Lykor shoved the gauntlet onto his claw, sheathing the reminder of how the elves had diminished his body. He was now reduced. Wretched. Transformed. But the sheer arrogance of the elves would be their downfall—Lykor would see to it. They’d left him rotting in the dungeons alongside the wraith, with a fraction of his former power. A fresh wave of anger crashed over him at the thought of how the wraith had been harmed. Broken. Defiled. He’d bargained his compliance in the elves’ research to spare his people from the same experimenting. He loathed all elves and the taint they left on the world.
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