t matter,” he said quietly, staring up at the stars—distant witnesses to a shame he’d never outrun. “They’re a world away now.”

A screech of metal and the sudden crack of shattering ceramic pierced the night. Jassyn’s eyes snapped to Lykor’s gauntlet, shaking around the remnants of his mug. Steel grated as he squeezed even tighter, grinding fractured shards across the stone.

“I want their names,” Lykor snarled, voice seething with guttural promise, shadows rising around him. His eyes blazed, a storm of fire. “All of them. Every single one who laid a hand on you.” His fangs extended, glinting like ivory daggers in the starlight. “I won’t rest until I bring you each of their fucking heads.”

Lykor’s fury circled like a beast poised not to strike, but to protect—to protect him . The sheer ferocity of it had Jassyn going still. A part of him wanted to give in, to let Lykor’s wrath shoulder the weight of his suffering.

But it wouldn’t change the past.

“Revenge won’t help me forget,” Jassyn whispered, meeting the inferno in Lykor’s stare.

Jaw working silently, Lykor’s brow furrowed, as though he warred with the idea that anyone would reject vengeance. For a moment, Jassyn thought he might rip open a portal and storm to the capital right then and there.

Before he thought the action through, Jassyn placed a hand on Lykor’s cloaked arm.

A single touch. He just wanted to thank him for caring but didn’t know how to voice it.

Lykor stiffened, gaze snapping down to Jassyn’s palm.

Fearing he’d overstepped, Jassyn quickly withdrew.

Lykor’s chest heaved, fangs retracting as he rapidly blinked away the tempest raging in his eyes. The fiery edge of his anger dimmed, embers cooling down to coals.

Slowly, Lykor searched Jassyn’s face. “You’re…different than me,” he murmured, his voice losing its harsh bite. When he shifted, the sides of their thighs bumped.

Jassyn froze, his heartbeat ricocheting in his throat. The slight press of Lykor’s knee against his own sent a charge through him, swift as lightning skimming water.

But the warmth blooming around the touch didn’t drag him back into memory’s shadows. It could have, after everything, but the contact felt like support rather than a breach of boundaries.

The realization hummed through Jassyn like a second pulse—he could pull away. The choice was his.

This wasn’t anything to linger on. He’d shared casual touches that didn’t send him spiraling—embraces with Serenna, playful jostling with Fenn, and more familiarity than he’d prefer from the prince. But this felt different. Deeper, with less. Like it could be something more.

Drawn by some inexplicable pull, Jassyn let the back of his hand graze Lykor’s. Featherlight—almost imperceptible—yet his heart lurched at the deliberate action.

Lykor’s arm flexed beneath his cloak, but he didn’t retreat behind the fortress of his armor. Instead, he exhaled a shaky breath, making Jassyn wonder if the unbreakable warrior—who had just vowed to tear the capital apart—felt just as fragile in this moment.

Perhaps brokenness wasn’t an ending, but a prelude to rebirth. Even in ruin, the shattered pieces could realign into something stronger—something whole.

Heart thundering, Jassyn risked a glance, worried he’d ventured too far.

But Lykor’s gaze remained fixed on their hands, the ruby light in his eyes glowing softly. “You…” His jaw clenched, voice so low that it barely stirred the night. “You see me. Not him, like everyone else.”

Hesitantly, as if testing unsteady ground, Lykor unfurled his fingers, letting them align with the back of Jassyn’s. It was the barest pressure, a whisper of touch, the kind that spoke louder than words.

Maybe Jassyn had reached for him for a reason—because Lykor never demanded, never took. For all his scorn, his aggression, his threats of ruin, Jassyn felt something different in his presence that he hadn’t in years. Safe.

Without warning, Lykor tensed, his hand snapping closed. Disentangling himself from his cloak, he surged to his feet.

“Aesar’s time is after the moons rise.” The words were clipped, flat. A door slammed shut.

Jassyn blinked, barely breathing, caught in the wreckage of the shattered moment. The warmth of Lykor’s touch barely had time to settle before it dissipated, chased away by a chill that rushed to fill the absence.

Lykor stumbled away from him, almost as if his body was about to give way. But he caught himself, straightening with a fluid movement that wasn’t quite his own.

“I hate when he does that,” Aesar huffed as he yanked at his cloak. “No warning—just dragging me out.”

Scanning the area, he turned, eyes flicking between Jassyn and the empty space where Lykor had been sitting, confusion creasing his brow.

Still reeling, Jassyn cleared his throat. He opened his mouth, then hesitated. What could he even say?

“We were…talking,” Jassyn offered. Though the statement felt inadequate, too simple to describe what had transpired.

Aesar arched a brow, glancing from their secluded perch over to the campfire. “So that’s why he blocked me out.”

Locked in some animated discussion, Vesryn and Fenn—who must’ve returned while they’d been lost in conversation—were each clasping a Starshard and channeling Essence into the gems. Knees drawn up to her chest, Serenna was glaring at both of them, a shield surrounding her in a protective cocoon.

Aesar hummed to himself, the sound amused but thoughtful. “Wait. Lykor was… talking ?”

A faint smile tugged at Jassyn’s lips as he pushed to his feet. Fenn was gesturing wildly now, cackling when the prince launched a snowball at his face. “I think we might be missing Fenn’s reenactment of Vesryn getting swallowed by that golem.”

“In that case, I’ll ask him to start over.” Aesar grinned as they turned toward the fire. “I do enjoy hearing about my brother getting devastatingly humbled.”

The fire’s warmth beckoned, but Jassyn hesitated, his steps slowing. He cast a glance over his shoulder, lingering on the spot Lykor had left behind.