Page 238 of The Reckoning of Starlight

Jassyn reached beside him and found Lykor’s palm. Lykor’s claw closed around his hand, rough and warm, turquoise light wheeling around his shoulders.

Tomorrow, duty would return.

But tonight, familiar wings beat closer through the twilight. Lykor’s fingers held his, and for once, Jassyn wanted nothing from the moment except to remain inside it.

EPILOGUE

LYKOR

A month after the fall of Galaeryn

By noon, the Mistweaver Marshes had become Lykor’s personal proof that the world deserved violence.

Insects whined around his ears, fat little specks of misery diving for the sweat at his temples no matter how many he froze. The marsh stank of stagnant water and rotting reeds, the reek of sun-cooked algae clinging to the back of his throat until every breath dragged like sludge.

Weeks of searching had brought him here. To a scorching swamp where Rimeclaw had apparently decided to vanish.

Aesar walked beside him, translucent from the knees down where the water cut through his illusion. An elegant turquoise shimmer of an elf. Dry. Unbitten. Infuriatingly clean.

For once, Lykor saw the appeal of being incorporeal.

Ever since Jassyn had given them the talent, Lykor had been suffering the consequences. Their Well could support another form from dawn to dusk, provided they remained within sight of each other.

Which meant Lykor had gained the privilege of being haunted out loud.

“You could admit this wasn’t your best idea,” Aesar said, his voice stirring the marsh air instead of Lykor’s thoughts.

“How was I to know they’d be this unruly outside their nursery?”

Lykor hauled on the harnesses of force cinched to two Tidecrasher hatchlings and nearly lost his footing when the mud swallowed his boots. Frost veined outward from his soles, locking the muck beneath him.

Aesar clasped his hands behind his back, mouth curved into a smirk, savoring every wretched step.

One dragon shot upward with a shriek, wings beating hard enough to fling rancid spray across Lykor’s face. The leash of force wrapped around his wrist snapped taut, wrenching his shoulder before he braced his boots and yanked the creature back within reach.

The second dragon had gone limp in the marsh. Dead weight by choice, malicious by temperament. Every few steps, Lykor pulled it forward. Legs splayed, it skidded belly-first through the muck, snapping at reeds and whatever frogs failed to flee.

Lykor kept the third clamped under his arm.

Barely.

The little bastard writhed against his ribs, slick with filth, webbed claws scrabbling over the scales plating his forearms. It twisted toward the stagnant water, clever enough to see escape and stupid enough to believe Lykor would allow it. Its fangs scraped against the armor at his wrist, gnawing at his arm.

Lykor hitched his grip around its middle. “Bite me again and I’ll turn you into a waterskin.”

The hatchling’s forked tongue slipped out and sampled Lykor’s fingers one by one.

Aesar glanced over. “Careful. At this rate, they’ll realize you only threaten the things you intend to keep.”

Lykor’s glare swung to him. “I can make an exception.”

The hatchling under his arm kicked both hind legs, its tail whipping behind Lykor to crack against his spine.

Lykor seized the current in his chest and shoved the marsh away from his next step with enough force to send a wave rolling. Mud buckled under his boots, and his wings spread at his back, azure membranes canting to keep him balanced.

Three hatchlings. Three surviving little beasts with jaws full of needle fangs and instincts Lykor trusted even less. Cinderax still guided what he could, but fire made a poor tutor for tide.

A low chuff of cold air billowed through the swamp, frost skinning cattails and floating mats of duckweed. A cloud of insects dropped from the air, frozen solid.