Chapter 27
LYKOR
Lykor halted beneath the stretched canvas, the pier creaking faintly. Bleached bones—stripped clean by those flayers they’d met in Asharyn’s sandpit, no doubt—anchored the fabric to the dock’s corners, as if the dead themselves were holding this uneasy peace in place.
Whatever the druids had arranged here offered no comfort, only a ring of woven rugs and low cushions placed with unsettling symmetry across the weathered planks.
Thirteen representatives were gathering. Fourteen, if he counted Cinderax, who sat coiled next to Kaedryn with smoldering and unblinking eyes.
Wings dismissed, Jassyn had already taken a place beside Serenna, hands loose on his knees as he murmured something low to her.
Crossing his arms, Lykor lingered at the fringe, noting that the cushion beside Jassyn remained conspicuously unclaimed. He felt the press of eyes on him, measuring and waiting to see if he’d even sit at all.
But to sit might read as surrender. To stand too long, defiance.
“Stars, just take a seat,” Aesar muttered, materializing at his shoulder in that barely-there way only Lykor could see—insubstantial as a shadow but twice as irritating.
“WHY SHOULD I, WHEN YOU’RE GOING TO BE PACING?” Lykor snapped, shoulders twitching as he dispelled his wings.
Aesar arched a brow, already drifting across the pier. “Sit. Unless you want Zaeryn to claim the spot beside Jassyn again. Like the one you brooded over last night.”
Movement caught Lykor’s eye farther down the dock.
Zaeryn strode forward with Kal, every step landing with a confidence that demanded attention before she even spoke a word.
Snarling under his breath, Lykor crossed under the canvas and dropped onto the vacant cushion beside Jassyn. His knees protested the angle as he folded into the same posture, palms braced on his legs.
Across the pier, Kaedryn and the four other guildmasters—whose names Lykor hadn’t bothered to learn—sat partially shifted with wings tight against their spines.
Bhreena glared at everyone before leaning over to mutter something into Daeryn’s ear. His mouth thinned, a silent concession. Or a swallowed response. Lykor couldn’t tell.
This alliance was unity only in name. One cliff, different hands clinging, slick with doubt as the world began to crumble.
“We gather to share what we know,” Kaedryn began once everyone settled into place. “To name what we risk. And by nightfall, we will depart with one accord. Or not at all.”
Nightfall.
Every muscle in Lykor’s jaw flexed.
“Don’t say it,” Aesar clipped, holding up a finger.
Lykor scowled at the itinerary of agony. Hours yet until sunset, and already the world felt ready to burn—a day too long for diplomacy and restraint.
Kaedryn extended a claw toward the circle’s center. “Serenna and Vesryn will begin before we discuss what comes next.”
Vesryn flexed his fingers, conjuring a shimmer of illusion above the dock’s heart.
“We scouted a fragment of the marshlands before dawn,” he said as turquoise light snapped into place—jagged coasts, fractured mountains, ranges of plains that barely hinted at this realm’s true shape.
“What we thought were sailing ships turned out to be gutted hulls, rebuilt into a living fortress near the desert’s rim. ”
A murmur rippled through the circle as the illusion solidified.
“Elashor is here,” Serenna added quietly. “And his forces have captured mounts that can fly—razorwings, Fenn called them. But that’s not the worst of what we found.”
Lykor didn’t blink. He’d already heard this report, had watched disbelief flicker through Jassyn’s eyes when they’d brought word back. Still, the proof dragged the threat into the open.
Vesryn swept a hand over the illusion, rivers unfurling to feed the Blackreach, their currents dotted with ships. “I don’t think the human army has arrived yet. Regardless, there’s another fleet sailing for the Crackling Maw.”
Someone cleared their throat.
Daeryn.
“If the human forces aren’t here yet,” Daeryn said as every eye turned to him, “they will be soon.”
Lykor kept his gaze on the map, though Aesar’s wandering steps gnawed at the corner of his vision.
“How?” Lykor demanded. It had taken him half a dozen jumps just to retrace his steps from Asharyn to the jungle. “Is there a permanent portal?”
Vesryn’s fingers twitched above the illusion. “I doubt even the king’s power could sustain a rift that far across the sea.”
Daeryn shook his head, shifting on his cushion. “Galaeryn doesn’t need one.” He gestured toward the shimmering expanse of water. “Some of the ships aren’t meant to reach any shore. They’re being repurposed into floating portal platforms, anchored in open water to serve as way stations.”
“But the Maelstrom hunts Essence,” Jassyn said before Lykor could even begin to dread the implications. “Untethered wielders would only summon the storm.”
“That’s where those like us come in,” Bhreena cut in, gaze flicking between Jassyn and Serenna. “Crossbred shaman stock. Everyone else on board stays tethered, and we bend the storm if it draws near.”
“There are decoy ships too,” Daeryn added. “Ordered to flare Essence when portals are scheduled to open. They bait the Maelstrom away from the traveling corridors.”
Lykor’s armor creaked as his fists clenched on his thighs. He could almost hear the sea churning beneath them as Daeryn’s voice dissolved into noise. All he could picture was the inevitability, a slow creep of defeat spreading like mold.
This alliance wasn’t bracing for an invasion. They were already standing inside its jaws.
“It’s not a perfect system,” Daeryn concluded. “Ships have been lost. But the human army will be portaled with ease—following those hunting for the remaining dragons.”
No one spoke.
Water slapped the pier in an uneven rhythm, each wave landing a little harder than the last. The silence carried no shock, only the confirmation of a truth already seated among them.
Kal adjusted a knife at his hip. “It doesn’t matter how Galaeryn’s army gets here—only that it’s on its way.”
“Fenn’s organizing additional scouts to keep eyes on those razorwings,” Serenna added. “But we won’t have much warning if they discover Asharyn.”
“In the meantime,” Lykor growled, wiping a bead of sweat away from his neck, “Galaeryn’s fleet could stumble on Skylash while we sit here pretending that planning will save us.
We’re out of time.” His eyes locked on the illusion map, but the lines had blurred.
“All we have are two hatchlings who can barely light a candle.” Cinderax growled, and Lykor glared back.
“And our warriors are still learning to flap their wings without setting themselves ablaze.”
“We might’ve bought a sliver of time before anyone else crosses the Wastes,” Jassyn said, sharing a glance with Daeryn. “But Rimeclaw won’t slumber in that jungle lake forever. And when the king realizes his forward scouts have gone silent…”
He didn’t finish, dread settling like ash between them.
If Galaeryn’s leash on the dragon slackened while Rimeclaw lingered in the jungle without Daeryn’s band to lead, it might be the only advantage of time they had left.
But once the king steered the dragon’s glacial fury toward Asharyn, this fragile alliance wouldn’t survive Rimeclaw’s first icy breath.
Serenna leaned forward, eyes fixed on the illusion’s Crackling Maw. “Then we need to find Skylash first.”
“We have a place to start,” Jassyn said.
Fingers splayed, he reached toward the map. Threads of Essence unwound, refining Vesryn’s illusion. The jagged range of the Maw flared into focus, one mountain rising higher than the rest—the leveled peak that spat lightning into the clouds, a place only he and Lykor had seen beyond the threshold.
“There,” he murmured. “Where the lightning begins.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Lykor caught Jassyn turning toward him. When he finally tore his focus from the map, that gaze was already waiting—steady, intent, unbreaking.
Lykor’s pulse struck hard against his throat as memory surged. The thunderless storm. The collision of lightning. The way Jassyn had watched him then. The same way those amber eyes held him now, even as he began to speak.
“Lykor discovered that flame can redirect the lightning,” Jassyn said, the turquoise illusion carving light along his jaw.
For a heartbeat, he didn’t look away. Then he turned, addressing Kaedryn and the other guildmasters.
“If your scalebound would lend their fire as a diversion, we might stand a better chance of holding the storm while we search for Skylash.”
A wave of agreeing murmurs stirred through the circle, but Bhreena was already shoving to her feet.
“And what of us?” she demanded. “You promised we’d raid the mountain prisons and find our families. That’s why we’re here. Right, Daeryn?” she asked, fury lashing the question. “How long do we have to risk their lives and wait?”
“This is the best lead we have on Skylash,” Jassyn said, every word steady. “With the king’s forces already on these shores, we have to move now to free her first.”
Bhreena’s laugh splintered out of her, stunned and disbelieving. “Was this your plan all along? Lure us here with promises, stall us with false hope while children like my sister are buried in the dark?”
Lykor’s spine locked as he bristled, temper flaring to meet hers. “Where was that fire when you marched for the king?” he growled, lip curling. “You followed Galaeryn’s orders until they didn’t suit you, and now you want blood yesterday?”
“Don’t you dare,” Bhreena hissed. “I crossed those stars-cursed mountains to keep her alive.”
She stepped over her cushion, boots scattering the illusion’s light beneath her heels. “Forget this Skylash. What if we’re already too late for our own?” She flung a hand at the map. “What if the king kills them out of spite? For us daring to defy him? That’s why he took them in the first place!”