Page 22 of The Reckoning of Starlight

Vesryn’s nostrils flared. “Neither do I. But if we rush—if we act in haste—we might draw the king out before we find Elashor. We need to plan this.” He shook his head, and the next words came quieter. “That’s what Jassyn would tell us to do.”

Jassyn’s name lodged between Lykor’s ribs like a shard of frost he couldn’t melt. He said nothing. There was nothing to say that wouldn’t crack him open in ways he couldn’t afford.

Shadows darkened the courtyard as wraith began dropping from the sky.

Lykor didn’t know who’d summoned them. Word had no doubt spread faster than flame over pitch—their return from the prisons, the prince of Vaelyn on his knees, Kyansari named in the dust.

Scores dropped from every direction in silence, one after another, maroon wings cutting through the bruising dusk. Boots struck sand, stirring plumes of grit around them. Armor creaked as wings folded tight.

They formed ranks without his order.

Lykor scanned them, faces and names blurring into leather, steel, and scars. The front held two empty places.

Kal would’ve known who to put in command.

Fenn would’ve had them moving before Lykor asked.

A warrior stepped forward, talons striking together in greeting.

Koln. One of his lieutenants.

Lykor’s attention snagged on the eye patch—a trophy from one of his and Fenn’s countless collisions. Fenn bore Koln’s retaliation across his ribs, scars trenched deep where talons had split him open.

The two of them had always run that way. Tearing each other apart and fucking before the wounds closed.

Koln’s eye flicked to Vesryn at Lykor’s shoulder, then to the space where Kal should’ve stood.

“Those who went with you into the prisons?” Koln asked.

Lykor’s throat tightened. “They fell.”

Koln absorbed that in silence. The muscle under his patch jumped once, the only breach in his disciplined face.

His voice dropped, quieter now. “Any word on Fenn from the Maelstrom?”

“Taken.”

Koln’s wings went rigid. Fire sparked at his talons, then died in a thin wisp of smoke. His iris flared, but he didn’t press.

“What are your orders?”

Lykor exhaled, fatigue grinding behind his eyes. “Defer to Kaedryn. Help her keep the peace. Watch Daeryn’s faction. Keep the Maw prisoners separated. The king’s forces—”

“No.”

A ripple passed through the ranks as the wraith shifted into stillness. Every warrior in the courtyard waited to see whether Lykor would let the refusal stand or drive Koln’s fangs into the sand for the insolence.

Lykor’s gaze narrowed. “That wasn’t a request, Lieutenant.”

“The wraith are done playing nursemaid.” Koln’s voice struck like flint on steel. “You’re going somewhere again. And we’re going with you.”

Lykor held his stare.

Of course it would be Koln. The one who’d lost an eye to Fenn and grinned through the blood. The one half the ranks would follow if he gave them a reason. Irritation scraped through Lykor’s exhaustion, rousing the commander in him to bare his fangs.

He’d taught Koln better than this.

Or perhaps exactly this well.