Abolisher

Ferouzeh woke first.

Azryle was at her side when she groaned, a hand immediately approaching her bruised jaw where Faolin Wisflave had struck her. She swore, slowly lifting her lids.

Then her eyes widened and she jerked up.

“You’re fine,” Azryle spoke from where he stood leaning against the wall beside her bed.

Her gaze snapped to him, alert. For moments, she just scanned his face—the dried blood and still-healing bruises no doubt—before those hazel eyes slowly surveyed the entire room, taking in the broken vase, the table, the shattered armoire. And then, at last, the two women roped tightly on the floor—both bruised. Faolin Wisflave was still comatose; Delaya Fairdust was muttering to herself, incapable of keeping her mouth shut for even a moment.

“I don’t even want to know,” Ferouzeh grumbled, rubbing at her jaw.

Azryle avoided his own urge to lift his fingers to his cheek—where that featherlight touch still weighed, despite the beating he’d gotten after … still on his face like sun’s warmth in a freezing winter.

He hated it.

Delaya’s dark eyes flicked to the healer. “Oh look, my favorite human has finally roused.”

Ferouzeh narrowed her eyes.

Azryle was already rubbing at his temple. “Her ankle is still twisted. Needs healing.”

The healer gave the shapeshifter an incredulous look before rolling her eyes. She looked to Azryle. “You know we’ll have to pay for the mess you’ve made, right?”

“Then it’s a good thing you happen to be traveling with a prince.”

Azryle dodged asking about Faolin Wisflave and her history with Ferouzeh. Ferouzeh had never mentioned the sorceress—not once—and he supposed if it were something important, she would tell him. Wouldn’t she? Ferouzeh had only had four lovers in the three centuries they’d known each other, none for too long. Many casual flings, yes, but only four she’d fallen in love with. And Azryle happened to know all of them.

But Wisflave …

He shoved those thoughts away—there were worse matters to deal with at the moment.

He straightened the letter still balled in his fist, his chest tightening, as he stepped towards the bed.

Her hazel eyes lifted to him as he stretched the paper. She took it, cautiously, already knowing it wasn’t good.

Azryle watched her as she read it. As her eyes widened, chest rose and fell quicker, heard as her breath hitched and tasted the fear that polluted her scent.

She knew better than to not believe Felset’s letters, especially when they were about torture.

“Judging from your faces,” Delaya began, “whatever’s written is not good. Rumor has it that the Pall Moira has left his queen’s side—hasn’t been seen for a whole year. Possibilities were that you’ve either been sent away, or you’ve fled. And since you’re here, staying at some cheap inn despite being a prince who could’ve rented a suite, and should’ve had a few sentries guarding his back, no matter that you’re a ripper, I’m going to guess you’re in hiding. From your queen?”—she lifted a brow, still gazing directly at the ceiling as if she were reading a script carved there—“If that’s so, that letter has got to be from Her Compassionate Majesty, because what else would make a ripper so scared—”

Her voice halted. Those obsidian eyes went wide when she spoke and no voice slid past his mejest. Her head whipped in Azryle’s direction, nose flaring.

Then mouthed a foul word.

“What are we going to do?” Ferouzeh looked horrified. “Vendrik—”

“I’m going to get him out.”

She looked to him. “She will—”

“She can’t do anything.” He willed more certainty in his voice than he felt. “Not when I’m—” He threw a glance in Delaya’s direction, whose gaze might be on the ceiling, but her ears were cast on this conversation. “I have to go,” he said to Ferouzeh.

He had to.

Because there was no way he was leaving Rik—of all the people—to bear those torments. Rik, the reason Azryle had this bit of freedom. Rik, the reason he was alive and out of the queen’s clutches.

Hadn’t it been Rik’s friendship that had kept Azryle sane when he had been tortured to bone? Hadn’t it been Rik who’d touched limits to keep Azryle from giving himself wholly to the Enchanted Queen? Without Ferouzeh, Rik was all Azryle had.

All he’d ever had.

How could he leave him?

“Otsatyas know what she’s done to him this past year”—he ignored the crucifying tightness in his chest, dammit he hated being bound by emotions—“but I’d be damned if I let Rik be my sacrifice.”

Ferouzeh opened her mouth to reply, to object no doubt, but—

“You can’t do this alone.”

Azryle straightened off the wall, a hand swiftly going for Silencer strapped across his back, just as Faolin Wisflave lifted her lids.

He searched her face, her eyes, looking for any demonic power he’d seen earlier, that’d turned her into an unbound savage … but there was none. He didn’t unwind. Because Faolin Wisflave was just as much of a savage without any vile power.

When no one replied, the sorceress turned her head to him. Her eyes flat, dead—they bore into him like twin daggers.

An assassin. She looked Death itself.

“You know you can’t take her alone—you remember each word Deisn Rainfang had spoken on her last day.” Her matter-of-fact tone annoyed Azryle more than he would like to admit. And as if he needed a reminder, Wisflave recited Rainfang’s words. “Felset can’t tread anywhere near you with your mejest twined.”

Hands bound at her back, Wisflave sat up. “Meaning, to take down Felset, you need Syrene. Neither of you can take her alone—you will be walking into death’s maw. Felset wants you to return to her so she can carry out whatever she’s planned. She doesn’t expect you to come with Syrene, which means she knows you’re not together—she expects you to come alone.”

“It’s a death trap,” Azryle knew.

“You’d been her slave for—what? Centuries? She’s aware of each breath you take. Don’t underestimate her, Your Highness.”

He didn’t underestimate Felset—Saqa, how could he? He knew perhaps more than anyone what she was capable of, knew there was nothing keeping her leashed, knew just how merciless she could get.

Knew exactly what she was inflicting on Rik.

Azryle wasn’t a fool. He knew he couldn’t take down Felset—he was uncertain whether he would even be able to stand before her. With his emotions returned, whether he would be able to stand the assault of memories that would drown him when he faced her.

Azryle didn’t fear. He was feared.

But when it came to Felset … Azryle was terrified of her—he’d long ago admitted that to himself. A thought of her had fear rising like a tide in him, and he couldn’t help it. No amount of training helped—no amount of drinking helped either. She’d claimed him in every which way. She might have not been able to break him, but she sure did leave cracks. Cracks he couldn’t fix no matter how much he tried.

But to get Vendrik out, he didn’t have to face her. All he had to do was get. Rik. Out.

Sneak in, and sneak out.

“After I get him out,” he said, ignoring Wisflave and her qualms, “we need to get out of here as soon as possible.”

He looked at Ferouzeh.

“She’s here.”

She nodded, looking down at the letter where Felset had given her whereabouts with fearful eyes. Azryle thought to reach out and hold her hand as Ferouzeh had done myriad times in an attempt to offer him comfort whenever he’d needed it, but …

“She’s what?” Wisflave sounded alert. Behind her, Delaya’s eyes were wide.

This whole year the queen had been trailing him like a second shadow layered atop his—the whole year and he hadn’t the faintest idea, because he was leashed to her no more. He didn’t feel her around as he used to.

“She’s in the city—right outside Silvervale,” he imparted.

The sorceress bolted to her feet, the ropes fell to the floor—he’d caught her covertly undoing them while diverting him with Felset. Azryle doubted she would go berserk on him again.

“No, no—she can’t be here—”

He waited.

“Syrene is in Silvervale—the town is two hours from here. We have to get her away.” She swept a hand across a shaved side of her scalp. “Does Her Majesty know of Duce’s location—”

“Faolin—” Ferouzeh began.

But Wisflave’s snarl was purely animal. As if she couldn’t bear her own name on the healer’s lips. “It’s Wisflave for you,” she hissed. The hatred in her eyes and the promise of violence in her tone had Azryle falling into a defensive stance as he closed in on Ferouzeh, ready to strike if an attack came.

Then Wisflave’s words sunk.

“Syrene is in Silvervale?” Azryle’s fingertips went numb. Two hours away—there were only two hours separating them—

He shook himself. “If she’s in Silvervale,” he said to Ferouzeh, “you need to leave tonight. Find Kefaas Petsov. Get the information and get her out of that town. I’ll go to Vendrik—”

“Ryle.” She took his hand. Her rosebud lips parted for the barest moment but clamped shut, then her throat bobbed, as if she swallowed those words down. Even then Azryle heard them. Don’t do this. Only now he saw the fear livid in her eyes, the slightest tremor in her hand.

She’d lost him once to Felset. She wouldn’t endure it again.

“I’ll be fine,” he urged, willing certainty in his voice. “She can’t harm me again. Get to the town—”

“She’s not coming to Silvervale,” Wisflave cut in, jabbing a finger in Ferouzeh’s direction. “I’ll gut her if she follows.” A promise.

“You harm her and I’ll rip open every single person you’ve ever known.” Another promise.

The sorceress snarled again, unholy ire taking over her scent like smoke, and Azryle saw her near-shaking fists at her sides.

Ferouzeh pinched the bridge of her nose, but said nothing. For the first time in all the years he’d know her, his friend looked so, so tired, and defeated. Whatever the past, Azryle had collected one thing: Faolin’s presence alone cleaved Ferouzeh apart from the inside.

A thud had everyone gazing towards Delaya—who was knocking her knuckles against the wooden floor for attention. Her dark eyes were on him, a muscle bulging at her jaw.

Azryle sighed and released her voice. She audibly gulped down air, as if testing her voice. Then, “Asshole.” Fairdust lifted to her feet—ropes tumbled down. “I’ll go with you. To save your friend … or lover, whoever it is.”

Azryle’s eyes narrowed.

“Let’s be honest—you could use my help.”

“No.” Ferouzeh slid out of the bed. “You’re going to lead us to Petsov.”

“So you’re suddenly willing to let your friend go to face the demonic queen alone?” Delaya arched a brow.

Hesitation flickered across Ferouzeh’s face.

The shapeshifter frowned. “Either I go on the escape plan, or I don’t go at all.”

“This isn’t some Abyss-damned vacation trip,” Faolin snapped.

Fairdust grinned a wicked grin. “Oh, it is.”