Abolisher

Vendrik awoke to loud steps.

His head lulled sideways as he lifted it to gaze outside the cell where guards had crammed. Outside his cell.

The sentries whispered. But Vendrik’s mind was too slackened to register anything.

The cell unfastened; someone was mercilessly hurled to the stone floor, hands fettered at his back; the cell fastened.

Vendrik blinked, waiting for his mind to take everything in as the guards’ steps faded. The man seemed familiar, even as Vendrik couldn’t see his face, the broad shoulders were familiar, the glorious height was familiar, the tattoo—no, zegruks—scarring his arm was familiar.

The whip scars on his naked back were familiar.

Vendrik’s mind rushed then, and all the fuzziness from his head vanished.

Azryle.

✰✰✰✰✰

Hours passed, Azryle finally stirred, groaned.

Vendrik hadn’t been able to take his eyes off his friend, wishing desperately, absurdly, that the zegruks would dissolve into his skin, that when he would turn, the face would be someone else’s. Some other unlucky fool’s face. Because Azryle could afford to be neither unlucky, nor a fool. Not now.

The muscles in the other man’s shoulders went taut, grasping he was in a cell. He attempted to move his arms, probing the dresteen shackles. Then let out a defeated sigh.

The muscles went stiff again, and Vendrik knew the man—the ripper—was sniffing his scent. It took only that and all the hope in him came crumpling down.

All of this—all the torments for the past year—for nothing.

Living without his fire for over a year—powerless and helpless—for nothing.

Losing Binou—Binou—for nothing.

Vendrik wanted to scream, in rage, in the utter impotence that seized him, he didn’t know. He didn’t know.

Ryle must have scented it all, because there was another defeated sigh before he rested his head on the ground. “They took everything.”

Vendrik was struck enough that he attempted to surge forward like an untamed animal, despite the shackles, despite the burns still hurting. “That’s really all you have to say right now?” he snarled.

“Rik—”

“You had one task—to stay away from her. You should know how to do that better than anyone. You’ve never failed at anything, Ryle, and you fail at this?”

“I tried—”

“It wasn’t enough,” Vendrik burst out, his voice cracking. All the horrors he’d met this past year featured one by one before his eyes—the glass piercing in his skin, his back on fire, the daggers stabbed one by one in his chest, the tearing skin, his hand dipped in burning coal—“Do you know the things I’ve seen this past year? The things she’s done? Only so you could go live—”

“I know, Rik—”

“You don’t!” Vaguely, Vendrik knew he wasn’t being fair, knew that Azryle did indeed know, more than anyone, what Vendrik had been put through. Yet the thought was succumbed by the images.

“I was away from her, you’re the one who got caught. You’re the reason I’m here—”

“You shouldn’t have come,” Vendrik snapped.

“And leave you to all the tortures?” Ryle snapped right back.

“You’re a ripper,” he spat. “You’ve never cared for anyone in your life. You’ve ripped people without any remorse. Have you gone soft, now, Ryle?”

Even from behind, Vendrik saw the muscle feathering in his friend’s jaw. Before he could speak, Vendrik cut him off and continued.

“How in Saqa did you not grasp this is a trap? Are you sure you’re not here because of her?”

Ryle’s shoulders tensed.

Vendrik knew he should stop, knew everything that came out of his mouth made no sense. And he meant none of it. Yet …

Yet.

Fire burned things in its wake—devoured, and left nothing but ashes. Vendrik hadn’t had his fire in a year, some stifled—and frustrated—Vegreka part of him was ravenous, had been for the whole year, it needed that burning, needed to crack something.

“You were leashed to her for three centuries,” Vendrik said, “since you were no more than a child—are you sure you’re not driven to her? Are you sure some primal part of you doesn’t crave it—to be commanded, to be free of the weight of choices? You remember the lightness on your shoulders, now replaced by an invisible weight—are you sure you don’t miss it, Ryle?”

“If you don’t shut your mouth, the choice to tear your throat wouldn’t be so difficult,” the ripper retorted.

Silence descended—heavy and raging.

Then Ryle let out a long, exasperated breath. As he wheeled face him, Vendrik found himself wishing he could melt back into the shadows of the walls, like Maeren did, to fade out of sight.

Ryle leaned against the wall across, and when his silver eyes rose to Vendrik’s face, he stilled wholly. His gaze went from the burned face, to the neck. Then to the new scars of daggers just now settling in his chest. Then to the scarred skin of the healed hand.

For moments, he said nothing.

Then, “Kosas,” he breathed, short on words.

Vendrik looked away.

“Why?” Ryle shook his head. “You have nothing to do with Alpenstride—”

“But I do happen to have something to do with Drothiker—or Drighrem, as she calls it.” Vendrik swallowed, all the anger dissipated just like that. “She’s hunting Kaerions. And I believe she already has all their whereabouts.”

“Now, now.”

The voice came from outside the cell, where Felset emerged. Vendrik hadn’t the energy to be surprised—she’d visited frequently these past weeks—but Ryle’s gaze snapped to cell bars. Something sparked in his eyes—so foreign and strange in the eyes that had never held anything but rage and hatred and violence.

Now there was fear mixed with that rage. Sparked, and then buried quicker than a fleeting moment. Until nothing remained.

“You lads can catch up later,” Felset drawled. “But first,”—both Vendrik and Azryle stiffened as her fingers casually drifted to the lock, and it came undone—“you shall give me what you’re here for, Prince.”

Azryle’s fear flickered again as the queen stepped in, and disappeared. As if a flame being guttered by winds.

Felset looked at the ripper and smiled a victorious smile, tinged with what might have been pity. With her each step towards Azryle, Vendrik’s breath sharpened a bit more. The queen ran her hand through the prince’s dark hair—a loving touch. “You really thought you could get away, didn’t you?”

Azryle offered no response, his gaze on the floor.

He looked so … beaten, exposed. His chest heaved once, bracing for a blow or an uninvited kiss. Vendrik knew it wasn’t feigned—that dread. He knew Azryle must have dealt with otsatyas-knew-what emotions the moment they’d returned in a deadly tide, must have tampered with his mejest. But he also knew, in his gut, behind the wall of that weakness, the warrior-prince was scheming, his mind working.

But Felset only saw the fear, the cowering of the last ripper on Ianov, and was too busy reveling in it. All the years with him, and yet she didn’t grasp Azryle Wintershade would rather be cleaved apart than set his fear bare for everyone to gawk at. Unless, of course, it served a purpose.

Felset crouched before the prince, her hand sliding from his hair to his cheek. “Do you have nothing to say to me, Prince?”

“Gut yourself,” Azryle spat.

Felset tilted her head, and Vendrik heard the smile in her voice. “You never spoke to me like that before, Azryle.” There was … hurt in her voice. “Why did you turn against me, too?”

The woman was mad, Vendrik thought. Utterly, wildly mad. Her one purpose to bring her people to this world and that bargain she’d made with her brother for peace, in fact, might be her only thread to sanity.

The queen jabbed a finger over her shoulder, in Vendrik’s direction. “You took him from me, too.” Vendrik paused. “You cut his bonds to me when you guarded his mejest, didn’t you? To free him from me.” Azryle was pointedly avoiding Vendrik’s gaze. “Did you enjoy it, Prince? Defying me?”

“Greatly.” Ryle’s eyes had gone vacant. “And I’ll do it again. And again. Go on and torture me, Felset, drag me through the mud and butcher me, do your worst. But I will never give you what you want.” Her looked her dead in the eyes. “You will never break me.”

“But I will surely give it a try.” Felset lifted to her feet, an exasperated sigh sliding her lips. “Know that this could’ve been done smoothly, Prince.”

Felset stepped back from Ryle, and at cue, the cell bars opened again. Three sentries strolled in. Luca. Susac. Birex. Luca and Susac held whips in their hands. Birex, the giant, didn’t need any weapon to fracture.

“No.” Vendrik’s heart sped, he strained against the shackles. “Stop.”

Ryle let on no emotion, no fear. And that only meant he was focusing all his skills on hiding it from Felset—because he knew, more than anyone, that showing Felset your fear was no less than handing over a shard of your life for her to use it as a weapon.

And Vendrik had a vague sense that Ryle was hiding a tide behind a well-constructed wall.

But Vendrik … Vendrik was exhausted. He had lost all his warrior instincts and skills somewhere between the relentless tortures. He couldn’t help his own actions, couldn’t hide whatever rushed in him. “Stop,” he pled, as Birex used his massive arms to peel Ryle’s back off the wall, and the two others flanked him.

“He can make it stop whenever he wants, Favamst,” Felset said, without turning to Vendrik. “All he has to do is scale down the wards he has built around your fire.”

The stubborn set to Ryle’s jaw had returned, unyielding. He wouldn’t give her it, no matter what she did. As if he could endure whatever she threw.

As if he’d faced far, far worse.

And then, there … Vendrik saw it.

The scars of stitches along Ryle’s arms, his chest, countless new brutal scars he’d never seen on anyone before, flickering in and out, in and out—

A glamour. Vendrik’s heart paused dead in his chest. A glamour cast by Ryle along his entire body was wavering, his focus on it faltering.

In those dungeons, there were things done far worse than mere torments she’d assaulted Vendrik with. Far worse than what she did to her other victims. Numbness seized him at the realization.

The first whip cracked the silence, Ryle’s arm bloomed a bright red. The second lash had Ryle’s muscles straining against the pain. The third one had his eyes squeezing shut, face pained; his chest rose and fell. With each strike, Vendrik’s chest sliced open a bit more.

When the skin opened, and blood oozed out, that was when Birex came in.

Horror-struck, Vendrik could do nothing but watch as Luca and Susac stepped back from Ryle and the giant fell on his knees before his friend. As he dug his fat fingers in the gashes and ripped the skin to keep it from stitching back.

Nothing, as Ryle screamed in pure agony.