Abolisher

Syrene hadn’t slept.

Dawn’s light bathed the bedroom golden. She watched the ceiling, twisted and turned, and recalled the dungeons. The Vegreka in the cells. The cylinders filled with olive liquid.

And then came her questions about this wretched place called the making place.

Deisn might have bought this planet centuries with her sacrifice, might have given them a chance at survival. But that chance was being pressed by the still lingering doom named Felset.

The queen was close—so close—to whatever she was devising. Syrene didn’t even have any knowledge about the Kaerions’ whereabouts. Worse part was, they hadn’t even come hunting her—made her wonder whether their power had even bestirred itself.

With Vendrik Evenflame around, Drothiker’s constant whispers in her skull never ceased. She couldn’t think, let alone concentrate. Sleep was impossible. Every time she began falling into the haze, the whispers turned into loud hisses, as if a snake sat atop her ear, wrenching her out from the trance.

“Stop moving,” Navy grumbled at one point, before pulling the blanket over her head, and continued to snore.

Syrene gritted her teeth hard enough for them to crack. She sat up, ran a hand through her hair. She needed quiet—needed to get away, get out of this cursed building!

She slid of the bed, and headed to her own room. Azryle was in a deep slumber. She didn’t linger, grabbed her gloves and scarf, and a few weapons, and set out.

At first, she didn’t know where she was headed, her mind only commanded away, away, away.

But soon enough, she found her feet heading towards Kefaas Petsov’s home. He might be sleeping, but Syrene needed to speak with him, see if he’d even survived that arena, or had she killed him. She barely knew the man, but found herself deeply hoping he was alive.

Kefaas was insane, wild—ancient, educated. Useful. Despite Eliver, she might be doomed without Kefaas. But—

Maybe she’d taken the silent alley for granted, or maybe Drothiker’s noise had driven her enough that she didn’t heed her senses, but one moment Syrene was walking down the street, and the next, her head was pinned against the wall.

There was a hand at the back of her skull, pressing her face-first against the wall with an immortal strength; the iciness of the stone bit into her cheek. Her hands were held behind her back in a throttlehold.

Syrene didn’t fight against the hold—which would only have the man compressing her head harder until it burst. She kept her calm.

“Admirers aren’t supposed to be so violent, Maycusen,” she breathed.

The Jaguar leaned closer, his body’s warmth wrapped her, his back touched hers as he brought his lips to her ear. “Not all can be compared with me, Syrene.”

Had his hands not been over the rim of her sleeve, she might have slid out a dagger and chopped off the parts too near her hands. She couldn’t use lightning either—he needed to be in touch with her skin for it to electrocute, and Maycusen seemed too conscious of that. What other weapons did she have in her attire—

“Oh, buckle up, now, Czar.” He straightened. Cold wind grazed her nape. “I’m only here to speak.”

“With my back?” she muttered.

His chuckle was cold. “Joke all you want, but Felset is two steps from destroying Lavestia.”

Shock and confusion spurted in Syrene. “Why do you think I give a shit about whoever in Saqa is Lavestia?”

His warm breath confided in her nape as he sighed, exasperated. “They call this world Lavestia.” A pause. “I’m not your Abyss-damned teacher, here to give you lessons. I’m here to warn you—”

“I’m sorry,” she gritted. “I suppose it’s my fault that I can list myriad whys and wherefores, right here, right now, for why I find it challenging to trust you. Besides, it’s a bit difficult to chitchat when your head is being threatened to be ruptured.”

His grip only tightened around her wrists. Guess the untrusting part went both ways.

“You want to talk, Maycusen, then talk,” she hissed. “I have no interest in spending my morning leaving a faceprint in stones.”

His swallow was audible. “I know the Kaerions’ whereabouts.”

She stilled. A trick, her mind screamed. It has to be a trick—

“Felset has had me hunting them for years, now. I know what she plans to do with them.”

Syrene couldn’t breathe. She wanted to trust him—she wanted to get that information so desperately that she imagined her bones were shaking from the hold. “And I’m supposed to just believe that you’re defying your queen, and are willing to face her eternal wrath, after serving her for otsatyas know how long, with your blood and bones and soul?” she demanded. “Above all, I’m supposed to believe she’s conveniently trusted you with these particulars and hasn’t even bothered to command you to keep them to yourself? Or removing your memory?”

Maycusen didn’t reply for moments. Then, “You have many reasons to not trust me—”

“I do.”

“—but one reason to trust me can overrule all those, Alpenstride.” This might have been the first time she’d heard no humor in his voice, or any hint of taunt. “She’s going to destroy everything—and she’s very close. You have to play this gamble—”

His words ceased.

She felt Maycusen stiffening, heard his breath hitching. His grip tightened around her hands.

“Release her.”

A cool, calm, calculated voice.

“Before I decide to butcher your organs.”

Syrene couldn’t help the relief that flooded through her at Azryle’s voice.

“You don’t want to do this, jefe,” Maycusen warned. “You’re already weak from the dungeons—”

“Release. Her.”

But Maycusen had a point. Azryle could barely sit up without pain featuring across his face when she’d visited his bedroom two hours earlier.

“You can’t take me, Az, not alone. Not with that weakness. I heard you barely survived the poison. I wouldn’t want you going back to Death’s doorstep so soon.” But—

“He’s not alone,” another voice spoke—female, this one. “If you don’t obey him, Jaguar, Levsenn would greatly enjoy those butchered organs.”

Faolin.

Her steps were so hushed, but her voice cleared with her each step towards them.

Syrene rolled her eyes at both of them—even as they couldn’t see it. Then, she made the most of Maycusen’s distraction and violently jerked her head from his grip. In the barest moment, lightning came over her, touched her head to toe, laminated her skin, just as Maycusen’s hand slightly grazed her cheek.

He yelped when zaps jolted up his arm, and recoiled.

Syrene heard a grunt as she straightened off the wall, rolled her shoulders and neck, and turned. Faolin had Maycusen on his knees, her dagger at his throat, his face warped in annoyance. Blood touched his split lip, which was, judging by the ripper’s unclenching fist, a courtesy of Azryle.

“You two cannot mind your business, can you?” She looked to Maycusen, cradling his arm, kneeling like a well-behaved child. “I had him.”

Shamelessly, Faolin and Azryle exchanged a look.

“Of course, Czar,” Faolin said, though there was a small teasing smile at her lips.

Syrene crossed her arms. “Why were you following me?”

She didn’t fail to notice the slight rigidness in Azryle, before Faolin spoke. “I’m to protect you from any possible danger, Syrene.”

“So the oath is going to cause a raging pain in the ass.” She frowned. “You don’t have to follow me everywhere.” From the heaviness in her eyes, Syrene could guess she’d been yanked from her sleep as soon as Syrene had stepped out of the building. “Return to the building, Faolin.” She knew it wasn’t a command—didn’t sound like one. It would, she supposed, take a while for her to learn how to tug at the bond, how to command, and make Faolin obey.

If she had a while left at all.

“I cannot return to the building, Czar, not when you are out. Not unless I have a mission.” She looked uncomfortable. “What about—him?” She jerked her chin at Maycusen. Give me a mission, Syrene heard the unspoken words.

Azryle was assessing them—more acutely than he should.

“Fine,” Syrene sighed. “He said he has the Kaerions’ locations. Find out if he’s speaking the truth. If yes, pull out each drop of information.” She looked at the Jaguar. “Slit his throat if he doesn’t.”

Faolin lifted two fingers to her brow and dipped her head. A salute to duces. She jerked the shifter to his feet when he said, “This is not necessary.”

Syrene stepped towards him. “No, I think it is.” He towered over her; she barely reached his shoulder. Yet her punch had blood sliding down to his chin; his head snapped to side. “That was for Starflame,” she spat.

Ire flashed in his amber eyes as he turned his head to face her again, but he chuckled. “Not so merciful after all.”

Syrene felt her rage mounting. Faebane, she remembered—he’d fed Starflame faerie poison, only to get her to stop talking. Chained her friend in dresteen. He’d taken her to Felset, and otsatyas knew what else he’d done to her that she’d been unconscious for days. Her fists clenched at her sides.

Azryle came beside her, a hand at the small of her back. Maycusen’s eyes slid to him, then narrowed as he gazed between them. Assessing. The ripper nodded to Faolin. Then the sorceress was leading the Jaguar away.

“You okay?” Ryle asked when they were far enough.

Syrene took a deep breath.

Starflame. Lucran. Kessian. Adlae. Vurian. Faolin. How many more people would have to suffer because of her? How many more deaths before she was too late?

Till yesterday, there had only been Navy she knew she must keep from harm’s way at all costs. Today, there were too many people linked to her—so many more lives she cared about, so much more to lose, so many more ways for Felset to break her.

She couldn’t continue this. When you had power, you didn’t have friends. And she was allowing herself more than she could bear to lose—more than she deserved. Joy was like any other product—Destined to expire, sooner or later. And when it did, it turned poisonous. The more you had it, the more chances of poison in your system.

She couldn’t allow herself too much of it, she doubted she would survive whatever venom it would bring.

✰✰✰✰✰

Something knocked at Azryle’s mejest.

He couldn’t make out what it was due to his mejest being pressed down by the xist still in his system—but something. He assessed the quiet alley, the shadows. Even in the dawn’s light, the place somehow managed to seem gloomy.

His senses caught nothing else. His bond to Syrene had hauled him from his sleep—just when she’d entered his room. He’d pretended to be asleep, but her each step away from him, Azryle’s senses had grown louder. He’d gone through her armoire, found a man’s shirt hidden beneath all the others, and threw it on, ignoring the questions it’d provoked despite the screeching in his head.

He’d found Wisflave in the hallway, trailing behind Syrene, as soon as he’d stepped out of the apartment.

When he’d seen Maycusen, he’d supposed that must be the danger his senses were confronting him about. But … the feeling still seemed to be gripping his bones.

There was no one else in the alley, nothing. No danger naked to the eye.

“Return home, Azryle,” Syrene whispered, pulling his attention to herself, her suddenly hollow eyes on the breath that formed before her mouth.

Then turned her back to him, made to step away, without another word, a glance—

Azryle gripped her gloved fingers, halting her. “Syrene …” He found himself not wanting to stay behind. Not wanting to part from her a moment longer. Definitely not with that abrupt gloom on her face, the utter loneliness in her scent … “I’m going with you.”

She shook her head, and made to yank her hand from his grasp. When he didn’t let go, she whirled to face him. “Do you have a death wish?” she snarled, those azure eyes furious, as they had been a year ago. He knew the fury wasn’t directed at him this time.

“Going with you isn’t a death wish.”

“Yes, it is.” Her breaths quickened, and Azryle had a vague sense that she was holding back her tears. “Being with me, around me, brings nothing but pain and suffering. And not necessarily from the surroundings. I don’t know what’s inside me. I don’t know how to do this—how to carry this burden of the tribes and the history and the whole damned planet, and keep everyone safe. I don’t know what I will become if I let the power free. I don’t even know if I’m human anymore. The more people I have in my life, the more I get distracted from what I have to do, the more it will become difficult to make choices I can’t escape. Because I don’t know how to escape this.”

“Escape what?”

“Destiny!”

“What Destiny?”

She didn’t answer that. Her lips pursed.

Silence. Azryle didn’t know the words to comfort, didn’t know how to spell out everything he wanted to speak. Saqa, he didn’t even know if what he was feeling was pity or something beyond that. He didn’t know what to do with his arms, his hands. He merely repeated, “I’m going with you.”

“No, you are not.”

“Yes, I am.”

Her face twisted in pure despair. “Don’t you see it, Azryle?” Her voice was shaking now, thick with fettered tears. “If Felset wanted to bring down the wards around Vendrik’s mejest, all she had to do was kill you.” Silver lined her eyes, as if she were admitting something she’d known for a while. “But she didn’t. She knew I will come. She knew I will fight the world to come to you. Saqa, even Navy had noticed it. She set a trap to bring you to her—then she set a trap to lure me. She used Vendrik against you, and you against me.” A tear skittered down her cheek. “This is what she does—using the people we care about as weapons against us. You were whipped, because of me. You were tortured—again—because. Of. Me. And otsatyas know who it will be the next time—”

“Stop,” Azryle breathed. “Just, stop. Don’t start blaming yourself for everything—that’s not you. Everyone’s safety isn’t on you, they’ve made their decisions; it’s their life, let them decide for themselves, you don’t get to take that away from them. You didn’t force them to join you—they know what needs to be done.”

“They weren’t given a choice, Azryle!” Her voice rose. “They’re forced to me by Destiny—”

“Destiny be damned,” he snapped. “Destiny is a myth. You make choices, you are held responsible for them. Destiny is just an easy excuse to dodge the decisions, and the weight that comes with those decisions.” Azryle sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose. “People make choices, and they’re held responsible,” he repeated, stepping towards her, and took both her hands in his. “My choice is to be with you—help you. Don’t take that away from me, Syrene.”

She lifted her eyes to him, lips trembling. She looked so small, and so weak—a girl trapped in the clutches of the world’s gambles. She shook her head. “I can’t—I can’t do this. Everything seems so far away, so difficult. I don’t know how to save this world from Felset. I don’t know how I am to stop Drothiker.”

“We’ll figure something out.” Azryle’s fingers were already on her cheek before he could think to wipe her tears. She didn’t jerk away as he did. “Together.” He squeezed her fingers. “All of us. Even if they decide to step back, I’ll always be beside you, Syrene. From now on, wherever you go, I go.”

A broken snort. “I’ll lead you to Saqa.”

He didn’t comprehend what it was. Perhaps it was the thread binding them together, perhaps it was the knowledge that even if he didn’t want, the bond would always lead him to her, but Azryle said, “I’ll follow.” His heart did a thing—he didn’t know if such a thing was possible, but it might have … wavered.

Azryle found that this was no bond. This woman had attempted to free him from three hundred years of imprisonment, without asking for anything in return. He’d gladly follow her to Saqa.

She shook her head again, this time in bewilderment. “Saqa,” she accentuated, as if she spoke a language he didn’t understand. “Saqa—the hottest Hell realm.” The tears had begun drying on her face.

Azryle lifted a brow. “Continue this, and I might retreat my offer.”

She rolled her eyes. “Please,” she drawled, humor returned. “You wouldn’t survive a day without me.” Then—

She lifted to her toes and brushed her lips over his cheek. Azryle stiffened—stilled—unknowing what to do.

When Syrene withdrew, she was grinning, azure eyes sparkling. “Thank you for everything, Wintershade.”

Neither of them saw it coming.

Something pierced his back—it was so sudden that he didn’t even feel the pain for moments. But then it surged like sweltering coals had been poured inside him. Azryle couldn’t breathe, he felt chained in that moment, unable to move due to the paralyzing pain.

Through his blurred sight, he watched as shock and horror and anguish displayed across Syrene’s face—as if she felt the brutal agony seething its way through him—when she looked down at his chest—something black and wet like a spike stuck out.

“Hello, ripper.”

And that was the last thing he heard.