Abolisher

“So do you want to start by who you really are, or by what’s your real name?”

Navy stretched out a hand for Syrene, who still stood atop the pile of rocks poured in the deep dent she’d caused in the ground. Sand was falling, landing to Navy’s dusk-blue hair.

Syrene’s mind worked as she took Navy’s hand, and was tugged to the ground. But she came up with no useful lie, not as power still pounded in her head. Not as Drothiker whispered in her ears.

Kefaas. Where was Kefaas—

“Navy—” Syrene began, breathing hard.

But the water-wielder struck up a hand to silence her, her eyes furious. “Enough with the lies, Cerys.” She shook her head. “Whatever your name is.”

No, no—she didn’t have time.

The walls bulwarking Drothiker—the walls of lightning, her mejest—had scaled down. Drothiker was at liberty in her system. It hissed, breathed, Syrene felt it against her blood, her veins—a treacherous beast stirring after being frozen for eternity.

“Navy, listen—” Her voice was low, exhausted. Her whole body was—her limbs felt weak and heavy. Her mind felt dawdling and murky. Syrene whirled around, dreadfully endeavoring to slur over the raining sand. Kefaas—

Navy noticed the fear that must have twisted Syrene’s face. “Cerys, what’s wrong?”

“Listen.” Syrene turned to her, fighting to keep her voice steady, high. And failed miserably. “You need to get away from here, as fast as you—”

“Cerys.” Navy placed her hands on Syrene’s shoulders, as if she were a child who needed to be chastised, to be calmed. “You need to tell me what’s happening, alright?” For a moment, Syrene dared meet her gaze. And flinched at what she uncovered there.

For there, behind the mask of fury, of confusion, Syrene found fear ablaze in her eyes. Fear, not of the destruction around them, not caused by any survivor instincts. But of Syrene. Of what she’d just witnessed her do, of everything else she didn’t know Syrene was capable on. Of the unknowing. Of the monster she’d most likely harbored in her apartment.

A stranger—Navy looked at Syrene as if she were a stranger.

“Get away from here.” Syrene’s voice turned flat, unfeeling. Because she couldn’t allow herself to feel, not when Drothiker moved in sync with her feelings. Not when it was now kindling. “As far from me as you can get. Understand?”

She didn’t wait for Navy to express any objections and bolted away, disappearing behind the coat of sand. Had it not been for the whispers bellowing in her head, Syrene might have focused on Kefaas’ heartbeat, might have spread her senses and let them hone in on him. But Drothiker was too. Damn. Loud.

She didn’t need to, though, because the sand cleared soon, enough for her to see.

And as it did, her heart creeped into her throat.

The arena was no more. Only debris of perished chairs and boulders lay in her wake.

Syrene’s heart began hammering. Harder when she scented blood. She leapt across the torn ground and followed the scent to the piled debris, near where chairs had been.

No, no, no, she pled silently as she landed on her knees.

Syrene scrambled at the debris, threw away heavy boulders without much effort.

She saw the severely wounded arm first. Syrene touched two fingers to his wrist—

Alive. He was alive.

Then she unveiled the stomach. Then the neck—

Dust draped his entire face, his stubble—plastered to the blood slithering down his temple.

“Kefaas.” Syrene shook his shoulder, her hands trembling.

Just as her own pulse began quickening thanks to the power coming free inside her.

“Kefaas,” she snarled.

But he didn’t stir.

Drothiker’s whispers turned to clueless, lazy hisses.

Eliver.

She had to find Eliver.

Then Syrene was on her feet. She didn’t see the gathering people encircling the ruined arena, didn’t consider the murmurs as she dashed out of the place with her hemvae speed.

—Ablaze Kosas—

—one person did all—

—where did she disappear—

—who—

—so powerful—

—lightning? Kosas, rumors about Syrene Alpenstride—

—the man comatose—

Trees soon crowded around her; blurs of moonlit green and brown at the corners of her eyes and the twigs snapping beneath her feet whispered that much. She knew she shouldn’t run, knew she couldn’t afford her heart racing, knew that would just feed the beast and help it raise faster, but she didn’t have time.

She didn’t have time. Syrene wanted to stop and laugh for a moment.

Funny to think about it, wasn’t it? Immortal she was, yet she was short on time.

Syrene reached the clear zone Eliver lived in and skittered to a pause. It was bathed in direct moonlight, the only bright place in the forest—otsatyas knew how the man had survived, how the place hadn’t drawn the wild animals literally in her earshot.

The thought was drowned out by the noises in her head almost as soon as it took shape.

The place was empty.

She didn’t allow herself to feel the blasting veins at her wrists.

“Eliver?” she called, panting.

No answer.

The area wasn’t vast, but she still couldn’t help the impulse to amble about, the way one did around the house when they searched for something they couldn’t find.

“ELIVER!” she shouted loud enough for the nearby trees to rustle.

Only silence echoed back.

Something jolted up her legs and Syrene slammed to her knees. And sobbed. It’d begun. The veins had commenced the burning—very faint for now. But she knew it would turn into an agony she’d never confronted before, an agony she doubted she would survive, an agony everyone had warned her against.

She dug her nails in the soil, her forehead touched the ground. “Please,” she whispered to the earth, to the planet, to anyone who would listen. “Please, help me.”

Nothing answered. For moments, there was only the slowly enhancing burning in her veins, only the roaring silence outside and the blaring destruction inside, then—

She scented the ground.

Eliver’s scent, yes—but … someone else had been here. Syrene sat up, withdrew her nails from the ground.

Someone she’d already met. And despised.

Her jaw clenched as her gaze went to a tree across from her. A paper was nailed to it with a dagger. She lifted to her feet and approached, legs buckling.

Her fingers closed around the cool hilt and lurched it out. She unfolded the paper.

✰✰✰✰✰

Long time no see, Heir of Grinon.

I write to you with all the admiration (I promise), and a bit of avarice, of course. Sad as it is, our relationship seems to always start with the stealing and end with … well I’d say I’m rather glad it hasn’t ended yet. It takes a hiatus every once in a while. Romantic, wouldn’t you say? Last time we met—yes, that was, when I stole your faerie, and I’m glad we’ve moved past that—this time it happens to be a nerdy hemvae … your choices do concern me, Syrene. I remember you were cruel the last we met. This time, I’m hoping you’d be … To be truthful, I do like you cruel and ferocious—as does Az, obviously, that bastard. I’d ask about his wellbeing, but you see, I don’t care. Besides, we’re meeting in less than three hours, you and I, we’ll catch up.

Oh, you’re fuming, aren’t you? Want to murder me? Alright, I’ll take pity and stop blathering for your sake. You know where to find me (kidding, I just happen to take delight in saying that, my whereabouts are at the back of this letter), Heir of Wolves.

Or, should I say, Czar Syrene?

Your greatest admirer,

the Jaguar.

✰✰✰✰✰

Maycusen’s note crumpled in Syrene’s hand.

She was fuming. She did want to murder him. She wanted to burn this whole place down—burn everything down.

And if she did nothing right now, if she let Drothiker seize her, she would.

Too bad Syrene wanted to burn, not be burned.

With the note in her hand, Syrene tore into the forest. She was running faster than she’d ever run—faster than any Vegreka or Grestel had the right to move. But Drothiker had already gripped her legs, drove her feet swifter than lightning. Syrene felt so light, zapping through the woods. No …

She felt like a storm, ripping past the weak winds.

She felt like a part of the world, not something living in it, not something separate, but … she was it. She was the trees, the ground. She was the air, the sky. There was no world without her, no existence without her. As if the world were a puzzle and she happened to be an enormous piece. And if she faltered, it would all come imploding down to her feet.

No.

Syrene’s feet balked, unsettling the twigs with the abruptness.

The world stilled around her, she could have sworn the forest ceased breathing for a second. And then resumed.

She was running into a trap—of course she was running into a trap—she couldn’t afford to be illogical right now. Now of all the times.

Syrene breathed, calmed herself. Or attempted to.

She hadn’t felt so helpless in the whole year, always had a sense she could fight her way out of whatever hinderance thrown her way, whatever assassins, whatever responsibilities. If she couldn’t fight, then at least she could run. She’d let herself forget what it felt like to be without help, to be alone. Truly alone.

Thirty-five years ago, she’d had Hexet and Raocete to train her when she’d been without experience, without any skills. Then she’d had Azryle who’d helped her out of the darkness that’d enveloped her.

Now … now there was no one. No one she could turn to for help without crumpling them to ashes.

Syrene breathed deeper. Calm.

But she couldn’t. She was dead—the whole planet was. She had an hour, if not less. She couldn’t fight this much power, she’d barely ever used her own.

Syrene was the end. An unstoppable damning end.

Her eyes itched; she pressed the heels of her palms to her lids.

No—she wouldn’t cry. She was done crying, done being weak. She had to construct a scheme to get Eliver out, she had to—

“You’re fast.”

She whirled, the Deathraze sliding into her palm. Just as she mustered her senses and made out the voice, before her eyes settled on Navy.

The water-wielder bent double and gripped her knees, panting. “Kosas, you’re fast.”

Syrene’s teeth ground. “What are you doing here, Navy? You need to—”

“Get away? Run?” She straightened, breathless.

Navy stepped forward—Syrene retreated.

“—stay away from me,” she breathed.

An emotion twisted Navy’s face for a moment as her feet halted, gone so fast that Syrene thought she imagined it. Then, “Have you even noticed you’re out of Silvervale?”

Syrene swallowed, her focus was limited to Navy, because all her senses were being hard-pressed down, down, down.

“I don’t know what’s going on, alright? You don’t have to tell me. Just let me help you, Cerys. Tell me what’s happening to you. Because all my instincts are roaring at me that you’re not okay and it’s driving me crazy. You’ve been acting strange—”

Her gaze flicked to something over Syrene’s shoulder, and her dark eyes went wide.

Syrene made to turn, but Navy lunged for her, knocking them both to the ground, followed by an animal growl that echoed in her bones. Syrene only caught a blur of bronze as something leapt atop them, but she knew who it was.

The Jaguar.

Navy was on her feet the next moment, both her hands engaged with daggers.

But Syrene’s temple throbbed, her sight turned white. Her hands shook, her whole body did, like a shelter at the verge of bursting out indeed.

Then time skipped.

One moment, Navy was looming over her, ready to protect Syrene—no, Cerys—as she always did.

Then a bright light flashed, blinding Syrene for moments.

The next, Navy was bleeding on the ground, and so was Maycusen—still in his jaguar form—both whimpering in pain, attempting to lift and failing—as if they’d fought for hours.

Another flash of brightness.

Time jumped.

Syrene wasn’t in the forest anymore.

A solid wall of piled rocks stood before her. When her fuzzy sight cleared slightly, and she craned her neck to see beyond, she found that this was no mere wall … but a towering border encircling a deep gap, like the body of a cylinder.

She was standing on her feet, swaying, weakness burning a bolt through her.

Syrene looked around. Behind her loomed the last line of trees of the forest she’d just been in.

She’d walked here. But she didn’t remember walking—

Where was Maycusen—Navy—

Had that been Drothiker’s trick on her mind, or had they truly been here? What was happening—

Her head was whirring, felt more tangled than ever.

Syrene blinked. Her head ached. She rested her forehead in her hands, felt the vein throbbing at her temple against her palm, and let out shuddering breaths that reverberated in her whole body.

It didn’t matter whether they were real or not, she told herself. What mattered was she was here. This was the place mockingly drawn at the back of Maycusen’s letter.

But Navy— The thought was pulled back by Drothiker’s bellowing. And succumbed.

Syrene turned back to the towering border of the chasm, jutting out from the ground like a tiny rock mountain.

Carefully, she reached out a shaky hand to a rock and dug her fingers, yanked herself up. Her feet landed on the edge of another rock. She spotted a higher one with just enough space for her foot and climbed. Until the wall cleared and Syrene was staring into the gap.

Down below, a garden stood bathing in moonlight—Syrene caught shadows wandering around, vigilant. Guarding the area.

Moonlight reflected off the gold of their uniform, made the white shine.

Cleysteinian sentinels.

Syrene’s heart paused dead in her chest.

Two sentries stood shielding a cave mouth in the corner, hands on their swords. Eliver—Syrene grasped, dispelling the fog from her sight, her mind, a bit more. If Eliver was brought here, he must be in that cave.

She had one problem.

Queen of Cleystein could be here. That cave could either be a chamber for Felset and a death maw for Syrene, or an escape route for Eliver.

Without any warning, another wave of dizziness gushed her and Syrene tilted forward. No, no, no—

She tried to grab onto something—anything—but her hands only found rocks not thin enough to close her fingers around. Her foot slipped. Her heart plunged to her stomach. She began praying to otsatyas, anyone who would listen, she went so far as calling for Drothiker—this could not be her death, this could not be—

A vicelike grip closed around her wrist and Syrene was snapped back from the fall.

She whirled—pain lanced up her nose as she slammed into another hard wall.

A fairly warm wall.

The scent struck her then. Struck her so hard that Syrene felt frozen in place. Everything in her—the bellowing, the destroying pain, the dizziness—everything, for a moment, disappeared.

Syrene lifted her chin, her heart not daring to beat.

And though the face was masked from chin to nose, though the hood concealed the rest of it, from the darkness beneath the hood, those familiar silver eyes bore into her.

“Hello, cub,” Azryle whispered.