Page 23 of The Reckoning of Starlight

Lykor shook his head, the last of his strength wearing thin. “Numbers won’t matter where we’re going.”

“And where is that?”

“Kyansari,” he snapped. “And you’re not coming. A legion that doesn’t know the capital will slow us down or die in the streets.”

Koln folded his arms. “And why return there after all these years? You’ve kept us from the elf lands, barred us from raiding their realm. Told us vengeance across that border would cost our lives. And now you’re flying in with only a prince at your side?”

The accusation struck where Lykor had no armor.

“We’re hunting Elashor,” Vesryn said. “He’s the only lead we have on Serenna, Jassyn, and Fenn. Either he knows where they are, or Kyansari’s records do.”

Koln’s eye flared, Fenn’s name hanging between them like a lit fuse. “Then let us do what you trained us to do. Raiding. Sabotage. Stealth.” His talons flexed at his sides. “Let us be of use.”

“No,” Vesryn said before Lykor could answer. “Not stealth. Not this time.”

Lykor dragged a hand down his face. Every minute they wasted talking was another minute Jassyn spent bleeding in a cell he couldn’t yet find. “Then what?”

“A diversion,” Vesryn said. “Loud enough to pull attention away from the palace.” He studied the assembled wraith, the vacant emerald of his stare beginning to sharpen. “The elves always claimed the wraith were monsters. That they struck the first blow.” The stolen talents circling him drew closer, their light rippling against his skin. “This time, we give them the war they lied about.”

Aesar’s memories surged without warning, flashes from a night a century gone.

Elashor’s illusions sent wraith spilling through Kyansari’s streets, claws and crimson eyes sowing panic while Galaeryn moved behind the terror he’d staged. Councilors. Families. Citizens chosen at random. The king plundered Essence from their Wells until their magic guttered out and their bodies warped around the theft.

Siphoned until they became proof of the lie, born from the violence invented to condemn them.

And through it all, fear spread until it became rot. Power hoarded behind bloodlines. Magic made currency. A kingdom built on the bodies of its own.

Lykor ripped himself out of Aesar’s past. For a moment, Kyansari’s screams still rang through the desert’s hush.

Then armor creaked. Wings rustled. Dusk settled back over the courtyard.

Koln waited.

So did the wraith—the survivors, the descendants, the living proof Galaeryn had failed to bury in the dark.

“I won’t send more of our own into a slaughter.” Lykor measured the warriors assembled before him. “We won’t win a war in the king’s domain just because you want one.”

Fire sparked at Koln’s fingertips, arcing talon to talon. “Like we can’t defend ourselves? We have Cinderax’s gift. We survived the Wastes. Bled at that academy raid. Scorched the capital’s soldiers in the Maw.” Essence ignited around him, shadows winding into the flame. “Most of us carry at least one of the elf talents now.” He flashed his fangs, nodding toward Vesryn. “Let us fly. We’ll set the streets burning while you slip into the palace.”

Lykor didn’t answer.

He tracked the talents circling Vesryn, abilities wrenched from the fleet and drifting between them like unmoored stars. He reached out, and one came to heel in his palm.

The talent flared, its stolen pulse hammering against his skin. He held it between himself and Koln.

An offering.

A dare.

“How far are you willing to go?” Lykor asked. “Would you drain Kyansari’s elves the way Galaeryn drained your elders? Fuel our war with stolen power and call it justice?”

Koln met his stare.

The denial never came.

The wraith had chosen. Lykor had spent decades teaching them to survive with their fangs bared and claws out, and he wouldn’t be the commander who yanked a leash because his people had become exactly what he made them.

“We’re not going to win by hiding behind dunes and hope,” Koln said. “That elf king will come for us. Whether we strike his city or not.”