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.
He had no doubts the elves were doing the same to those Aesar had abandoned on the island. Lykor’s fangs drew blood from his gums, dwelling on the wraith left behind. All those lives lost. Deserted. His people would break under torture. Reveal the location of their fortress. Lykor’s objective became clear—he needed to learn how much time remained until the elves confronted them in force.
“What do you know of the wraith?” Lykor demanded.
The warrior dragged in breath through her nose before spitting at him, the spittle hardly landing halfway across the room.
Lykor’s lip curled away from his teeth. In one step, he warped, materializing in front of her. With his gauntlet, he snatched the elf by the throat, lifting her to her toes. He wrenched her neck to make the restraints cut into her collarbones, flashing his fangs at her insolence.
“I will ask one more time,” Lykor clipped, rage boiling beneath his ribs. Shadows whipped around him in a tempest, fury evoking rending. “Answer unsatisfactorily and I won’t hesitate to plait your entrails after I peel the flesh from your bones.”
The warrior whimpered, eyes rolling with fear, but remained silent.
Lykor struck out with a sliver of darkness. Cutting like a blade, he channeled the rending, splitting the female’s skin under his gauntlet. She swore as he withdrew the metal from her throat. The flesh from her neck sloughed away, stuck to the steel like sap dripping off a pine.
The way she stubbornly set her jaw had Lykor snarling. Eyes flicking to her broken arm, he detected the next key to try to unlock her secrets. He grabbed the exposed bone, twisting it farther in the wrong direction.
The female shrieked through her teeth as she panted. Eyes glazing over, she slumped in the chains, passing out.
Lykor growled in disgust. With a flick of force, he wiped away the sticky mess sullying his armor. He crushed his claw into a fist, letting the squeal of the steel soothe him as he started pacing the room.
