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.”
Now he sounded like the girl. “The wraith can’t stand against the king as we are.” Lykor tightened his grip around the dagger’s hilt. “We need an edge. Our own source of power.” He glanced at the surrounding jungle as it suddenly became eerily still. “I’m taking my people away—hopefully to a place the elves can’t reach. You could come with us.”
The words slipped past Lykor’s flapping tongue before the thinking part of his brain had any hope of catching up. Heat stained his cheeks. He couldn’t believe he’d suggested something so absurd. To someone he didn’t even know.
Lykor averted his gaze, attempting to recover with an explanation. “As an Essence wielder, you could help the wraith.” Still wildly unbalanced, another inadvertent admission skidded out. “I was going to take your friend Serenna—”
Jassyn moved so fast that Lykor had no time to react. Pain streaked through his shoulder as Jassyn shoved him, crashing his back into a tree.
Instincts flaring from the impact, Lykor ripped Essence toward him. Except… There was nothing there. His attention flew to a golden blade—a sister to the stolen one at his side—protruding from a weak point in his armor. Black blood spilled over the hilt. Before he could tear the weapon out, vines erupted from the ground, wrapping around his wrists, legs, and torso, rooting him in place.
Shock mauled Lykor’s chest as he sucked in a broken breath. Jassyn had shaman powers too. Of course he fucking did. Lykor nearly laughed at his own sheer stupidity for not predicting this.
Jassyn drew himself to his full height. “Have you harmed her?” he demanded, towering over Lykor. “Where did you take her?”
This was about the girl? Lykor scoffed. “She came to me,” he hissed, writhing against the restricting plants. His agitation and fear careened into anger. “Release me.”
Lykor flinched when Jassyn’s hands rose to the sides of his face. His skin buzzed in alarm from the proximity. The vulnerability. Essence churned around them, a riot of whirling magic.
“Don’t fucking touch me,” Lykor snarled, extending his fangs. Every muscle strained as he struggled against the vines. Yanking in progressively more panicked breaths at the constriction, the jungle’s oppressive air threatened to smother him.
