Epilogue
LYKOR
A month after the fall of Galaeryn
By noon, the Mistweaver Marshes had become Lykor’s personal proof that the world deserved violence.
Insects whined around his ears, fat little specks of misery diving for the sweat at his temples no matter how many he froze. The marsh stank of stagnant water and rotting reeds, the reek of sun-cooked algae clinging to the back of his throat until every breath dragged like sludge.
Weeks of searching had brought him here. To a scorching swamp where Rimeclaw had apparently decided to vanish.
Aesar walked beside him, translucent from the knees down where the water cut through his illusion. An elegant turquoise shimmer of an elf. Dry. Unbitten. Infuriatingly clean.
For once, Lykor saw the appeal of being incorporeal.
Ever since Jassyn had given them the talent, Lykor had been suffering the consequences. Their Well could support another form from dawn to dusk, provided they remained within sight of each other.
Which meant Lykor had gained the privilege of being haunted out loud.
“You could admit this wasn’t your best idea,” Aesar said, his voice stirring the marsh air instead of Lykor’s thoughts.
“How was I to know they’d be this unruly outside their nursery?”
Lykor hauled on the harnesses of force cinched to two Tidecrasher hatchlings and nearly lost his footing when the mud swallowed his boots. Frost veined outward from his soles, locking the muck beneath him.
Aesar clasped his hands behind his back, mouth curved into a smirk, savoring every wretched step.
One dragon shot upward with a shriek, wings beating hard enough to fling rancid spray across Lykor’s face. The leash of force wrapped around his wrist snapped taut, wrenching his shoulder before he braced his boots and yanked the creature back within reach.
The second dragon had gone limp in the marsh. Dead weight by choice, malicious by temperament. Every few steps, Lykor pulled it forward. Legs splayed, it skidded belly-first through the muck, snapping at reeds and whatever frogs failed to flee.
Lykor kept the third clamped under his arm.
Barely.
The little bastard writhed against his ribs, slick with filth, webbed claws scrabbling over the scales plating his forearms. It twisted toward the stagnant water, clever enough to see escape and stupid enough to believe Lykor would allow it.
Its fangs scraped against the armor at his wrist, gnawing at his arm.
Lykor hitched his grip around its middle. “Bite me again and I’ll turn you into a waterskin.”
The hatchling’s forked tongue slipped out and sampled Lykor’s fingers one by one.
Aesar glanced over. “Careful. At this rate, they’ll realize you only threaten the things you intend to keep.”
Lykor’s glare swung to him. “I can make an exception.”
The hatchling under his arm kicked both hind legs, its tail whipping behind Lykor to crack against his spine.
Lykor seized the current in his chest and shoved the marsh away from his next step with enough force to send a wave rolling. Mud buckled under his boots, and his wings spread at his back, azure membranes canting to keep him balanced.
Three hatchlings. Three surviving little beasts with jaws full of needle fangs and instincts Lykor trusted even less. Cinderax still guided what he could, but fire made a poor tutor for tide.
A low chuff of cold air billowed through the swamp, frost skinning cattails and floating mats of duckweed. A cloud of insects dropped from the air, frozen solid.
The hatchlings knew. The one flapping overhead folded its wings and dropped like a stone, its harness of force jerking taut before it struck the shallows.
The one with a mouthful of reeds spat out the stalks and flattened into the mud.
The creature in Lykor’s grip went rigid, every talon locking against his arm.
Across the marsh, a dark ridge cut through the water.
At first, only a snout surfaced, scales slick with algae and trailing weeds. Ocean-blue eyes emerged from the murky film, the crystalline glaze gone. Ancient irritation narrowed on Lykor before sliding to Aesar’s illusion at his side.
Rimeclaw heaved from the swamp with the slow weight of a glacier, water raining from his skull. His nostrils flared, drawing in the scent of Lykor and the three hatchlings currently attempting to disappear.
“Out of every place in any realm,” Lykor said, “you chose to rot in a marsh?”
An inner lid swept across Rimeclaw’s eyes. His snout tipped toward the magic securing the hatchlings, and cold crept through Lykor’s skull when the dragon answered.
“Rot hides what grief leaves bare.
And hunters lose the trail where death has soured the air.”
Aesar hummed beside him. “He has you there.”
Lykor ignored him.
Rimeclaw lowered his head, water trickling from the fins along his jaw. The hatchling in Lykor’s arm stiffened further, its frantic pulse knocking against his forearm.
“Where,” Rimeclaw rumbled, “did you find them?”
Lykor adjusted his hold on the dragon. “There were Unbound eggs in the Maw. I claimed four.”
“I count three.”
Lykor’s jaw locked. “We lost one to the king’s portal.”
A tremor moved through Rimeclaw’s chest, too deep for a growl.
Water lapped at Lykor’s boots. Somewhere in the reeds, a frog released a strangled croak. Aesar’s smirk vanished when Lykor spoke.
“I came to settle our bargain.”
Rimeclaw stilled. “Our bargain.”
“You asked me to end you.” Lykor held the dragon’s stare. “I told you I wouldn’t until the choice was yours. Now it is. If silence is still what you want, I’ll see it done.”
Rimeclaw remained motionless, exhaling snow from his nostrils. “You would strike me down if I asked again?”
Lykor tightened his grip on the hatchling in his arms. “If you want me to kill you, ask me in front of the whelps carrying your legacy.”
Rimeclaw’s lips peeled back from teeth long as spears. “You think I cannot smell the trap beneath this so-called choice?”
“Strategy,” Lykor muttered. “Manipulation, if you’re feeling poetic.”
Aesar rolled his eyes. “Stars preserve me.”
“You bring me hatchlings and think purpose will rise where death was promised? I asked for silence, scalebound. I asked for the tide to draw shut above me.”
Fine.
He’d make the choice harder.
Lykor thrust a claw toward the hatchlings. “I thought it prudent they meet their Warden before I drag them back to the desert.”
The fins along Rimeclaw’s jaw flared, each edge glittering with ice. “The desert is no place for those born of sea.”
“What would you have me do?” Lykor demanded. “Let them rot in this marsh while you teach them to rhyme about begging for death?”
Rimeclaw’s snarl rolled like thunder through the swamp. Frost spread from him in widening rings, freezing each ripple as it formed.
Lykor’s voice dropped. “I wanted you to see that you’re not the last. I won’t leave the Tidecrashers’ future up to Cinderax unless you make me.”
Lykor placed the hatchling into the shallows. It twisted free with a splash, then spun to snap at his boot.
He released the Essence binding the others. The harnesses of force uncoiled from their bodies and vanished.
None of the hatchlings moved, all three pairs of eyes riveted on Rimeclaw.
The one at Lykor’s feet stepped forward first.
Then the other two followed, scuttling after it through the muck. Rimeclaw lowered his head as they approached, his snout hovering above the water.
His jaws parted.
Lykor’s body recognized the threat before thought caught up, shadows detonating around his fists.
Of course. He’d been fool enough to hand the dragon leverage and pronounce it strategy.
Rimeclaw had bided his time until the whelps stood between them, their small bodies close enough for those fangs to spear through scale, hide, and bone. He’d threaten them, force Lykor to strike him down or watch the whelps break between his jaws.
“Leave them out of this,” Lykor snarled.
Rimeclaw waited with the patience of ice, jaws open around a darkness deep as a cavern. The first hatchling splashed through the shallows toward him, planted its foreclaws on his lower jaw, and hauled itself between fangs taller than its body.
What the fuck was it doing?
The second followed. Shadows lashed tighter around Lykor’s fists. His gaze cut to Aesar. Some answer would be useful before the whelps finished crawling into their graves.
The third hatchling paused before that maw, glanced back at Lykor, then scrambled into Rimeclaw’s mouth.
Then his jaws began to close.
Lykor’s heart slammed against his ribs, rending surging outward.
Shadows to rupture the eyes. Ice to cleave the skull. Either might slow the dragon. Perhaps kill him. Neither could stop a dying spasm from crushing the whelps to blood and splintered bone.
A small snout poked between Rimeclaw’s teeth, its chin resting on the ridge of his lower jaw.
The hatchling trilled.
Air tore from Lykor’s lungs. He ripped the shadows apart before they could strike. Beside him, Aesar only chuckled.
Rimeclaw turned, water sheeting from his spine as he moved through the marsh, his tail cutting a channel through the reeds.
Lykor stalked after him. “Where are you going?”
Rimeclaw waded on, the swamp parting around his chest.
“To clear streams,
where silver fish grow fat and slow.
To sun-warmed shoals,
where little tides will learn to flow.”
Aesar’s mouth twitched. “I believe your manipulation succeeded.”
Rimeclaw paused at the edge of the cattails, one blue eye settling on them. “You’ll find us where the bay gives way to the sea.”
Lykor’s throat tightened before he could make it useful. “On another tide.”
Rimeclaw turned and vanished, each step rippling through the water. His wake narrowed behind him, then closed. Only the reeds still swayed where he’d passed.
Aesar sighed. “Against all evidence, that was almost diplomacy.”
Lykor flexed his fists. Frost cracked from his knuckles as he tore open a portal.
Every trace of humor abandoned Aesar’s face in a rush. “Absolutely not.”
“I have another diplomatic mission.”
“You should reconsider calling it that.”
“Jassyn wanted me to find a purpose other than war.”
Aesar folded his arms. “You know that’s a monstrous interpretation of his meaning.”
“Then he doesn’t find out.”
Aesar tipped his face toward the sky. “I will not be a witness to this.”
His outline disintegrated, turquoise light scattering until his presence wound back into Lykor’s skull.
Good. Stealth would serve him better anyway.
He had elves to hunt.