Are you this relentless with the recruits? Vesryn snarled when Jassyn corrected him once again.

Aren’t you? The initiates show more promise, anyway. You should’ve learned these skills a century ago.

Finally, after Vesryn bumbled enough with his magic, Jassyn was satisfied with the way they’d stitched Serenna back together. He couldn’t sever the telepathic link fast enough as they each released the hold on their power.

“Thank you,” Serenna said to him.

Vesryn scoffed. “I’m the one who healed you.”

Serenna sniffed and crossed her legs, angling away from the prince.

Jassyn wondered if they’d ensnare him in the crossfire of their squabbling if he lingered. While he considered if he could shuffle to the door without either of them noticing, Vesryn opened a portal, motioning him through. An obvious dismissal, but convenient nonetheless. Jassyn’s eagerness to remove himself from Vesryn’s apartments nearly had him dashing through the rift. But I don’t want to leave Serenna alone with him if she’s still upset.

Turning toward her, Jassyn assumed she’d appreciate an escape. “I’ll walk you back to your quarters if you’re ready to go.” His gaze flicked to Vesryn, but he wasn’t about to ask for permission he didn’t require. “There are a few things I think we should discuss.”

Serenna leaped from the sofa and was out the door before Jassyn could blink. Apparently she wasn’t concerned about walking across campus in sleepwear.

Jassyn quickly organized his thoughts, assembling the best way to disclose their shaman bloodlines. He’d at least inform Serenna of what he’d discovered at the Vallende estate. He wasn’t quite ready to confess that the elemental magic had manifested in him. Not yet. While he trusted her, he wasn’t ready to risk the capital finding out if the knowledge became more widespread.

The dejection in Vesryn’s face as he stared after Serenna disappearing down the corridor almost had Jassyn sympathizing with him. Almost.

Jassyn patted his cousin’s shoulder before departing. “We really need to work on your lesson planning.”

CHAPTER 10

LYKOR

Propped against the headboard, Lykor’s body jerked, his consciousness hauled out of sleep. He inhaled a sharp breath through his teeth, blinking at the tome clamped between his hand and claw. The dream of amber irises hovering above him dissipated like fog. Digging his fists into his eyes, Lykor drove out the face he saw every time he let his mind wander.

Hearing papers rustle, Lykor swiveled toward the sound and blew out a disgusted sigh. Kal’s back was to him as he sorted through reports at his desk. The last memory Lykor recalled as rending extinguished his awareness was a fountain of obsidian blood erupting from his captain’s neck.

How poetic that Aesar roused in time to deliver Kal from his own stupidity. Now it seemed like an inconvenience—not an oversight on the king’s part—that Aesar wasn’t coerced.

A muffled whistle emitted from the vents circulating heated air around the chambers. Flickering flames from pronged sconces glinted off the maces, swords, and knives festooning the walls. Kal would’ve been just as comfortable holed up in the armory, considering his dwelling contained nearly as many weapons.

These appalling rooms were becoming horridly familiar, a constant reminder of both Aesar’s relentless presence and his insistence on spending Lykor’s unconscious evenings with Kal.

Frustration had Lykor hurtling the book clutched in his claw across the bed, almost rending his captain of his own volition. Shoving a strand of silver hair away from his eyes, Lykor irritably growled, cursing Aesar for not bothering to return their body to their own quarters. He presumed it was near dawn and sensed that Aesar was slumbering—and would be for the next few hours if left undisturbed.

Afflicted with his captain’s presence, it appeared that he and Kal would only continue this all too predictable routine, shuffling between indifference and intolerance. Like the shell Lykor was trapped in—forced to share with another—was any fault of his own.

Suspecting that Kal intended to ignore him while he dressed and left, Lykor ripped the covers off. He snatched his stack of clothes that Aesar had folded neatly on the nightstand, shoving his legs into his trousers and fastening his belt.

Before Lykor could open a portal, Kal spoke over his shoulder, not bothering to face him. “Aesar found something in that tome you should look into today.”

Lykor muttered a string of dark words about where Kal could fuck himself with said tome.

“Why should I concern myself with Aesar’s antiquated books?” Lykor snapped, seized with the temptation to leave before they fully engaged in a conversation. Or rather another vexing, circular argument. Lykor couldn’t comprehend why Aesar’s pedantic pursuits affected him. But Kal insisted on clinging to the past, pathetically attempting to shove Lykor into Aesar’s mold.

Kal tensed before rising to face him. Braids unraveled, black hair grazed his shoulders in waves—a modest elven style he’d maintained throughout the years, despite adapting to the younger wraith custom of infesting his face with rings. Lykor assumed they’d portaled to the secluded hot springs that Aesar favored judging from his own damp hair and the assault of piney soap.

Kal’s features remained impassive, all evidence of his mangled throat healed. His tongue dug into the back side of his lip ring—a nervous habit. His burning stare regarded Lykor, eyes swirling a storm of disapproval in the torchlight.

Talons digging into his palm, Lykor clenched his claw at his side, if only to keep his fingers away from strangling that resentment off of his captain’s face. Kal had wildly misplaced his annoyance. I WASN’T THE LACKWIT WHO TRIGGERED THE COERCION.

Kal’s silence and searing gaze only infuriated him further as they faced each other in a standoff. “Tell me,” Lykor snarled, instinctively baring fangs he no longer had. “I’m already at the end of my finite tolerance and have no desire to spend another second in this fucking room.”

Jaw ticking, Kal relented before Lykor resorted to thrashing the answer out of him with rending. “As you know, Aesar assumes this fortress was one of the druid capitals.” A rattle of breath escaped through Kal’s clenched teeth. “If his translation is correct, he believes our stronghold may harbor a Heart of Stars. You need to start looking for it instead of disappearing every day.”

“Don’t tell me what I need to do,” Lykor growled.

Uninterested in prolonging the conversation by asking what a Heart of Stars was, Lykor tunneled his awareness inward to Aesar’s mind. Using the phrase as a lodestone to search, he rummaged through the relevant knowledge. Retrieving what he needed, Lykor blinked the room into focus, glaring back at Kal’s scowling face.

Lykor scoffed, incredulity running his mouth. “And what use would a Heart of Stars be to the wraith?”

Kal’s lips twisted before he wandered to his armor stands. “Aesar believes the Hearts may have functions other than unveiling talents.”

“They’re Aelfyn trinkets.” Lykor barked out a disbelieving laugh as Kal shouldered on his leathers. “The elves’ ancestors only brought one Heart to these shores and it’s in the king’s possession—you’ve conveniently overlooked that obvious fact.” Burrowing his fingers across his scalp, Lykor tied his hair into a knot.

“Would you discuss it with Aesar when he wakes?” Kal gritted out, adjusting his spiked shoulder pads. “If you’d bother to look further into his thoughts, you’ll see that he believes the druids may have hidden a Heart in our fortress—and possibly others in scattered locations.”

Lykor scrubbed a hand down his face as his frustration boiled to exasperation. He was so tired. So tired of worrying about the wraith’s future. So tired of wondering what the elves had extracted from those Aesar had abandoned on that floating isle. So wearied from waking in Kal’s chambers, forced to interact with him like this arrangement was something he’d agreed to. Normally, Lykor could never get his captain to shut up. But of course, now that he wanted information, Kal was stubbornly reticent like he was making some point.

Irritation curled in Lykor’s gut, morphing into anger. Restraining himself from ripping Kal in half, Lykor lashed out with a whip of shadows instead. Grunting, Kal’s spine went rigid, immobilized in the twisting darkness.

Stalking toward the captain, Lykor used his claw to snatch Kal’s chin. “Enlighten me as to why I should give a fuck about these Hearts. If I have to ask one more time, I’ll splatter you across the wall.” Lykor scored Kal’s midnight skin with his talons. “I doubt Aesar could reassemble your putrid innards after that.”

Kal’s nostrils flared, a muscle feathering in his jaw. “You know of the Great War between the Aelfyn and the druids.” Kal didn’t wait for his acknowledgement. His eyes flicked toward the tome Lykor had discarded. “That text indicates they fought over possession of the Hearts. Aesar doesn’t know how many there were, but he believes the relics may have some importance.”

Lykor’s grip tightened as Kal glowered with fire in his eyes. Unraveling the shadows, Lykor tore his claw away from his captain’s face. Locating his boots near the door, Lykor flung out a strand of force, yanking them to his hand.

Kal was intentionally withholding information to pressure him into working with Aesar, who’d become increasingly irksome, insisting the same. Aesar had been content with letting Lykor handle the impossible decisions this past century but now felt the need to be involved. They probably collaborated to coordinate their efforts, intending to collectively wear him down.

Lykor stomped on his shoes, remaining silent with nothing to say. What he needed to do was start portal jumping across the Wastes to discover a new haven for the wraith, not delve through their fortress on a hunch because a dusty tome had information a thousand years gone. It was past time for Aesar to do something useful for once instead of plaiting Kal’s hair.

Lykor drove his thoughts away from his other reckless idea—returning to the floating isle in search of the amber-eyed elf. The thought taunted him. If there was some way to free himself from the coercion, the risk would be worth it.

Feeling the weight of Kal’s attention had Lykor snarling. “You handle this, Captain. I have better things to do than run around as your fucking page boy.”

Kal rolled his shoulders before retrieving a holstered crossbow, slinging the weapon over his back, now incessantly rambling on. “Aesar thinks the Hearts could be tied to dragons—if any remain.” His voice lowered along with his eyes, cast to the floor. “Weren’t they important to you?”

Lykor stiffened, drawing to a halt before opening a rift to his quarters. His scalp prickled at the memory. He hadn’t dwelled on it since the king had chuckled at the name he’d claimed as his own—the name of the first dragon who’d sacrificed himself in the battle against the Aelfyn. Long ago, Aesar had read of the creature, who’d attempted to buy the druids and shamans time to flee.

It hadn’t been enough.

“Talk to Aesar when he wakes or look through his memories—in the library, before…” Heartbeats passed before Kal met his gaze, shaking his head with a sigh. “Before all of this began.”

Lykor’s chest tightened, constricted by a remnant of fear that Aesar had experienced that day. Cracking his neck, he released a breath. In his mindspace, Lykor locked everything away out of sight, shoving Aesar’s residual panic behind the dungeon’s obsidian doors.