Abolisher

Vendrik was watching the sunrise out the window, images of the past year blazing behind his eyes as he clued Ferouzeh—who stood beside him, tilted against the windowsill—up on everything, when Ryle barged into his room.

And paused at the threshold as Vendrik and Ferouzeh turned as one.

Vendrik stilled when he beheld the prince.

Someone else stood behind Ryle. The owner of the apartment, judging by the sweats indicating that he’d just woken up. That must be Kavous.

He did not look very delighted.

“Not that it’s downright inappropriate to barge into someone’s home so early, Your Highness”—Vendrik could tell he was giving his all to embed some reverence into his tone—“but it would be deeply appreciated if you chose later hours to visit.”

Azryle looked over his shoulder at him.

It wasn’t even a threatening glare—Saqa, maybe Vendrik had lost his damned mind, but there seemed to be a warmth to his friend’s features.

But the other man’s hands shot up. “Just a suggestion.” Then strode away. A moment later, some other door in the apartment slammed shut.

Ferouzeh flinched at the sound. She crossed her arms, frowning. “Why does everyone happen to despise mornings so much?”

Azryle shrugged, and stepped into the room. He looked at Vendrik. “You survived.”

Vendrik’s throat felt tight.

Alive—his friend was alive. And looked more human, for that matter.

Free.

Well, freer.

Perhaps all those torments weren’t in vain.

Ryle arched a brow. “You look like you’re soon to cry.”

Vendrik scoffed—and to his surprise, it came out broken. And if that wasn’t a shock enough, he felt wetness dawning at the corners of his eyes.

Azryle looked guilty. “Come on, man, it was a joke.”

“Bastard,” Vendrik said, advancing towards the prince, as Ferouzeh laughed.

Ryle grinned and met him midway; Vendrik collided with his friend, gathered him into a tight embrace.

She didn’t utter a word, but Vendrik felt Ferouzeh grinning behind him. When she spoke, her voice was thick with tears. “Otsatyas know I’ve waited centuries to see this.”

Vendrik only held his friend, his brother. “Thank you,” he said the first thing, his voice shaking. “For freeing me from the oath.”

Azryle patted his back. “You didn’t think I would actually go run wild and leave you behind with that hag, did you? Also,” he added after a pause, “I’ve never done hugging before, it’s rather odd. I’m all set to pull away.”

Vendrik chuckled and released him.

Ryle was wincing, his hand at his ribcage. Where fresh blood marred the white shirt. The ripper groaned, “Warn me the next time you do that, would you?”

“What—” Vendrik shook his head. “What happened? Are you not healing?”

There was a beat of tense silence in the room, before Ryle said, “Nothing. My mejest is just drained.”

Azryle was an excellent liar, but he’d never lied to Vendrik before—never had a reason to. And Vendrik had seen him lying more than enough to be able to know when his friend was wasn’t telling the truth.

And that beat of silence was his mistake.

“Why is it not healing?” Vendrik pressed. He turned to Ferouzeh, but the healer seemed as confused as he. She came beside him, her eyes on the stained shirt.

“I encountered a baeselk,” Ryle sighed. “It would take some time to heal.”

That didn’t even feel like a truth. “If we’re going to take down Felset,” Vendrik said, “we need to know what she’s capable of. If she’s able to impede your mejest—”

“This wasn’t her doing.” Ryle perched on the bed, grimacing. Only then Vendrik noticed he looked so … gaunt. Weak. As if he hadn’t been fed enough food the whole year. “Well, technically.”

Azryle sighed again.

Before he began the tale of his death.

Vendrik had no words when he finished. Except a “What?”

“According to Syrene, the overseer had olive-green blood when she killed him. Baeselk blood. Mejest doesn’t work on baeselk.”

“You died?” Vendrik accentuated, agape.

Ryle shook his head. “That’s not important—”

That’s not important?! Vendrik looked to Ferouzeh again. She only shrugged.

“—The point is, Felset is too close. I’m afraid she’s …” He pursed his lips. “That she’s not even the worst danger we might have to face.”

“What do you mean?” Ferouzeh inquired.

“She’s bringing someone else in this world. Someone worse than her. She often talked about defying someone named Erauth. Wanting to protect this world from him. And some freedom.”

Vendrik stilled.

From the haze of his memories, distant words sounded in his ears.

She’d bargained, once again, for freedom.

Felset’s words—those had been her words, in that illusion—

His head spun.

“My guess is, as ridiculous as it sounds, she might be obliged to someone. She might have her own strings, and a puppeteer. And if that’s really the case …” His jaw clenched. “Then all that Felset’s been doing for over a millennia, all of it is for someone else. Someone who holds more power than even she does.”

She was a fragile body playing a ruler amidst monsters. Until her brother arrived.

Vendrik’s limbs felt heavy—his mouth dry.

Erauth. Erauth was the real enemy. The true danger to Lavestia.

Felset was just a pawn on the chessboard. They all were.

“I talked to Syrene,” Azryle continued. “She tries to hide it but she’s afraid. She can’t do this alone.” He looked up at Vendrik and Ferouzeh with naked concern clothing his face. “As stubborn as she is, she wouldn’t ask for it, and would continue to act as if she has everything under control, but she will need our help—whatever we have. In whatever is to come.”

Vendrik managed a nod. He tried to speak, tell them about Rukrasit and Aegestan and … and Erauth. But his throat seemed to close.

Syrene—he would have to talk to Syrene. Later. Fill her in on everything. Perhaps killing Kaerions wasn’t such a bright idea after all. If anything, they might need all five Kaerions’ powers to defeat whatever was Erauth.

“Careful, Ryle.” Ferouzeh swooned, “You sound in love.”

Ryle drawled, “Surely not nearly in love as you seem when you’re around Wisflave.”

Ferouzeh’s face visibly reddened slightly. She defensively crossed her arms across her chest, scowling, her round cheeks puffing out. “Didn’t think you had time to regard us peasants, Prince, since you’re always too busy eyeing the duce.”

Ryle dismissively waved his hand at her. “I could never be so cruel to ignore peasants.”

Ferouzeh rolled her eyes when Vendrik chuckled, despite the disturbing calculations. The healer said to Ryle, “Show me the wound, you bastard.”

“Why?”

The healer smiled sweetly. “So I can pry it open.”

Vendrik and Ryle winced collectively, recalling the pain. The latter pointed out, “Even your mejest wouldn’t work, Ferouzeh.” He shrugged, lifting the rim of his shirt, revealing the blood-smeared torso. “Besides, it’s banda—”

He paused, frowning down at the soaked bandage, roughly wrapped about his chest, stomach.

The healer lifted her brows in a challenge.

Ryle sighed. “Needs rebandaging.”

✰✰✰✰✰

At noon, Ryle led Vendrik to the apartment across the hall when asked for Syrene.

More people than he could have possibly imagined were present in the living room when he entered the apartment.

First people he took in—and whose presence staggered him—were the four slaves he’d been commanded to retrieve from Jegvr a year ago. He remembered their names, had charred every slave’s name he’d ever fetched from that wretched place in his mind, had sworn to never forget them. Ever.

These four, though, happened to be specifically from last year.

Faolin Wisflave.

Eliver Domwil.

Vur.

Syrene Alpenstride.

Another slave, though he hadn’t been the one to deliver her, he remembered her.

Gnea Ronsins.

Which he later learned wasn’t her real name. It was Levsenn.

Fifteen minutes after he entered, everyone gathered around him as if he were here to tell a fascinating tale. Which, obviously, he did. Just not very delightful.

When he finished, no one was so much as breathing. Syrene stood behind the couch across from him—her face unreadable. Eyes betraying nothing.

A year ago, standing before Felset, she’d looked like a vicious ruler.

Now she looked like a warrior scheming the ways to survive in the back of her mind.

Faolin Wisflave stood behind the duce, as if guarding her from the very air. She was the one to shatter the thick silence. “We need to learn where she’s planning to open the portal first. And when.”

Ryle stood leaning against the wall over Vendrik’s shoulder. “The former is not much of a conundrum. There’s a Crack in the world. Surely, she wouldn’t be foolish enough to open it anywhere else. Besides, she’d need too much power to crack the world anew, and she hardly has any without Drothiker.”

Eliver Domwil, perched on the couch, bolted to his feet, eyes wide. Then rushed into a room.

He emerged moments later, bearing a paper in his hand.

No … a map.

Everyone inched closer to the table amid the lounge, where Domwil spread open the map.

Vendrik exchanged a look with Ryle.

It was a simple world map.

“Faolin!” the half-hemvae called, louder than needed, excitement rippling off of him.

The sorceress appeared beside him.

Eliver stretched a hand towards her. After a moment of hesitation, Faolin budged and extended her own hand.

“A dagger,” Eliver demanded.

Before anyone else could so much as move, a blue-haired woman—Renavy—stepped to the other side of Eliver, bearing a dagger. Eliver muttered a thank you and grasped it.

He pressed the blade to Faolin’s palm. “This might hurt.”

The blade cut, red blood spurted out. Faolin’s face didn’t so much as twitch.

Confusion contorted the half-hemvae’s features. He looked to Faolin’s face, who seemed mystified just by Eliver’s indefinite aims. As everyone else.

He brought her palm to his nose and scented the blood. The confusion deepened.

Then … his gaze went to Azryle.

Vendrik felt his friend straightening. Ryle inquired, “What?”

Eliver seemed to shrink. “Do you mind, Your Highness …?” He extended Faolin’s blood-smeared palm to Ryle.

Though no one else seemed to notice, but the ripper seemed to grow tense every passing second.

“What are you trying to do, Eliver?” demanded Syrene.

Vendrik almost jumped when he found her beside himself—his first instinct was to go for the weapon, but he was unarmed. When in Saqa had she—

“Faolin carries baeselk darkness in herself,” Eliver explained.

At that, the sorceress’ lips formed a taut, displeased line.

“Her blood can track the Crack on the map. But … unlike I’d suspected, the Darkness doesn’t seem to alter her blood. It just taints it. We need something to wake it.” His olive eyes moved to Ryle again. “Faolin isn’t the only one to bear that darkness.”

Everyone now looked at the prince, who’d managed to come beside the duce. Everyone moved with such damning silence—

Vendrik’s thoughts died when he recalled the glamoured scars he’d seen on Ryle’s entire torso in the cell. As if his skin had been torn open and sewn back together—

His heart paused dead in his chest.

Ferouzeh came to Vendrik’s other side, her hazel eyes full of worry and confusion and … fear.

She looked to Vendrik. What is he talking about?

Vendrik swallowed.

Wisflave snarled, “This is ridiculous, Eliver.” She snatched her hand back.

“But this is the only way—”

“There are countless books about the Crack and its location,” Syrene snapped. “There’s no need to stir that vile Darkness here. It might even attract baeselk, no way in Saqa am I risking that. You’re doing this only to satisfy your own curiosity.”

Eliver flushed. He only adjusted his glasses and frowned.

Vendrik had a vague sense the duce was somehow … protecting Ryle. As if she knew of the things Felset had done to him, and about whatever Darkness she’d bid him … And knew the exact memories Domwil might be triggering right now.

He certainly didn’t fail to notice the sudden stillness in his friend.

“Kavous might have something,” mused Renavy. “I remember seeing a certain book in his apartment …” She threw a questioning glance in Syrene’s direction.

Syrene nodded.

Then the other woman was strolling out of the apartment.

Across the table, Faolin’s gaze locked with Ferouzeh’s—a request conveyed.

The healer might have smiled, but she was already stepping around the table, made for the sorceress.

Ferouzeh—cautiously—took her hand. Wisflave hesitated, but yielded reluctantly. He caught Vur attempting to step towards her, lips parting to speak, but Ferouzeh stole her away, led the sorceress to the couch. A glimpse of bright light told Vendrik enough about the healing taking place. Vur shut his mouth and wrapped his arm around a boy’s shoulders.

Vendrik recognized that boy too.

Undesin—he’d often seen him getting trained by other soldiers at the fortress. One of the orphans. He tried not to think about the fortress. The death of his men, of the other orphans. Because that would have him spiraling into another abyss and Vendrik had long ago trained to protect himself from that torture.

Even as that grief would forever taint the corners of his heart, he would forever be grateful of Deisn Rainfang to have stopped the destruction. Otherwise to bear the weight of more deaths of his people—

Renavy returned to the apartment minutes later, holding a book in her folded arm. She advanced towards the table. “If none of you mentioned this to Kavous, that would be great.”

She tossed the leatherbound book onto the table. It landed with a loud thud. “Do whatever you want with that—I doubt Kavous has ever even touched it.” Indeed, it was thoroughly peppered with dust.

Syrene picked it off the table, frowning at the dust before smacking it off. “How did he even acquire this?” She opened the book.

Renavy snorted. “If I began listing other things I’ve seen in that apartment, the book would be the least of your worries.”

Syrene slammed the book shut. She ran a hand through her brunette hair—the first hint of that barely contained venomous wrath. “It’s written in some ancient language,” she gritted.

Azryle, a portrait of eternal calm, gently took the book from her. His eyes narrowed as his finger scraped the messily scribbled words. “This …” He flipped a page, head tilting. “This is hemvae language.”

Eliver snapped to attention at that.

Ryle lifted his fingers to the zegruks on his cheek, then brought the marked hand before his eyes to examine it. Then his silver eyes went back to the book.

Syrene lifted to her toes to peer into the book, brows knotted. Azryle tilted it for her. “Can’t you read it?”

Her azure eyes ran over the text once again before she shook her head.

Vendrik, as everyone, turned to the half-hemvae.

Eliver was already smirking, his glasses shone. “Well, well.”

But Levsenn rolled her eyes. “You don’t need him.”

Eliver looked offended. “Excuse—”

“Oh, shut it, Eliver.” The siren bared her sharp teeth. She turned to Alpenstride and Ryle. “All aquakin know hemvae never had any language. It was more of a code. Like zegruks, the language—if we dare call it that—is linked with your mejest. The more you’re cognizant with the hemvae part of yourself, the easier you can decrypt the codes.”

Syrene crossed her arms. “Were you, or were you not there, Levsenn, when I was practically stabbed with all the hemvae knowledge by Czar Hexet and Prime Raocete? I’m still unable to read the words.”

Levsenn shook her head. “You’ve obviously failed to discover that part of yourself.”

Syrene bristled. “I can get the whereabouts by tomorrow. And as for when Felset is planning to open the portal …” She turned to Faolin. “You’re inquiring Maycusen today, right?”

Vendrik paused. Maycusen—

He caught Ryle’s gaze. He gave him that familiar look. Long story.

The sorceress, perched in the couch, must have nodded because a wicked smile now touched Syrene’s mouth. “Good.”

✰✰✰✰✰

“You’re not going alone.”

At evening, Syrene went into her own room to fetch gloves and scarf to cover her zegruks. But apparently Azryle had already known she was coming.

He locked the door behind as soon as she entered the room.

Syrene didn’t bother looking surprised. She only rolled her eyes and continued for the armoire.

Her hand was just at the handle when his came slapping at the door beside her head, jamming it shut. “Syrene.”

He was close—he was too damn close.

Syrene supposed it was best she didn’t turn. “I’m not going alone, Faolin is going with me.” She gripped the steel handle tighter. “Not that I need your permission.”

“It’s not about permission, cub.” His breath touched her ear. “You don’t know Felset’s ways—”

“I do know Felset’s ways.”

“—and Faolin is not going with you.”

Syrene gaped, and turned. “You were eavesdropping?”

“No. You happen to be so terrible at lying that I can scent it.” He shook his head. “That’s not the—”

“About that,” she cut him off. “How do you obscure your scent?”

Azryle stared at her. You are not getting your way like this. “I’m going with you.”

“No.” Her word was flat—end of discussion. It was not an order to pull at the bond, but that empty tone worked just fine.

His jaw clenched. “Fine. Why are you not taking Faolin—”

“Because Maycusen is the Jaguar. He’s probably already learned to pick at his prey’s presence from yards away.”

“You could be his prey.”

“I am his prey.” Syrene winked. “That’s where all the fun lies.”

Ryle didn’t budge. “Take your friend—Renavy—”

“No way in Saqa am I risking Navy near that bastard.”

“Rik.”

“If he can pick Faolin’s presence, he can surely pick a certain firebreather’s presence whom, by the way, he’s spent centuries with.”

“Ferouzeh.”

Syrene heaved a long-suffering sigh. “He recognizes Ferouzeh, too, Azryle.”

“Then take me.”

She glowered. “How’s your wound?”

He glared right back.

“Exactly.”

“Syrene—”

“Why can’t you just trust me?”

“I do trust you. I believe you can beat Maycusen’s ass if it came to that. But if I know that, so does Felset. And she always has something up her sleeve—” He shook his head. He looked so tired—so scrawny due to the wound. Her heart strained to see him like this. “Just take a backup, cub.”

“I do have a backup,” she assured him. “I’m taking someone else.”

His brows furrowed. “Who?”

“This man …” If she began talking about Kefaas, otsatyas knew Azryle’s questions would never cease. “You can trust him. He’s—”

The ripper’s face suddenly grew curious—displeased, even. He looked down at the white shirt he wore. “The man whose shirt I’m wearing?”

Syrene rubbed her nape. “Yeah …”

“Can he even fight?”

She narrowed her eyes at him.

He shrugged. “You’re taking him as your backup—would he be able to defend himself?”

She snorted. “He could beat your ass.”

Azryle crossed his arms, suddenly defensive—and … offended. “I’d like to see him try, cub.” She took in the sudden change in his demeanor—the squared shoulders, and defensive stance.

“Are you … alright?”

“Tell me more about him.”

Syrene rolled her eyes again, turning back to the armoire. “I’m sorry but I have a meeting to get to.” This time without Azryle’s hand blocking it, the door gave way.

She felt him move closer to her back, and Syrene was thoroughly reminded of last night. Her face felt on fire.

They hadn’t decided where to go from there—they’d only spent the night kissing and discovering each other’s scars, allowing the other to enter their life.

Azryle had kindled a campfire and they’d waited for the rain to stop—she hadn’t realized when they’d begun sharing more stories about themselves.

She’d told him random facts about herself—that she loved to dance, and she used to draw. She told him she’d been wanting to draw his eyes, the precise silver of them.

He’d only smirked that cocky smirk and drawled, “Make them as pretty as they are or don’t bother at all.”

She’d only stuck her tongue out at him.

She’d traced his zegruks all night, committing each curve and whorl and smudge of ink to her memory.

He’d asked her about her time when she was cursed in the tower—and her life before that. She’d dared ask him about his childhood and what he remembered of his mother.

Syrene would never forget the way his eyes had shone speaking of her. The pure love and the pain that came with it.

She’d wanted to ask about the making place, but … she couldn’t. That area seemed too personal for her to tread. And when he’d gone rigid today at Eliver’s question about the Darkness he bore … as much as it’d shocked her, as much as she’d wanted to strangle the queen, she’d gotten an inkling of what that place was.

And she already dreaded it.

Now, Azryle’s warm lips came to touch her ear.

All the horror from her skin burned away just like that.

“If you trust him, cub, then so do I,” he whispered. “Don’t ever say I never did anything for you.”

She smiled—wider when his lips brushed her cheek.

She grabbed her gloves and scarf and shut the armoire. Syrene turned to him.

Before she could say anything, he kissed a side of her forehead. “Stay safe, Syrene.”

She had a strange urge to wrap her arm around him, but that somehow felt more intimate. They’d never done that before—the holding each other.

And it’d been years and years—decades—since she’d been held by someone.

She chuckled instead. “Careful, asshole. Your actions these days indicate that you might even have a heart.”

Azryle retreated, cocking his head. “Would that be so bad?”

Syrene paused to scan his face—the slight curve of smile at the corner of his lips, the shine in those silver eyes, the mussed hair, the disheveled shirt.

She’d once wondered what Azryle would look like if his laugh held the warmth, if his eyes held humanity.

And he was truly the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

“No.” She smiled. “Not bad at all.”

“Good.” He took the scarf from her and hooked it around her neck. “Because I’ve found I might savor feeling human in your presence, Alpenstride.”