“What?” Jassyn heaved Vesryn’s legs out of his lap. “That’s unnecessary. I’ll return to my chambers.”
Vesryn swung his ankles back onto Jassyn’s armrest. “Would you rather I settle into your apartment, poke around, and rearrange your books to my liking? I’ll crack all the spines, stars help me.” Jassyn flinched at the unsettling noise of Vesryn biting into the apple. “You’re going to be incapacitated. You’ll need someone to watch over you so you don’t try anything stupid.”
Jassyn leaned his head against the couch, staring at the ceiling. “And what makes you the perfect guardian for that?”
Vesryn nudged Jassyn’s shoulder with his bare toes. “You came to me.”
Thwarted, Jassyn scowled, conceding to suffer through spending time with the prince. What was I expecting?
“You can change out of your leathers and get into something more comfortable.” Vesryn bounced the half-eaten apple in his palm. “I have some of that cashmere you’re so fond of.”
Jassyn’s eye twitched when Vesryn pronounced it as “cazzmere.”
“You have no idea how much I’m looking forward to spending this quality time together,” the prince said, ruffling his curls. “You really should visit more often, you know.”
Jassyn didn’t have any remaining fight left to fend Vesryn off. I brought this on myself. He wilted like a trampled flower, melting deeper into the sofa.
Submitting to resignation and exhaustion, Jassyn covered his face in a fit of despair, begging the pounding in his head to subside. He felt like weeping in both relief for the help and in defeat when Vesryn started rubbing his shoulder in what he interpreted as compassionate amusement.
Jassyn swallowed to stave off a renewed lurching in his gut. Oh stars. That was one of his final coherent thoughts before dashing to the bathing chambers to empty the contents of his stomach.
CHAPTER 3
LYKOR
Lykor lurked, still like a shadow, silent as the night. Clouds obscured the moons, threatening to smother the mountains with a late spring snow. Tapping into one of his wraith abilities, he concealed himself in a shroud of darkness—invisible to prying eyes.
At the rim of a frosty vale surrounded by pine trees, Lykor lingered fifty paces away from a lone dracovae rider’s camp. A fire pressed back the gloom against the starless sky. Tongues of flame reflected in each of the dracovae’s slatey scales as it lay curled around the elf nestled against its feathered shoulder. The beast huffed in its sleep, the heavy exhale unfurling from its beak as a plume of steam.
Lykor had detected the dracovae’s silhouette against the horizon that morning, soaring above the glacial edge of the continental shelf. He’d opened a portal hundreds of leagues away from the safety of the wraith’s stronghold for his people to tend their fishing nets along the frigid coast.
If he believed in such a thing, Lykor would’ve said that the stars had aligned, positioning him in the same location as this elf. He’d been tracking the rider the entire day while she made sweeping flights across the northwestern border of the Timber Wilds.
Lykor doubted the dracovae would survive a journey to their hidden fortress without freezing to death, but this elven patrol was still too close to the Hibernal Wastes for his liking. Judging from the sheathed weapons and the scaled armor bundled under her cloak, Lykor suspected the riders were now warriors—a shift from when Aesar had simply managed curation of the beasts’ population a century ago.
Now apparently involved in the elven military, Lykor anticipated this rider had orders or information he could extract. Today marked three days after their failed assault and her proximity was a threat to his people—especially since she was inching closer to their remote borders. Hunting. Intruding.
The wraith’s scouting parties had already discovered camps of assembled humans spanning across every realm. An alarming number of mortals had gathered along the fringes of the Wastes. It was only a matter of time before they fanned out, scouring for the wraith under King Galaeryn’s tyranny. Lykor knew that their time sheltering in the secluded stronghold was coming to an end—if the presence of this rider and the human war bands were any sign.
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.
