Abolisher

“Magic and mejest are two very different things,” Eliver instructed as he paced before Syrene like a school teacher.

He’d led her to the heart of a forest—an area vast enough to fit a great museum. The trees encompassed it like a solid tall wall. There was no light between the trees, an easy dark, whilst the zone she stood in was suffused with sunlight. It felt like she was on the stage of a theatre, standing in spotlight.

She sat cross-legged on the twigs like a good student as Eliver frequently pulled at his bangs as if the crammed knowledge were barking in his head.

“Magic is anything you wish it to be, it’s beautiful. It’s entrancing. It doesn’t exist. It’s fantasy—right out of fairytales. Mejest, however, is exigent. It’s rarely beautiful, rarely anything you wish it to be; it’s a beast that feeds on your energy in exchange of power. It’s real.”

He stopped pacing and looked at her. “What you have is neither magic, nor mejest. It’s only a creature holding raw power. It won’t feed on your energy, it would tear out your very insides—”

“Okay—you’ve repeated that a trillion times,” Syrene interrupted. “I know what I’ve risked—you’re sung that bleeding curse to me like another trillion times.”

“No—you need to understand the extent, Syrene.”

Syrene arched a brow. “Are you sure you’re not repeating same words only to satisfy some evil part of yourself? Because that part of you does want to see what would exactly happen if I’m too late.”

Eliver flushed and looked away.

“That’s what I thought.” Syrene smirked, eternally delighted in Eliver’s uneasiness. “How did you find this place, anyway? You’ve been in this town for like, what, two weeks?”

He shrugged, turning to her. “This is where I’ve been living.”

“What?” Syrene ran a gaze around, listening to distant animal growls, and noises of countless insects beneath her. More maddening to her hemvae ears—his hemvae ears—“You can’t be serious.” Although, that did explain the bag hidden behind a tree bordering the zone.

He waved his hand, as if batting away a fly. “It’s fine. I have nowhere else to live anyway. I don’t have enough money to rent an inn room.”

Syrene felt a wave of guilt. She should have at least taken care of his living conditions—could have rented him an inn room, or asked Navy if he could stay in the guest room.

Eliver cleared his throat, snapping her out of her thoughts; his expression went grave in a heartbeat. “Did you bathe in—”

“Warm water.” It’d felt so outright relaxing that Syrene had expected herself to melt into the feeling and never return to the cold. She realized the cold must be much worse here at nights.

“Do you feel anything?”

She shook her head.

He angled his own head, as if listening to a distant song. “You said you felt something the other day. What was it?”

Syrene cringed. “It was as if a world universes across was annihilating. I felt every bit the destruction. Only it was phantom—there, but not.” She didn’t suppose she was making any sense, there was literally no way to paint a word picture of how she’d felt—all she knew was it’d been real enough that it’d hauled her from her sleep. “It wasn’t a mere nightmare,” she added. “I’m sure of it.”

Eliver still looked at her as if she were a puzzle taking whole lot of mental exertion to be deciphered. Then he shook his head like an exasperated teacher. “This is worse. This is so much worse.”

Syrene waited.

“Return home.”

“What?”

Eliver only said, “Try increasing the temperature of the water. Come back when you feel even the smallest possible change.”

Syrene stared at him, baffled, unsure whether to stay or really just … go. But she reluctantly tore her gaze and jogged back to the apartment.

✰✰✰✰✰

As night fell, Syrene hid a few weapons in her attire, coiled a scarf around her neck, sheathed her hands in gloves, before sneaking out of her apartment.

Or attempted to.

Her hand was just at the door’s knob when—

“Where are you going?”

Syrene almost jumped at Navy’s voice and whirled, just as the living room’s lights set burning. Syrene didn’t think; she uttered the first thing that sparked in her mind. “To visit my relatives.”

The water-wielder’s eyes narrowed. “You said you don’t have any relatives in Silvervale.”

Syrene didn’t miss a beat. “They’re visiting. They arrived with Eliver.”

She glanced out the window in the wall beside her. “It’s like—past midnight.”

“They’re leaving tomorrow. At dawn.”

Navy’s chin lifted. She wasn’t convinced a bit. Still, she didn’t pry—Syrene loved that about Navy. She never pried, unless the secrets and lies threatened pitfall; otherwise Syrene had all the privacy she wanted without fearing her friend would spy on her. Instead of probing, Navy crossed the distance—Syrene didn’t dare give away even a hint of her fear. Not of Navy—never of Navy—but if she inquired more, Syrene didn’t think she would be able to lie without baring something.

But Navy only halted two steps from Syrene and took her hand in hers. She placed a dagger in her palm—it took Syrene a moment to collect it was the same one Navy had offered her two weeks ago. “Don’t be so careless with the Deathraze. I found it on the couch.” She closed Syrene’s fingers around the hilt. “I’ve heard rumors that the Moon Sadist is in town, Cerys. Be cautious.”

Syrene snorted. “You think I’d be able to take on the Moon Sadist with a dagger?”

A lazy grin split Navy’s face. “Have a little faith in yourself, Omdrial. Maybe their death is written by your hands.”

Syrene shook her head, smiling, as she sheathed the Deathraze up her sleeve.

“When will you return?” asked Navy, tilting her head in that bird-like way; light shifted in her bright sapphire hair with that movement. Curious, concerned. “The Stoned is tomorrow evening. Kavous wouldn’t want you missing the party—and the whole making-Waimsan-jealous horseshit, for that matter. Maybe you should bring that friend of yours, too—Eliver,” she added, as if an afterthought. “Someone for Kavous to remain busy swooning over while you and I have our fun.” Mischief tainted her grin.

Syrene chuckled, ignoring the twisting urgency in her gut. “I don’t think Eliver would want any part in the Stoned. I’ll ask him though. But speaking of Eliver, I hope you don’t have any impending guests, because he is coming to live in the guestroom for a few days.”

Navy lifted her perfectly groomed brow. “What if I do have an impending guest?”

Syrene turned and opened the door, refusing to let Navy pull her into her teasing compulsion. “Then they’ll just have to stay on the street.” She shut the door.

✰✰✰✰✰

Syrene picked her way along the shadows, hooded, upholding her stealth. She was shivering. The night was colder than she would have liked today, an eerie discomfort piercing in her skin—discomfort that had nothing to do with the cold.

Syrene couldn’t shake it off—the feeling. As if something were terribly, terribly wrong. As if she ought to be present somewhere else. Guarding something, doing something. Her whole body strained.

But she ravaged the depths of her mind, assuming she was forgetting something—something, something, something—she found nothing. Syrene shook off the feeling. It had to be her awaiting duce duties, a guilt she couldn’t break away from.

Despite herself, Syrene tried to sear that thought deep in her mind, if only to make that feeling go away. It didn’t. Her heart sped; anxiety pierced her brutally.

Syrene ignored it, because she soon reached her destination.

Of course she did. Syrene hadn’t chosen this town for nothing—hadn’t made Navy choose a building in this spine-chilling alley for nothing. She’d needed to be near him, lest this power inside her malfunctioned, lest her calculations proved damnably wrong, Syrene had needed to be near him.

She stood outside a cottage wedged between towering buildings.

She knocked once on the wooden door.

No answer.

She knocked again.

Nothing.

Ah. The memory tore into Syrene, swift and crisp.

Syrene listened for sounds—any possible movement down the alley, lingering threat. The alley was dead quiet. But she heard it—his pulse on the other side of the door. Quick and silent.

In the dark, lightning looped her fingers and illuminated her entire hand, she let its crackle vibrate in her bones, let it be heard by him. “It’s me.” Then, with lightning still buzzing in her hands, tampering with the asleep enormous animal within her, she rapped six times on the wooden door. S—Y—R—E—N—E.

The door creaked open. The golden light from inside flowed into the alley.

“You returned,” he greeted in a voice like granite, just as Syrene ducked inside, letting the sparks die in her hand.

Kefaas Petsov closed the door behind her, blocking out the world outside. The cold.

Warmth swathed Syrene like a soft blanket; she shuddered.

The place was built like a close room—walls seemed to press in on her. A welcoming fire burned in the hearth in the brick wall to her right. Beside the door sat a cheap couch, and opposite of it sat a lean bed, white sheets unmade. She tried not to ponder over how the man fed himself—just as she had the last time she’d visited—or where he went to … relieve himself.

In other worlds, Syrene thought, this might even come close to looking like a prison cell.

Despite the condition, Syrene thought, the place was rather cozy, swelling a relaxing ambiance.

“Sit,” Kefaas said calmy—she could scent the extent of the caution he didn’t dare let on. She didn’t blame him … having her in his home was no less than having a frenzied tiger over for tea.

Reluctantly, Syrene settled down in the dim yellow couch as Kefaas aimed for the bed. “Sorry—I don’t have many people over. As you can tell.” He began assembling the inviting blanket. “I didn’t ever expect you to show up, kid—after our last encounter.”

After she’d skittered away like a hectic rat. After he’d terrified the shit out of her by hurling all the warnings and facts about Drothiker in her face—each one had felt like a blow she couldn’t duck or fight.

He turned to her, before perching in his bed.

Kefaas Petsov looked anything like someone one might imagine. Syrene herself had imagined an old man wasting away by gulping down some cheap booze. Even now, even after she’d already met him, she was astonished at how young he looked. A well-built, tall man barely touching the age of twenty-five. The man might be one of the most ancient ones to exist today—his eyes were what gave away his age; the sheer elderliness and knowledge and some brutal experience that forced Syrene’s head to bow in respect.

His brown hair was slicked back in a small bun. The deep bronze skin matched Navy’s, only paler—if only by a shade.

Kefaas sketched his brows. “Surely, you didn’t come to gawk at me.”

Syrene tore her gaze. She didn’t wander about and cut to the chase. “I need help.”

“That much is obvious.” He leaned back against the wall and narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “What changed?”

She sighed. “Look, I’m sorry—about last time. But you knew I would return sooner than I thought. You said when I do come, you will bequeath your aid—”

“I also said I might not be available.”

“But you are available.”

“And helping you has become much more dangerous than what’s worth the risk.”

Her heart sank. This was her last chance—last door. If this didn’t work, if he didn’t accept, Ianov’s doom was in her hands, her fault.

“Have you realized you radiate power?”

She straightened. “What?”

“It’s in your surroundings—a shell vibrating before it bursts and tosses out whatever’s inside. And inside you, Syrene, is stifled destruction. You are a walking abolition.”

“Then help me before the shell cracks.” She heard the rising pitch of her voice as the desperation creeped in.

She didn’t quite comprehend how this man managed to say things that hit the core of her fear. It wasn’t what he said, no, because Eliver had imparted everything to her a million times over, and all she’d felt with him was boredom and fatigue. It had to be the way Kefaas said it. The smooth voice and utter thoughtfulness in it.

Eliver wasn’t afraid of the looming destruction—that man wanted to see it happening, to know the details. Unlike Kefaas. Kefaas had a way of calmly transmitting his own fear without unclothing even a spark of it.

Syrene had never really learned to conceal her own fear, but seeing Kefaas … Syrene wanted to bury it deep enough to kill it.

“You know there’s only one solution,” Kefaas said.

Syrene paused. The words sunk slowly, until numbness claimed her. Then her teeth ground. “I’m not killing myself,” she spat. She’d come this far—she’d battled against almost everything she was and survived. This couldn’t be her end; she couldn’t return to that last miserable choice. She wouldn’t.

“That’s one sacrifice in the whole planet’s stead.”

“I don’t give a shit,” she snapped. “The whole world can go burn in Saqa for all I care.”

“Then why try so hard to save it?”

“Because I don’t want it’s end on my hands!” she burst out.

Her heartbeat was thrums vibrating in her bones—she fought back the tears of helplessness and fury nipping at her eyes as she remained staring at her whitening knuckles in her lap. This could not be the end waiting for her. She refused.

The next words she spoke were quiet, but not weak. “I will go to be end of the world to find something. But I will not die at my own hands—I’m no lamb awaiting slaughter. I will not be Destiny’s victim. I don’t care if the whole planet depends on it.”

She barely registered the sparks of lightning that involuntarily burst from her clenching fists.

“I’ve tried it once—twice,” she confessed. “It took even the last ounce of life left in me. I will not try it again.”

Kefaas said, “So you’d rather have the whole planet reduced to dust than let yourself make this sacrifice? You’re going to be that selfish?”

Syrene shut her eyes.

“You will be the cause of your beloveds’ deaths?”

Her eyes squeezed as Navy’s mischievous smirk flashed behind her lids. Starflame’s wings. Levsenn’s wink. The last grin Vurian had given her. Raocete’s disapproving scowl.

And then—then that face she saw in her dreams of freedom. Those silver eyes she’d always wanted to draw.

“This is Destiny.”

“I don’t accept this Destiny.” She opened her eyes and met his gaze. “I didn’t choose this—I didn’t want this. There is supposed to be a choice—”

“When the power is yours, choices aren’t.”

“I have the power.” She knew there was no mortality on her face. “I’ll give myself choices.”

“Good, then, that you’re not self-destructive,” he said, surprising her, and lifted to his feet. “Let’s go. Remember you will need all that determination.”

Syrene blinked. “What?”

But he was already heading towards the door. “Are you coming?”

She bolted to her feet, too stunned to do anything else. “Yes.”

And followed.