He knew the king wouldn’t simply forget about the wraith. Now that Galaeryn had assembled his pawns, Lykor presumed the king would set his sights on the Aelfyn homeland, to claim whatever their ancestors had left behind beyond the sea. But only after tying up his loose end on this side of the world—eliminating the wraith. In the prisons, Galaeryn had boasted to Lykor about his ambitions. But what hope did the wraith have of stopping him?
Reminded of those half-elves the king had bred for a gruesome purpose, Lykor’s awareness brushed the bond-holder, who’d obviously surviving the attack. Essence leashed this nuisance to him—one he deduced was some half-elf spawn.
He contemplated using the connection to locate, abduct, and haul them to the wraith’s fortress. If he could force their acceptance of the bond, he could manipulate their magic and control their power. Then he finally wouldn’t be stretched so fucking thin all the time as the only one among the wraith with magic.
Sensing Aesar stirring, like one rolling over in sleep, Lykor’s hackles rose. He assumed Aesar had perceived his intentions and disagreed. As usual. Lykor shoved his other half into a recess in their mind. Perhaps he could keep that meddling presence locked away indefinitely.
In some pathetic attempt at heroism, Aesar had unforgivably sabotaged Lykor’s carefully staged assault against the half-elf army. He’d seized control of their body, sounded the retreat, and then jumped from the highest peak of a tower. As if his martyrdom would’ve solved anything.
Lykor clamped down on his fury, grinding his fangs. I DIDN’T ENDURE TWENTY YEARS IN THE ELVEN DUNGEONS TO BE CAST ASIDE.
Lykor hadn’t ripped away control of their body from Aesar in time as they’d plunged to the ground, but he’d survived. Or rather, someone had somehow halted his fall.
WHY DIDN’T THAT ELF KILL ME? Thoughts twisting with conflict, contorting like vines, Lykor dredged up memories invaded by a pair of striking amber eyes—one of the king’s half-elves.
Lykor’s mind tilled up an echo of that raven-haired male’s scoffed words. I saved you.
WHY? AND WHY DID I NOT EVISCERATE HIM?
Perhaps he’d hesitated when crushing that elf’s throat after seeing the despondency settling over in his face. The fear. Then the acceptance. Something inexplicable had doused the murderous fire in Lykor’s veins. Perhaps it was the way that elf had bitterly laughed in the face of death like Lykor had done so many times to spurn the king.
Muttering to himself, Lykor steered his disconcerting thoughts away from the elf who’d scattered his common sense like ashes on the wind. That hadn’t been the only unexpected incident that night.
WHY WAS VESRYN THERE?
Lykor fled from the witless thought as soon as it emerged. His spine spasmed in anticipation, expecting the king’s compulsive magic to invade his awareness, reducing him to a bystander in his mind. The coercion demanded the death of the prince, lest Vesryn wander into the wraith’s prison a century ago and uncover Galaeryn’s plans.
Aesar’s twin never did.
Once Lykor had emerged, splitting from Aesar’s consciousness to shield him from his sire, the king had flaunted why he hadn’t tortured Vesryn in the same fashion—the torment that had reduced Lykor to a wraith.
Instead of harming the other prince, Galaeryn had maintained the convenience of an heir and boasted about molding another type of monster—someone star-bent on vengeance to hunt down the wraith he continued to create. What better way to exert control over the realms than by fabricating a conflict, crafting a convenient excuse to corral the mortals and frighten the elves into compliance?
Lykor trembled, breath rattling in his lungs. Waiting for the coercion’s dominance. Thoughts brushing Aesar’s twin always triggered the destructive magic harnessed to Lykor’s mind. Against his will, rending would uncontrollably whip out of him, as if seeking Vesryn out.
Except…
Nothing happened.
WHAT?
Blinking, Lykor frowned, tangled in a web of confusion, unable to comprehend why the oppressive magic hadn’t overpowered him like it had every other time his thoughts touched…Vesryn.
The realization chilled Lykor’s blood like the wind’s frigid bite. THAT AMBER-EYED ELF FIDDLED WITH MY MIND.
The male had known of the coercion—he’d even asked, offered to help. Frowning, Lykor tunneled inward, still sensing the dark magic latched onto his awareness like a parasite. He released a breath. Perhaps the compulsion was degrading. Surely Galaeryn’s power couldn’t endure until the end of time.
COULD THAT ELF ACTUALLY HELP ME LIKE HE’D CLAIMED? Lykor idly stroked the silver hilt at his waist, the metallic leaves and vines framing the golden blade. Lykor couldn’t say why he’d pilfered the dagger like it was some trophy, but its presence kindled a spark of foolish hope.
The tentative promise of freedom from the king’s coercion lured Lykor down a treacherous path that would surely lead to disappointment.
He flinched, recalling how the monarch had honed his coercive magic, shredding Lykor’s mind. Destroying any natural defenses he’d previously possessed, stealing his ability to barricade his awareness. Leaving him vulnerable.
If the king had discovered how to control Lykor absolutely, that would’ve been the end of what little resistance Lykor had maintained over the years. He could only assume that was Galaeryn’s eventual intent.
Absolute dominance.
Giving himself a shake, Lykor dispelled the suppressed memories, shoving them back behind an obsidian door where he kept those horrific thoughts.
He grounded himself to the present, snapping his clawed gauntlet into a fist. The metal articulated with a squeal, the grating sound splitting the tranquility of the night. Realizing the mistake, his attention flew to the rider, ensuring she and the dracovae still slept.
This elven scout was obviously on the hunt for something. But so was he.
Unsheathing the stolen blade, Lykor dipped into his Well, hauling out a stream of Essence. He clenched the dagger. His wrath and hatred toward the elves had only intensified after the failed raid—his greatest desire was to keep his people safe. Like a serpent coiling around a branch, he spun a blue tendril of force along the length of the silver hilt.
Lykor snarled at the sleeping rider, flaring his magic to expel his fury. The dagger lifted from his palm, hovering in the air, turning as he aimed the golden tip at the slumbering warrior. Releasing power in a streaking volley, he sent the knife flying on wings of force.
Impaled in the shoulder, the rider startled awake with a cry of alarm, magic tethered—stifled. She clawed at the hilt. Lykor tossed a hand up, punching out a swarm of force, anchoring the blade to bone.
Shrugging off his invisibility, Lykor focused his awareness to his chest, taking advantage of his partial-wraith form. Building a pressure near the point of fracturing pain, he folded in on himself and warped across the clearing.
Reappearing in front of the warrior, Lykor snagged her leathers, hauling her away from the rousing dracovae. Unwilling to slay the innocent beast, he tore open a portal and shoved the rider through before the dracovae could aid its master with slicing talons and its razor-sharp bill.
On the other side of the gateway, in the bowels of the Frostvault Keep, Lykor pitched the elf forward into a darkened tunnel, steering her toward a set of stairs. He would’ve portaled to the interrogation chamber directly, but the extinct druids—the former masters of the wraith’s volcano fortress—had enough foresight to lace the brig’s stonework with gold. Traveling in or out by rifts was impossible. An inconvenience now.
Essence unraveled wherever gold touched—one of the curses the druids condemned on the Aelfyn before their downfall. But the wraith’s gold-firing crossbows hadn’t been a tide-turning advantage during the assault like Lykor had hoped, despite piercing through the elves’ magical shields. But if the wraith had a power like the druids—
The rider charged at Lykor with daggers flashing, yanking his attention back to the hallway. The silver blades reflected flames from the spiked iron sconces. Spurred by irritation, Lykor flicked his gauntlet, a blast of force spinning the knives out of her fingers. The weapons struck the stone walls, clattering to the floor. Fueled by retribution, he shoved her down the winding earthen steps with a burst of power.
The warrior went tumbling. Her screech morphed into a piercing scream as she crashed to the bottom of the stairwell. Lykor strolled unhurriedly, descending with heavy, booted footsteps that echoed against the stark surroundings.
Strangled by heat collected from the Slag and spewed through the labyrinth of vents, he yanked off his fur cloak, discarding it on a step.
When Lykor reached the dimmed halls of the dungeon, the warrior struggled to stand, stifling a whimper of pain. Twisted unnaturally, one of her legs bowed out like a broken branch, incapable of supporting weight. One of the rider’s blood-soaked arms dangled uselessly, white bone jutting through flesh.
After all these years, Lykor had finally captured an elven prisoner, and he was ravenous for revenge. He’d balance the scales, destroying one elf’s life at a time, repaying the debt for what the king had inflicted upon him. To purge one of the king’s soldiers before her power could harm the wraith, to extinguish her Essence before the king could siphon it and augment his own. Lykor would pry words from her lips and uncover the elves’ immediate plans.
Baring his fangs, Lykor stalked to the elf sprawled on the ground. The warrior’s boots scraped against the stone floor in her meager attempt to shuffle away, her mangled leg preventing escape.
Reaching down, Lykor seized her auburn hair, the darker color leading him to believe she was one of those half-elf spawn. Not that the difference in blood mattered—they were all elves to him and would bleed all the same.
Leaving the cell-lined hallway, Lykor dragged her to an empty chamber set up for questioning captives. He’d collected a plethora of tools for this purpose, lining the chamber with every variety of weapon the wraith could craft, plated with gold. All for show and intimidation—he wouldn’t need them.
With an eruption of force, he slammed the elf against a wall. She sucked in a labored breath as her back collided with stone.
Lykor snatched the golden chains swinging from the ceiling, shoving the warrior’s broken arm into a manacle, drawing out a hiss. Shackling her wrists and neck, Lykor left the knife tethering her power in her shoulder.
He prowled to the center of the chamber, pivoting on his heel to study her. To think. Swept away in capturing the elf, he’d put no thought into what questions he’d ask of a prisoner. Lykor supposed he should begin by gouging out her knowledge of the king’s intentions, to bridge the gaps a century had hollowed in his.
