Page 133 of The Reckoning of Starlight

His mind reached sideways for Aesar before he could stop it, the question already formed. WHAT DO YOU MAKE OF THIS?

Silence answered.

Lykor’s jaw locked. He pulled his hand away and kept moving.

Alone.

Aesar should’ve had three theories by now, mumbling about resonance patterns and whatever academic drivel Kyansari’s archives had fed him a century ago. Lykor refused to reach for the memories Aesar had left behind.

Not when every path through them ended at Kal.

Metal struck crystal somewhere ahead, each blow ringing through the tunnel. The passage curved, and Lykor followed the sound to its source.

Humans.

They worked along one wall, hacking rock from an exposed span of crystal. Their arms rose and fell in broken rhythm. Mechanical. Hollow-eyed.

One flinched at empty air, his head snapping toward a vacant corridor. Another mouthed silent words to herself, already half-gone.

They’d been down here too long.

A miner pried a Starshard from a seam in the rock and carried it to the elven overseer, who settled it into a straw-lined crate on a cart. Lykor wouldn’t mistake those forced to swing the pick for a threat while another held the leash. At least a score of crystals already gleamed under his hands, destined for Galaeryn’s arsenal.

Not anymore.

Essence throbbed through the walls in waves dense enough to smother any Lykor would summon. He warped behind the overseer, sealed one palm over his mouth, and wrenched him into a side tunnel without the humans looking up.

The elf struck the far wall with a muffled grunt. Lykor punched shadows through his ribs, flesh and splintered bone spraying the stone red.

Lykor returned to the cart, opened a portal into a hidden cavern he’d found in the Aetherveil, and shoved it across the threshold.

One miner’s pick faltered. Her gaze flicked toward the side corridor, then dropped back to the rock.

Beyond the mining station, the passage opened into something no mortal hand had cut. The ceiling rose beyond the reach of torchlight. Rough-hewn stone gave way to crystalline panels fitted so precisely their seams vanished. Narrow recesses lined the walls at measured intervals, each the length of his forearm.

Empty.

Lykor slowed. Chisel gouges and pry marks broke the flawless crystal around each opening. Bent brackets remained within, their fittings wrenched loose. Whatever had rested there had been torn out.

A curse pressed against his teeth. If those recesses had held Hearts of Stars, Galaeryn’s crews had already stripped them clean.

The Starshards he’d claimed would do nothing to free a dragon.

But the corridor still stretched on. And Lykor hadn’t come this far to leave with scraps.

A cool current slid through the passage, carrying none of the mine’s dust, damp earth, or mineral tang. Metallic sharpness prickled over his fangs, like the warning charge before lightning broke.

The vibration traveling through the crystal sped up, as if the resonance adjusted to his presence.

Then the floor responded.

Illumination erupted under his feet and raced ahead. The hum sharpened, its pitch climbing until it locked into a single note.

Lykor stopped. The light stopped with him, darkness waiting a pace beyond his boots.

He stepped back. The glow retreated with him, reopening the way behind. When he advanced, it tore farther down the corridor.

His talons bit into his palms. Every instinct that had kept him alive for a century ordered him back. Whatever wanted him closer was something to flee.