Abolisher

Faolin didn’t hear the screams.

Not until the Jaguar said, “So you’re going to ignore your duce’s cries?”

She’d hauled the shifter to a warehouse behind all the buildings after Syrene’s command. He was trussed tightly to a chair—and kept repeating the same thing.

I’ll speak with the duce only.

Faolin had landed blow after blow, but the Jaguar didn’t budge. His face was bruised, blood slid down his lips, his nose—had grown a black eye. His chest was heaving.

A part of Faolin said this was fruitless—the man had probably been bid worse torments by his queen, worse than Faolin could even stretch her mind to. But another part of her refused to hear over the command.

Her next punch was midway when he pointed out the screams.

The smoke caused by the command in her mind cleared a bit, freeing her senses. Only then did she catch the distant roar.

Then Faolin was running, despite the pitiless throbbing in her ankle. Because the main purpose of the oath was guarding the Duce of Tribes, her commands came next. She left Maycusen in the warehouse, fully conscious that he was very well capable of freeing himself.

That didn’t stop her feet.

It took her mere minutes to reach the alley. A crowd was gathered at the yawning mouth, fear rippling from each single person, which had her heart inching to her throat. Three people were retching against the wall.

She caught Vur and Levsenn standing separate from others, their faces distorted in anxiety and fear. Their eyes on …

Syrene.

Her duce knelt on the ground across the alley, beside a dead body. The look on her face terrified Faolin. The look of a cold despair, slaughtering and noxious. The suppressed wrath and sorrow.

Faolin noticed, as she approached Vur and Levsenn, the dead body was no other than Azryle Wintershade. Dead. Shock and pity shot through her when she looked back at Syrene.

Another man stood over Czar with such stillness that Faolin was just now noticing him. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Eyes trained on the duce. As if he’d given a task, waiting for his protégé to complete it.

“Saqa,” Levsenn was muttering, her hand at her chest, as if she felt her friend breaking.

Faolin’s eyes gauged the mess—a headless man—on the ground behind Syrene, and her stomach turned, bile rose to her throat.

Without thinking, she stepped forward—

Vur gripped her elbow. He jerked his chin to the statue of a man standing over Syrene. “He’s told us to stay here.”

Faolin snatched her elbow. “What makes you think I’m going to stay here and obey a man I don’t even know?”

She thought she saw his lips quirk in a smile—but then again, Vur didn’t smile with her anymore. She approached Syrene, heard Vur and Levsenn following.

The man’s gaze snapped to them. His gaze met Faolin’s, assessing—she tried not to flinch at what she found there. Otsatyas, how old is he? Then, instead of telling them to turn back, as she’d expected him to, he simply lifted a finger to his lips, universally known sign of be quiet.

Syrene had her eyes shut, her brows creased in an effort. Her jaw tight.

Levsenn exchanged a confused look with Faolin, but wisely kept her mouth shut. Then—

Syrene’s and Azryle’s joined hands glowed, and a wave of power struck Faolin, swept across the alley. The crowd began shuffling, a few lost their footing, as they felt it too. A hissing noise sounded from Levsenn—inhuman. The snarl of a siren. Her hand went for her temple.

Vur’s arm was immediately around her, blue eyes full of worry. Are you okay?

But Levsenn was already recovering. She shrugged. Of course.

Vur didn’t release her, as if she would melt away if he did.

And, to Faolin’s surprise, despite herself, Levsenn didn’t brush him away. Instead, she seemed to lean into him.

Under different circumstances, Faolin might have smiled.

Another wave, powerful enough that Levsenn had to brace herself against Vur, had Faolin’s Darkness whispering. Her heart sped.

“Come back,” the duce whispered.

The light in their joined hands enhanced, it shot up the ripper’s veins, visible despite the skin. His body jerked.

“Wake up.”

Her voice was barely there, but there was no mistaking the pure command in her tone, so dominant that Faolin thought she should be kneeling—everyone should be, even as a tear slid down her duce’s eye.

Faolin felt everyone’s confusion, but she’d frozen with the realization. Her fingertips felt cold—numb.

“Wake. Up.” Syrene’s voice rose. The curbed fury bulging.

Someone gasped. Levsenn and Vur stiffened.

Azryle’s fingers moved first. A wind seemed to envelop him, ruffling his dark hair, his tight-fitting shirt.

“Burning damning Kosas,” Vur muttered.

All Faolin could muster was a nod, too stunned to speak as Syrene yanked at some leash and commanded her prince to life.

The ripper began trembling violently with that power Syrene had discharged in him. But his eyes didn’t open, his chest remained still, and Syrene didn’t let go.

“Wake up!” she yelled, her voice breaking. From a command to plea. “You selfish bastard! You don’t get to do this to me!”

Then the ripper went still. Utterly still. The light died out.

Any emotion left Syrene’s face as she opened her eyes. For a moment, silence and stillness claimed the area. Then her face crumpled in pure defeat as she looked up at the man still leaning against the wall, his face still unreadable.

He said nothing, brown eyes jammed on the ripper’s chest, as if he could make it move if he stared long enough. Then—

By some miracle in Haerven itself, Azryle’s chest rose.