Abolisher

She didn’t step away.

Didn’t fight him, didn’t wrench her hand from his grip. She only … stood and stared. Looked as stricken as he felt.

Azryle had reached here hours ago, been hiding behind the rocks, plotting out an escape route, surveying the guards, noting their rounds. He’d heard her when she’d torn out of the wall of trees, panting. Watched as her face twisted into confusion, then the crumpling devastation that’d lain claim to her, streaked her scent. As she collected herself.

And then as she tilted forward, towards the gap, and Azryle’s body had yanked itself to her.

Now, cold wind howled around them, whipped her hair—once honey, now brunette—into her still-fragile face, and that seemed to be the only movement in the world.

She looked different, and not only because of the dyed hair.

She seemed to have aged centuries in a year—the azure eyes, though defiance remained, and so did that utter helplessness, the fighting there was somehow fiercer. As if she’d spent the whole year being caged and tormented, been taught how to endure.

Her face, once bony, was full, and yet it lacked the glow.

Her body, once gaunt, now shaped curves that would have any man on his knees. Azryle was surprised how he managed to stay towering.

Her hand was trembling in his grip—her entire form was trembling against him. And then—

There was no warning given.

Pain lashed up his arm, his veins, as their hands began glowing in the dark night, the way they had when she’d shown him how hemvae shared their mejest.

Azryle grunted, daggers of agony shooting through him. It went from his arm, to his shoulder, and then spread in his entire torso. The veins in his neck began burning as something raced to his skull, his head. White glazed his sight and Azryle felt dizzy.

He lost his footing, staggering a step back, but Syrene didn’t release him. He tried to jerk his hand back, tried to shove her away—tried, and failed.

“What are you doing,” he snarled. But his voice came out weak, cunning power scoured the corners of him, coiled his insides.

Then came the bellowing in his head.

Bleeding, burning Saqa.

Azryle lost all senses, all control. He thought he would melt away, thought he would tear apart.

Somewhere, Syrene screamed.

Azryle fought the power, released the inky darkness slack within him—more than he’d ever let it be free—let it discover and destroy all light she’d discharged into him. Power coursed through him, ruled him. His own, and hers. Where hers was abolishing, his was possessing, vile, unholy.

Neither was this world’s.

The smoke from his head dispelled to some extent, the roaring in his skull turned to quiet hisses, his sight cleared.

Syrene was on her knees. She wasn’t screaming, no—

Her head was tipped back. Light leaked out from the cracks in her skin, where the veins should’ve been—as if moon and stars had been streamed inside her. The vessel was cracking. Her eyes were milky white—the azure and burnt gold of immortality hidden somewhere behind the white layer.

Her breathing was calm. Azryle doubted her insides were. He swore.

What in Ablaze Saqa had she been up to this past year?

“Syrene,” he called, crouching before her. When there was no response, his free hand settled on her thin shoulder and gave a shake. “Syrene.”

This time, she responded. Or rather … something else did.

She lowered her chin and angled her head—a curious bird—her face eerily calm, even as the cracks in her skin grew. Azryle didn’t know what was happening, but he felt the annihilation taking place inside her, reducing her to bits, blazing her insides—it was faint in him. Very faint.

But an indication enough that Syrene had crossed a limit.

Drothiker, he grasped with a wave of hopelessness. Too late. It was too late.

The ground beneath Syrene began glowing, the light snaked out in streaks like a spiderweb: Drothiker seeping itself into the roots before bursting it apart.

Was this the end, then?

No—no, it couldn’t be. He wouldn’t allow it.

Azryle knelt before Syrene, and tightened his grip around her fingers. I’m here, he urged through the intertwined mejest, wherever she was in that shell of skin. You’re not alone.

But nothing happened. She split no power, refused to drive that destruction in him. Azryle gritted his teeth.

Come on, cub.

Nothing.

The streaks of light sprawled the ground, advancing past the line of trees yards away.

He recalled the day she’d offered him her mejest in that staride on the night of Feast of Melodies. The night she’d offered him freedom.

Azryle’s gaze lowered to her lips. Then to the spiderweb beneath them brightening the night. But—

“Ripper.”

Azryle’s gaze snapped to her.

The voice from her lips wasn’t hers. It was distorted and strange. Inhuman. Unfeeling. Then those lips curled into a vicious smirk. “You cannot stop me. You cannot take this from me. I was born for this.”

Syrene …

Her chuckle had the hair on his neck rising, reverberated in his bones. “I am no Syrene, I am unbound from names, from the rubrics of your universe. I am beyond your ken, beyond your mortal world. I am stronger than your otsatyas, worse than your demons. I am the darkness that haunts your nights, I am brighter than the light that illuminates your skies. What’s born is destroyed, but I was never born, and shall never be destroyed. Defy me, ripper, and face the wrath of the very air you breathe.”

All Azryle could do was tighten his grip on her shoulder, ignoring whatever was speaking through her mouth. “Syrene,” he called, as if she were lost in the woods behind him.

Another chuckle. “Oh, ripper,” she crooned in her own voice with icy softness, the light brightening in her eyes. “You don’t comprehend, do you?” Then—

A ball of fire burst in her palm, so hot and outrageous that sweat beaded to his brow, temperature mounted in a swift wave. Suddenly Azryle couldn’t breathe—felt suffocated by the thick heat. “I burn hotter than the flames in your Saqa.”

She dropped her hand to the ground, embers winking out. Instead, the ground froze beneath her touch, and Azryle couldn’t help his shudder at the sudden coldness. “Colder than any mountain.”

He could knock her unconscious— He could—

She giggled. “You could try, certainly.” The ice disappeared—the temperature soon returned to normal cold. Her fingers, still human, still warm, rose to graze his cheek. “But I do not guarantee success.”

“No, cub,” Azryle whispered, lifting his hand to hers on his cheek. “Unfortunately for you, I always happen to win.”

Azryle offered no warning before he sent jolts of baeselk darkness into that touch. He’d endured Felset’s torments in the making place, let her fill him with whatever power, let her rip his skin, his soul. She’d given him this power, this precious part of herself. He’d be damned if it all turned out impotent in the end.

He drizzled it all in her, whatever it took.

Her eyes flashed as the bright fissures in the skin of her hand dimmed slightly. It went from hand to arm to shoulder before she screamed, light leaking from her mouth too, now.

He wasn’t a fool—he knew he wasn’t strong enough to fight the unearthly power fracturing her veins, knew nothing was. But all he needed was a moment of consciousness from her, just enough to—

Azryle was distracted by the steps that sounded behind him. Three pairs. They weren’t Felset’s guards, he knew from the way they weren’t calculated, heavy. They weren’t marching.

Though one of them was. And that was what distracted him.

That distraction cost him.

Syrene had stopped screaming.

A force from her hurled Azryle across the area, inhuman growl tearing the silence.

He landed on his back. But Azryle was on his feet again when Maycusen turned up beside him. Azryle ignored him, he had neither the time nor the patience for this; his gaze was on Syrene across from him, hers on him, face twisted into that familiar wrath.

He smiled. There you are, he conveyed silently. Long time no see. But—

The Jaguar gripped his arm to halt him.

Azryle snarled, turning to him, “Piss off.”

Maycusen grinned. “Nice to see you too.” Azryle noticed, then, the Jaguar was bruised severely, bleeding everywhere, shifting from one foot to another. “As much I would love to do this,” he drawled. Then pointed his chin to somewhere behind Azryle.

He turned.

Two people were approaching Syrene, silently, covertly. The woman was limping. Bleeding and bruised like Maycusen. Her form and the dancer-lightness of the way she moved absurdly reminded Azryle of Delaya Fairdust. Even from the distance, Azryle saw the fear and concern naked on her face as she went, the warrior grace too palpable in her movements. She held two daggers in her hands, two sheathed at her side, and many more beneath her attire no doubt.

The man was slow and urgent all at once. Marvel tattooed across his face as he eyed the streaks of light painted on the ground with a keen interest and a carefully hidden excitement. The light disclosed the scarred beads encircling his neck and wrists. The same ones Syrene had.

A Jegvr convict.

Azryle made to aim for them, were they going to hurt her—

“Jefe.” Maycusen tightly gripped his arm again. “They’re her friends. They know how to stop this—”

Azryle wrenched his arm free of his clutch. What was he to do? Trust Maycusen? Felset’s most loyal pet? Azryle knew the way her commands worked, knew the way they clasped strings—

“Az, Ablaze Kosas,” Maycusen swore, as if he could hear Azryle hesitating. “You know you can’t stop her, look at her.” Syrene was on her knees again, both her hands pressed to the ground, leaking her power in the roots, head tipped back, those milky eyes on the sky, as if she were linking herself to the skies with only her gaze. “Even if I am commanded by Her Majesty, you should focus on the fact that she knows how to stop the annihilation minutes away.”

Azryle drunk in the inhumanity etched in her features.

What Maycusen didn’t understand was if Felset lashed Syrene too, took her in her cages with that power, she would be invincible.

And if he allowed this, if he let Felset have a chance to grasp Syrene, let her be invincible, whole Ianov was Destined to something far worse than destruction.

How had the planet’s doom come down to one choice—his choice? Trust Maycusen with Syrene and risk facing the worst end. Or let the world end now.

The choice was obvious. Azryle just wasn’t sure he wanted Syrene to face the consequences. He was meant to protect her, he would hate being the reason she suffered. At Felset’s hands, all the more.

He stepped back, bracing himself, unable to take his eyes off Syrene.

Those colorless eyes were on him again, a cruel smirk on her mouth. As if she’d won a battle. Azryle realized then—this was no mejest, no unruly device laying claim to her.

This was Syrene Alpenstride herself. Syrene without the burden of saving the world, without all the hurt drawing her actions, without the sorrow, the loneliness. This was that cold part of her that craved destruction and chaos. Loved it. Enjoyed it. This was Syrene without any moral bounds.

He’d learned Syrene was full of life and hope long ago. He’d also learned she was a flame capable of burning the world to ashes if she willed.

He just hadn’t anticipated he would one day see it happening.

Both the woman and the man were behind Syrene now, she didn’t hear them—no, how could she, with all that noise in her head?

The woman lifted a hand, her chest heaving, and water appeared in her hand, rolled up her arm. Azryle honed in his ripper hearing on them.

“It needs to be cold,” the man was whispering. “Very cold.”

She nodded. Her focus on the water now dancing around both her hand, her forearms. “Let’s just hope I’ll be enough, and she’ll be alright.” She cut him a sidelong glare. “If anything happens to her, hemvae—”

Hemvae.

Azryle then noticed the tattoo—a dark line running along the side of his neck. Zegruks. Half-hemvae. Then he recalled the four slaves Vendrik had fetched from Jegvr last year, and the half hemvae among them.

Eliver Domwil. Suddenly the scars made sense.

“That depends on you,” he retorted. Then, “Drown her.” At the look she threw him, he clarified, “So she can’t fight back. Don’t kill her.” Then—

Tides of water burst from her hands and poured in on Syrene. The duce didn’t even have the time to brace herself before the water from one hand closed her face, and from the other hand closed around her wrists.

Syrene thrashed, struggled. The most she was allowed to do was lift to her feet. Then the water-wielder’s face pained, and grunted, which told Azryle Syrene was fighting the temperature, increasing it.

Azryle needed to distract her. But—

“Son of a—” Maycusen swore beside him, right before light flashed at the corner of Azryle’s eye. But when he turned, the Jaguar had disappeared. Soon enough, he knew why.

Cleysteinian soldiers appeared at the other end of the area. They must have earwigged the screams—

Azryle turned to Syrene and the others.

The spiderweb from the ground disappeared. The hisses from his head vanished.

Drenched, Syrene was toppling to the ground, the power numbed.

With his ripper speed, Azryle dashed for her. He dropped in front of Syrene, kneeling, before her limp form landed in his arms.

“Y-your Highness,” Eliver Domwil stammered.

But Azryle barely heard it. He gently patted Syrene’s cheek. “Hey,” he whispered, heart hammering.

The water-wielder dropped before him. “Cerys,” she rasped, exhausted from all the mejest she’d unleashed, shaking Syrene’s arm. Then looked up at Domwil with fearful eyes. “She’s cold.”

Azryle listened to Syrene’s heartbeat, ignored the questions that emerged in him as Eliver confirmed, “She’s fine.” Of course she was fine—Azryle would’ve felt the devastation of a torn soul if she hadn’t been.

He perceived the approaching guards at the corner of his eye and heaved out a breath. He didn’t know if these people were to be trusted, didn’t know if they meant harm in any possible way. But Azryle had no choice bar trusting his instincts. He reluctantly yielded Syrene in the woman’s arms. She took her with a friendly care, as if Syrene were ethereal.

“Take her,” he said. “As far from here as you can.”

She met his gaze, wary. Untrusting.

Azryle pointed to the guards. “You see them? They’ve been hunting her for over a year,” he imparted as she looked to the guards. “They’re going to torture her if they catch her. Get her to safety.”

She didn’t move, cautious, certainly not used to being ordered around. But Domwil reached down for her, helped her to her feet. They hooked either of Syrene’s arms around their shoulders.

Then they hastened down to the line of trees at their side.

Azryle turned to the sentinels, unsheathing Silencer across his back, falling back into the brute he was. But—

It punched his gut then. The power. It’d lived in him for too long—he’d served it for too long. He’d loathed it for too long.

Suddenly Azryle couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. His lungs felt as if they were curling in on themselves. His body went numb at her very presence.

He took a step back. No—no, he couldn’t face her. Not now. Not ever. If she took him again, if she’d somehow found a way to compel him, break him, torment him—

He took back another step. Ready to bolt, to disappear behind the trees—

But Felset wasn’t with the guards.

She appeared behind him.

“Hello, Prince,” she purred too near his ear, her breath grazed his cheek. Her hand came around the other side of his face. She nibbled at his ear. “Oh, how Vendrik would be thrilled to see you.”

Something pierced through him—a dagger, unholy mejest? Agony gushed him before darkness lay claim to him.