Chapter 2
LYKOR
Lykor stalked across the Splitfang’s plateau, sand grinding into his molars. Heat pricked beneath his leathers, the damp cloth tied at his forehead already drying out. Useless as relief.
Above, the sun hammered too bright for this early hour, like it meant to char them before the day even drew breath. He squinted into the glare and yanked at the strip of fabric plastered to his skull.
“If you’d stop fixating on it,” Aesar murmured in their mind, dry as the wind. “You wouldn’t be so uncomfortable.”
Lykor scowled as Aesar slid out of their thoughts and flickered into step beside him, a heat shimmer given form. An irritation no one else could see.
“OR, BETTER YET,” Lykor growled back silently, “I COULD SHAVE OFF THIS RIDICULOUS HAIR YOU INSIST ON KEEPING AND WEAR SCALES ON MY SCORCHING SKULL.”
“We are not arguing about this again.” Aesar rolled his eyes skyward. “I let you have everything else you want—even the battles you pretend not to care about.”
Right. Because Lykor’s favorite pastime happened to be dictating war plans, browbeating Kaedryn’s guildmasters, and cinching command around his own neck like a noose. Every decision another leash. But cutting his hair for practical comfort? Too far, stars forbid.
Dispatching orders to surrounding wraith, Kal stood at the rim of the canyon, orchestrating the morning’s formations like the sky would collapse if one flight veered wrong.
Kal had shed every trace of wraith the moment Lykor had shoved Essence talents back down his throat in the druid jungle—returned to polished symmetry and luminous skin, an arch elf carved back into perfection.
He hadn’t relinquished the wraith piercings, but his golden hair now hung twisted in ceremonial braids, the full spectrum of his power radiating in steady waves that lifted the hairs on Lykor’s arms whenever he drew too close.
Not that he made a habit of it.
Along with Mara and Thalaesyn, Kal had been one of the few Lykor had handpicked to bear the magic he’d plundered from Vaelyn’s shores.
That night from weeks ago still clawed through his memory—armor shattering under his shadows, Trella ripping ships apart while he leeched enemy Wells dry, every stolen talent searing through his veins.
He’d barely bled that power back out before it incinerated him, fracturing abilities into shards to be distributed among his people—half the wraith carrying the edge of Essence now.
“Where the fuck is Fenn?” Lykor barked across the cracked earth, reaching the captain in a few pounding strides.
He halted short of the illusion Kal was weaving, a scrawled web of names and flight paths glowing turquoise in the air between them. Lykor barely glanced at the training roster. But Aesar thumbed his chin and paced in his periphery, parsing every note through Lykor’s unwilling eyes.
Kal didn’t look up. Of course he didn’t. Why bother acknowledging his presence in the flesh when Aesar’s mind was close enough for him to slip into instead. A sliver of telepathy unfurled as Kal skimmed past Lykor’s mind, pouring his thoughts straight into Aesar’s.
Typical.
It wasn’t even a fresh insult, just another layer of erosion. Some bitter part of Lykor tallied every slight, each one a spark against dry tinder. Kal’s indifference struck flame in his throat—nothing to do with the druids’ so-called beastblood. Everything to do with rage.
Baring his fangs, Lykor hurled a streak of shadows straight into Kal’s meticulous illusion. The threads of Essence shattered on contact—names, maps, and orders scattering like flung embers.
That cracked Kal’s composure. He rounded on Lykor as the luminous fragments vanished into the air.
Aesar threw up his hands. “Very mature.”
Kal tugged at one of his brow piercings, polished restraint settling back into place as if Lykor’s rage were a weather pattern he’d already charted. “A good morning to you too, Lykor.”
“I asked you a question, Captain.” Shadows wreathed Lykor’s fists, his snarl spitting the word like a curse.
“Fenn’s moving his squad into position for another flight trial,” Kal finally answered, waving his hand toward the far rim of the canyon.
Lykor squinted across the half-mile chasm to where a knot of wraith whooped and bellowed, flinging whips of fire with reckless abandon, forcing one another to warp or burst skyward in a flurry of wings.
One flare veered too close to a female, but she grinned and twisted into it, scales flashing to absorb the blow.
They looked less like warriors and more like wraithlings drunk on their druid power, sparring with the frenzy of beasts who’d already tasted blood, ravenous for more. Discipline burned away by survival. As if destruction had become the point.
He’d built a fucking army of arsonists with wings. And now he stood ready to gamble the one life he couldn’t afford to lose on their chaos.
Lykor’s scowl deepened, jaw ticking. “You’re telling me Fenn is the one in charge of that mess?”
Kal smirked, blue eyes glinting like seaglass. “Interesting complaint from the one who shoved a command at him.”
Trella shrieked overhead, the sound needling through Lykor’s skull—a reminder that this detour had already made him late. Above, the dracovae wheeled restlessly, wings blotting the sun.
He’d missed the portals Vesryn’s rangers had taken into the Dreadspire Range, scouting the path to where Skylash lay chained in the Maw. Every wasted minute let Galaeryn’s fleet creep closer. Every ship another blade aimed to gut the last dragons before Lykor could reach them first.
And here?
Here, his most seasoned warriors flung fire in a carnival of chaos, arrogant youth mistaking raw power for readiness. No formation. No control. And if Fenn couldn’t keep a squad in line during drills, how in every scorching star was he meant to lead when the storm truly broke?
A brittle edge inside Lykor began to crack. They weren’t ready for the war creeping toward them. And neither was he, no matter how often he snarled otherwise.
He could summon flame with Cinderax’s gift, but he couldn’t lift himself into the sky.
Lykor shoved the thought away, smothered it under layers he never let himself touch. He wasn’t broken. That was the lie. The shield. And if he whispered it often enough into the hollow behind his ribs, maybe someday the echo would die.
“There should be more ceremony,” Kal said, yanking Lykor out of his thoughts. “Not for my son’s sake. For theirs.”
Lykor’s gaze cut to Aesar, still poised beside him, silent but nodding. Of course he’d told Kal what Lykor intended. Always the scheming diplomat.
“Ceremony?” Lykor growled, flinging out a hand across the canyon. “For that rabble? Fenn’s the oaf least likely to set himself on fire. He gets the rank. That’s the ceremony.”
“They’re practicing,” Kal clipped, sharper now. “Stars forbid they train with anything other than brooding stares and grim silence.”
“We’re preparing for war,” Lykor bit back. “If they can’t hold formation without turning it into theater, then why the fuck should I trust them to survive the real thing?”
“Life is more than the next battle, Lykor.” Kal shook his head. “You’ve never known what living looks like.” He exhaled that long-suffering calm, and Lykor’s hands twitched to crack his nose off his face.
“You’ve already decided to give Fenn this task,” Aesar murmured beside him. “If you won’t see it through, I will. But it’ll mean more coming from you—they need to believe you’ll trust them with more than fury.”
Of all the people to hand more responsibility, it had to be Kal’s son.
Training and trials meant nothing. The real question was whether Fenn could bear something more than a squad—and whether Lykor could delegate without choking on regret.
If he misjudged, if Fenn faltered, Jassyn would bleed for it.
Swearing under his breath, Lykor rolled his shoulders as if motion alone could dislodge the ache from his bones. It didn’t. The tension gnawed between them, refusing to fade.
“Fine,” Lykor snapped, jabbing a finger into Kal’s chest. “But you’re reorganizing his squad.”
“Would’ve been done five minutes ago,” Kal muttered, shoving him off, “if theatrics weren’t part of your morning routine.” With a flick of his fingers, turquoise light spiraled, ranks and names scribbling back into place.
Lykor ground his fangs. He should’ve demanded discipline over spectacle. Instead, he turned toward the canyon’s edge and plunged his awareness inward.
Pressure built behind his sternum, air cinching tight as space compressed on itself. Heat vanished. Sound dimmed. Ribs contracting with the strain, he folded himself into darkness and warped.
Lykor reappeared across the canyon, stone cracking under his landing as dust billowed outward. The wraith froze mid-skirmish—claws still wreathed with fire, laughter strangled short.
He stalked through their ranks, his presence alone parting the warriors. Wings twitched and eyes flared as they shuffled back.
Gaze fixed on Fenn, Lykor didn’t look at them. The lieutenant hadn’t been a gangly youth in years, though Lykor still saw him that way. A part of him braced for Fenn’s foolishness, the slip of arrogance that would prove him unready.
But it never came.
Lykor reached into his pocket, cool metal biting his palm as he halted in front of Fenn. All eyes tracked him as he thrust his hand forward.
He hadn’t prepared a grand speech like Kal wanted. Ceremony was for those with time to pretend. Lykor didn’t believe in symbols, but if this farce bought Jassyn even a sliver of protection, then fine. Let the title speak louder than the sentiment.
Lykor uncurled his fist, revealing twin earrings. Not the standard loops and studs designating wraith rank, but silver bands set with lacquered obsidian—scales shed by Cinderax.
He forced the words past his teeth. “You’re promoted. To Skyclaw Captain of the Emberguard.”
Fenn blinked, eyes blazing with a sudden glow. His wings rustled once, then folded. He didn’t look at the others, only stared at Lykor. Disbelieving. Like this mattered to him.
He held himself in wraith stillness, the claws at his wing tips curling tight, trembling before he straightened to attention. The others watched in silence as Fenn reached forward and claimed the earrings from Lykor’s palm.
“A captain?” he asked. His eyes flicked toward his father across the chasm.
“It’s a new post.” Lykor grunted, studying the druids gliding through the ravine below. “Outside the chain of command. You’ll have the details tonight.”
A snort brushed his mind. “Very catchy,” Aesar drawled. “Rolls right off the snarl.”
“THOUGHT HE’D APPRECIATE THE FLAIR,” Lykor muttered.
Above them, Trella circled and shrieked again, wings slicing the air with clear impatience.
“You should fasten them,” Fenn said, tugging his hair back from the points of his ears. “I don’t know where they belong. Not for a title that hasn’t been worn before.”
Lykor flicked his wrist. Two threads of rending punched clean through the cartilage above Fenn’s highest piercings.
Fenn didn’t blink. He slid the earrings in, blood welling around the obsidian scales that swung against his skin.
Aesar murmured something in approval as Lykor sealed the wounds with a braid of mending.
From the canyon floor below, a horn blared—another drill. The wraith on the plateau surged to the rim as one, bursts of flame igniting around their talons.
Jaw tight, Lykor waved them off. One by one they hurled themselves from the ledge, wings trailing fire as they dove.
Pride sparked, then irritation smothered it. Apparently these half-feral soldiers could snap into formation when duty demanded it. Fall into rhythm. Into trust. Into flight.
He never would.
“That doesn’t mean you have to stay isolated,” Aesar said. “Not unless you keep choosing to.”
Lykor ignored him, eyes narrowing on Trella as she banked against the sun.
“ARE YOU SURE ABOUT THIS?” he growled, scowling up at the dracovae wheeling above him. “I CAN’T EVEN COMMUNICATE WITH YOUR BEAST.”
“I had her trained before I manifested telepathy. You’ll survive.”
“SHE’S TEMPERAMENTAL.”
Aesar rolled his eyes. “Then you already have something in common.”
Lykor’s teeth clicked shut as he swallowed the curses crawling up his throat. He didn’t want to ride. Didn’t want to be carried. But worse than shame was being left behind while the others soared—unable to guard the one he couldn’t lose. So he’d borrow Trella’s wings and rise another way.
Even if it flayed his pride.
Lykor yanked at the flame in his chest, dragging the shift into his limbs as dragonsight sharpened his eyes. Scales shimmered down his arms, locking into place. Drawing one final breath, he fixed on the pale speck of Trella in the sky, and warped.