Lykor’s heart impaled itself on a rib. Power slipping from the shock, he ruthlessly refortified his control. Shadows churned like a raging whirlpool while he gaped.
It was him.
The elf who’d saved him, the one haunting his dreams. The one he’d recklessly been visiting the military island in search of during the dark hours of the night when Aesar was deep in slumber. The elf that the girl had insisted was called “Jassyn.” If the blade in Lykor’s possession had actually belonged to her friend.
Exiting a colossal tree that was presumably an ancient dwelling, the elf skidded to a halt. He dropped the tome that he was carrying before a violet shield slammed around him.
Aesar had insisted that this location was secure—his twin being the only other with knowledge of this place. Searching the jungle was a risk they’d both agreed to take—surely Vesryn would have no reason to venture here.
But much could change in the century they’d been absent from the realms. The king could very well be dispatching his soldiers to every corner of the world to hunt for the Hearts—or the wraith.
Lykor stalked forward. “How did you get here?” he demanded. A witless question wasting words. Of course the elf had portaled to this miserable jungle. “Are there others with you?”
Surrounded by floating globes of illumination, the elf glanced around and backed away. Raven curls skipped over his forehead as he silently shook his head in response.
Lykor’s shadows thrashed, ready to flay the elf if he so much as moved a hand too quickly. He didn’t temper the growl in his voice. “Did the king send you?”
The elf’s eyes widened before hardening. “This is the only place I could hide from those like him.”
He wasn’t here for the Heart then.
Still on his guard, Lykor’s shoulders marginally relaxed from the reassurance. He retracted the threatening darkness along with his fangs. There wasn’t any reason to act like a feral beast. Judging from the elf’s shifting gaze, he was already nervous enough.
When Lykor stepped forward, the elf retreated another step. Something Lykor didn’t have a name for twisted through his chest like one of those the accursed vines strangling a tree. A strange uncertainty needled at him for being the source of fear. He’d never thought twice about intimidating others before—it was all he knew, birthed from the necessity to instill order when the wraith had turned savage in the prisons.
Cautiously stepping forward to retrieve the dropped tome, Lykor resisted the impulse to leaf through the pages to see what the elf was reading. He extended the volume, offering it back. The elf hesitated, his attention hooking on Lykor’s gauntlet clamped around the book.
Detesting the constant reminder of what he’d endured, Lykor was seized with the temptation to hide the clawed monstrosity behind his back.
The elf’s gaze swept over him, appraising the rest of his armor, flicking over the raw Essence blazing around him. Lykor felt systematically deconstructed, analyzed, and then assembled again. His breath hitched as those fascinating amber eyes lingered on his, the surrounding illumination highlighting flecks of greens and golds. Ears burning with an unfamiliar warmth, the unusual attention made Lykor feel seen for once instead of seen through.
The elf dropped his shield to claim the presented tome. “What can I call you?” he asked.
Lykor blinked, the question slashing through his guard. No one had ever asked him that before. He couldn’t number the years he’d spent raging that he wasn’t Aesar.
“Lykor,” he said, shifting his feet. His spiked boots suddenly felt distractingly heavy.
Following the elf’s lead, Lykor reluctantly released his magic and fumbled for something else to say, drawing on what guidance he assumed Aesar would offer if he were awake. He doubted there were any normal questions to ask a stranger in a forgotten jungle.
Lykor settled on stealing the elf’s words. That had to be an acceptable response, but his pulse raced faster, fretting that it might not be. “And…what can I call you?”
“Jassyn,” the elf said, his long fingers tightening around the book.
So the girl was right. Lykor unclenched his fists, not knowing when they’d snapped shut.
“I’m going to the glade.” The statement sounded like a pathetic attempt at engaging in a conversation—uncharted territory. “Were you…heading in that direction?” A stupid query to fill the silence.
“Are you searching for something?” Jassyn asked, rather than answering the question. A considering frown flashed over his face before he set the volume near the entrance of the tree.
Despite his bewilderment at the elf’s presence, Lykor retained enough sense to avoid prattling everything to this stranger. It was unknown where his loyalties truly lay—or how he’d gained knowledge of this jungle.
Lykor cracked his neck and admitted, “Yes—something for the wraith.”
Twisting on his heel, Lykor picked his way along a stone path that wound from the ancient dwellings to the clearing. The rocks encased glimmering gems, carrying a luminescent glow of their own as they shimmered against the forest floor like stars in the sky.
While feigning a scan of the jungle, Lykor stole a glance at Jassyn. He’d followed, long strides keeping pace at his side. Height exceeding his own by a hand, Jassyn was much taller than Lykor expected of an elf—let alone one with mortal blood.
Feeling oddly aware of his body’s every unwieldy movement, Lykor focused on the ground so he wouldn’t trip over his own fucking feet. The moss-carpeted floor spread out like a blanket beyond the stones, glittering with hues of lustrous cyans and verdant greens.
They silently snaked their way around an undergrowth of ferns and various gargantuan leaves before the foliage opened up, spitting them out at the edge of the glade. A gurgling stream carved a path through the clearing, mirroring the cold radiance of the stars.
“I’ve been thinking about you—” Lykor drew to a halt, jaw screwing tight as he severed those words. His statement sounded absolutely ridiculous, that of a blathering simpleton like Kal.
Swallowing what he hoped were the last remnants of any further idiotic remarks, Lykor corrected himself. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. That you could…help me?” He searched Jassyn’s eyes for something. For hope, even if it was foolish. “You could release me from the king’s power?”
Lykor’s pulse droned in his ears, louder than the collective chorus of the jungle’s insects. He turned away sharply, his desperate words lingering between them for far too long. A feeling that had to be mortification nearly drove him to slash open a portal and flee—anything to avoid this uncomfortable silence tightening the skin over his bones.
He must’ve misremembered what Jassyn had said that night, fabricating this delusion in his head. After all, Lykor was the one who’d attacked his home, the wraith most likely killing his comrades. Why would Jassyn want to help him? A barricaded breath loosened from Lykor’s lungs when the elf finally spoke.
“It’s a slow process,” Jassyn said. Lykor turned back hesitantly, watching him drag a hand through his curls, twisting one that was determined to land in front of his eyes. “It depends how extensive the web of coercion is. I…” he trailed off, eyes ticking around the clearing before orbiting back to Lykor. “I have reason to believe the king had a hand in creating the wraith.”
Lykor flinched at the memory of Galaeryn mutilating his mind, experimenting with the compulsive magic. His reaction must’ve been all the confirmation Jassyn needed.
Jassyn folded his arms across his white leathers, shoulders slumping like he was trying to occupy less space. He glanced away when he spoke. “I’ll help you if you’re willing to tell me everything you know.”
Despite being the one who’d asked for aid, a wave of indecision rippled through Lykor like water disturbed. If he permitted Jassyn to delve into his awareness, he’d be defenseless—at Jassyn’s mercy.
The king had ensured Lykor would never be able to form mental barriers again by utterly eviscerating his mind. Everything would be on display, ripe for the taking—Aesar, the wraith’s location, and his future plans.
An icy fear crawled out of Lykor’s chest at the potential exposure, the armor around his ribcage constricting his air. Steadying himself with the grating of steel, Lykor crushed his gauntlet into a fist at his side.
They both had their secrets, but the offer was one Lykor didn’t think he could refuse. He wasn’t sure what business Jassyn truly had in the jungle, but the elf hadn’t demanded an explanation for his presence either.
“If… If you can assure me that all you will do is unravel the coercion,” Lykor finally said, his spine tensing from the risk, “I’ll tell you all I know of how the wraith came to be.”
Jassyn’s eyes examined his with a clever intensity. “But you’re not wholly wraith.” His arms abandoned their folded defensive position as he hovered an orb of illumination over his fingertips.
Lykor decided to offer a fraction of his knowledge, to bridge some sort of trust. “Galaeryn returned a handful of my talents.” Voice wavering, he focused on digging the toe of his boot into the grass. “I was among the first transformed into a wraith.” Not quite the truth since he’d emerged after the king had tortured Aesar, but unpacking everything concerning his other half was a tedious tale for a different day.
Another moment stretched too long. Lykor glanced up, the scars down his back twinging from the motion. Those fascinating eyes trapped him like a fly in honey, prolonging the awkward silence.
Breaking free and rolling the tension out of his cramped muscles, Lykor said, “In the dungeons, I learned what Galaeryn intends to do with the magic he’s plundering. He’ll redistribute Essence—if he hasn’t already. To the pure-bloods, creating arch elves of those who aren’t, augmenting the powers of those who are.”
Aesar’s residual anger roiled in his gut at what his people had endured. Innocent citizens who’d been in the wrong place the night Galaeryn had become drunk on power.
As Jassyn’s calculating eyes absorbed every word, Lykor nearly felt compelled to mindlessly spew more. “I think the king encouraged the breeding of half-elves to exploit as a source of magic.” Lykor gripped the blade at his side—the one he’d stolen. “Collecting enough Essence will grant him immortality—”
“And he either hasn’t harvested enough yet or it requires replenishment over time,” Jassyn finished. Tilting his head, he idly trailed his fingers over a vine dangling from a tree. “What if we could work together? Our people could unite against the elves’ oppression.”
