Abolisher

Syrene felt numb.

She strode through the woods, everything a blur at the corners of her eyes. She was still raging when she felt wetness at her cheeks—tears ascribed to the anger more than the hurt.

She knew she must appear so childish, still craving her parents’ care, their love. Must appear a silly girl rather than a duce or someone Destined to save a planet.

But she’d been merely sixteen when her life had concluded—merely ten when her childhood had been snatched and ripped to shreds. She couldn’t help but feel the need for that care and love.

They’d both chosen their people over their own daughter. And Syrene knew that was the wiser choice—reasonable one—but it still stung. Left an icy shard in her chest.

Her mother hated Kefaas because he’d preferred his people over his family. But what had she done? When did she opt for her family?

Syrene hadn’t realized when the woods cleared and she entered a shore. Her lungs felt tight when she noticed the sand beneath her feet, the singing of the sea dancing in her ears.

She’d come here countless times with Lucran and Kessian and Deisn—to train. Rare had been the moments when she didn’t see Destiny at the horizon and let herself wind down. Rare had been the moments when she’d spent her time as a normal teen—gossiping around the bonfire as night fell, swimming in the sea as the sun sank lower, laughing and rolling across the sand while stars smiled down at them.

And otsatyas glared with scorn because she’d let herself get distracted for those moments.

Syrene’s throat felt tight by the time she reached the shoreline. Even now she perceived Destiny where the seam of dusky sky and dark sea should have been. Glimpsed the Darkness spreading like ink across the sky, swallowing the twinkling stars.

Glimpsed the overgrown horrendous beasts as they flew over to human land.

Glimpsed the sea fading into a twilight sky.

She blinked, and it was all gone.

The sky was willingly resigning itself to the night. The sea was the darkest blue like Navy’s eyes, as waves emerged at the horizon and discarded themselves at Syrene’s feet, as if the journey from horizon to shoreline was a life completely lived.

No immortality for them.

Wind howled in her ears. And as if drifted forward by that wind, Faolin appeared at Syrene’s side, lilac eyes narrowed as they watched the horizon with a warrior’s calm laminating them.

Syrene wished the sorceress wouldn’t speak, for she craved this silence and serenity like it would help her survive today to witness a tomorrow, as memories of Deisn, Kessian, Lucran wilted past her eyes.

Alive only in these memories.

Unwittingly, her mind raced to show her Deisn’s weak form in that white-walled room as baeselk assaulted her, Kessian’s dead body in pieces in her slave chamber at the Glass Palace, Lucran’s bits she’d once chewed on.

She could almost taste his wet flesh on her tongue, his blood on her lips—

Then Syrene was retching.

Faolin’s hands came to rub her back and hold her hair, but the images kept coming.

Nausea wasn’t only in her stomach; it was in her entire body. She wished she could retch out everything inside her—all the painful memories, the feelings, the power. Everything she didn’t want.

She wished this would all stop—this unforgiving pain and weight and anxiety.

When she was done, she slid to her knees beside the vomit, which was soon eaten away by a wave, leaving only wet sand in its wake. Faolin brought Syrene water in a shell. She rinsed her mouth until only the ghosts of that salty taste of seawater remained.

Then the sorceress perched herself beside her, and Syrene rested her heavy head on her shoulder.

She didn’t know how long they remained that way without speaking, watching the horizon.

Syrene was the one to break the silence. “When does someone stop being a child?” She didn’t bother feigning strength in her voice—it came weak and shaken as she felt.

“Depends on your definition of child.” Faolin drew her knees up to rest her arms on it. She fiddled with her nails. “Irresponsible? Free of burden? Mischievous? Because even as youngsters, we aren’t free. As soon as we’re born, we have to learn things—how to walk, how to speak, how to eat and other basics. As we grow, our lessons take a step-up. We have to learn discipline, social behavior and so forth. Then we begin growing sense of responsibilities and glean that they would never end. Every next birthday the chores level up and grow harder. And so as we become aware, it becomes tougher.”

Syrene was silent, wishing the sorceress would continue speaking. And she did.

“Life is like a mountain. For mortals, there comes a time when they reach the peak of that mountain, and then they’re faced with a slope before themselves. As they climb down the mountain, they return to not being able to walk without a stick, unable to speak clearly, or eat properly. They descend the mountain, and return to the ground. To their graves. For immortals …” She sighed deeply. “The levels only harden for us, Syrene, but so do we. We never have a slope. It’s like we’re climbing an endless route—death comes only from the fall. No easy tilt for us to descend. You have to stop waiting for it. Wishing for end will get you nowhere. If you want an end you have to stop climbing at let the fall snatch you.”

Her words offered little comfort, but Faolin was not trying to give her comfort, she knew. It was an unkind truth that Syrene needed to face—the manner of telling it was kind enough.

Faolin wasn’t the person you sought comfort from. Her words held kindness but the points made were brittle and cold. You sought Faolin when you wished to be faced with unsympathetic facts that might rattle you.

“Would you let the fall take you, Syrene? Do you wish death over challenges?”

Syrene continued staring at the waves, let their raspy singing lace with the sorceress’ entrancing voice.

“Because you’re not alone. We’re all climbing beside you. You have your friends, your people, around you. The ascent isn’t as terrible—not unless you choose to be alone and let the coldness of the mountain collapse you. Because life will tear you apart if you opt for loneliness.”

Syrene sighed, suddenly very aware of that gaping in her chest—or rather, the absence of it. She hadn’t felt it in the days she’d spent with these people—with Azryle. The thought set warmth stabbing her chest, which surprisingly brought more pain.

“So the climb never truly ends for us?” she whispered.

Faolin shook her head. “Never. We choose this when we make the Plunge and cut the Thread of Mortality.”

Syrene remembered the day she’d made the Plunge.

Right before she’d cursed herself to secrete Drothiker.

She shut her eyes tight, letting the memory dissolve into the darkness behind her lids.

The sorceress’ shoulder rose and fell beneath Syrene’s head as she released a long breath. “Your mother never sought ill for you, Syrene.”

At that, burning anger twisted through her. She lifted her head off Faolin’s shoulder. “Certainly she failed at putting that to practice.” She heard the coldness of her words, bitter and ruthless.

“Syrene—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

She glared at the horizon, but she felt Faolin’s rigidness, tattling enough about her restraint from snapping at her duce. Even though Syrene had made it perfectly clear that she needn’t restrain herself with her—Faolin’s own honor seemed to demand it. Despite her position as the duce, she was no one to comment on the assassin’s honor.

Syrene didn’t look at her as she demanded, “Take me to the throne.”

“What?”

“To my throne. I want to see the Crown of Stars.”

Faolin hesitated. “Right now?”

Syrene nodded.

✰✰✰✰✰

Faolin remembered.

It’d been twenty-six years, but she still remembered her way through this particular forest. The scent of it—the feeling of the air against her skin.

And she liked that feeling more than she did breathing.

The throne wasn’t far from where they’d been. It took merely five minutes of silent walk before the familiar tightly-packed cluster of trees appeared, behind which, the gates to the throne were concealed. She realized she was smiling when the scent of all sorts of flowers grew every step towards it, unable to rein it in.

Too long she’d been far from home—too long she’d been wandering.

They were about to enter the bunch of trees when—

“Syrene.”

Even as the voice was strained enough to indicate that the owner was in great pain, a dagger came to rest in Faolin’s hand as she whirled. She heard the catch in Syrene’s breath before her eyes found the man from Silvervale.

Kefaas Petsov.

His figure was placid—colorless. An illusion. It seemed to be constructed from snow, with a hint of blue. Even then, there was no mistaking the wound he was clutching at his waist. The blood on his face.

Syrene lurched a long stride towards him. “Kefaas—”

He shuddered, swayed, due to the loss of blood, but braced an arm against something to steady himself.

“Kefaas, what’s—” The sparking panic in her voice too palpable. “What’s happening—where are you—” She tried to stretch a hand to his shoulder but it went right through it.

“Not—important,” he gasped. “I need you to listen.”

Syrene began shaking her head, likely gaining the sense of the waning life. Another lingering loss. “No. No, tell me where—”

But the man went on. “You don’t have time. When you told me the story of Rukrasit and Lavestia and Aegestan, you said the three sisters opened a portal—which caused the death of two. I should have told you this before, but no sister ever died, Syrene. The fall of all those worlds, the plague, the birth of Rukrasit, none of that was caused because a portal was opened.”

Faolin could tell Syrene was a wrong breath from crumpling down with all the calculations dancing in her mind, putting the pieces together.

Faolin straightened. “What is it?”

Kefaas’ eyes shut in pain, his brace tightening over the wound. “They were betrayed.”

“By Erauth—”

But he was already shaking his head. “The third sister was never with them. Two of them—Felset and Delaya—drained all their power into the portal, but the third one didn’t participate. When they began the process, her mejest faltered because she panicked and hesitated. She cared too much about the world—about the people, was too scared. The portal was never successful because the third one cowered. That was what caused Rukrasit. The imbalance—the incompliance. When the worlds fell, Felset was in spotlight, so she made herself a ruler. Delaya picked her brother’s side. And the third one … she was exiled in pure hatred. She got the worst death possible—”

Only when he was interrupted by something heavy falling for his head—which he managed to dodge clumsily—did Faolin realized that wherever he was … the place was collapsing.

Syrene’s face was twisted in too many emotions, Faolin could make out the anger, the confusion, the mounting panic, the horror.

Most of all, despair. Helplessness. Witnessing another person die while she remained watching.

Not just any person. Her own father.

Kefaas leaned against what appeared to be a wall as he continued. “I met Delaya centuries and centuries ago …” His breaths had turned heavy and short.

Syrene was still shaking her head—disbelieving—silently begging him to get out of there.

Kefaas didn’t seem to notice—or he’d simply accepted his doom.

“At some point, she’d started using my last name and I hadn’t even noticed, I’m guessing she cast her mejest on me. But I’m not associated to her.” He met Syrene’s gaze when he said the last sentence. “She wanted to keep herself close to me. I realized this years and years ago. She wanted an access to you. Even knowing that, I was unable to be rid of her—because of whatever mejest she’d clung to me. But I couldn’t allow her to reach you. So I stopped visiting you. I’m not certain if you remember, the portal I opened for you to bring you back to this world should have given you these memories—”

But Faolin had stopped listening. Blood pounded in her ears. “Why did Delaya wish to find Syrene?”

Kefaas’ gaze came to her—his eyes were drooping. His gaze returned to Syrene.

Faolin found her breath dwindling. She barely found words to ask, “Who was the third sister?”

Kefaas’ gaze didn’t leave Syrene’s.

Stillness. Shock rung in Faolin’s head, her entire body.

The third sister—Syrene—

Her heart hammered. Panic threatened to come loose inside her—

He swallowed. “It was never about being Grinon Alpenstride’s heir. It was never about having enough of his power to run Drothiker through your veins.” Sweat broke out at his forehead. “The third sister died after the exile. But the sisters were cursed by universe itself to remain together. So long as the two existed, third could not die. If two died, third was bound to die.

“And only because Felset and Delaya were alive, universe rebirthed the third sister. As a human.” He shut his eyes in pain as he said, his voice shaking, “As my daughter.”

Syrene was still shaking her head, more violently now, as if doing so would shove away his words before they touched her ears. “No. No.”

“Naestru is falling, Syrene.” His face pained. Faolin guessed Naestru was what his world was called—where hemvae had fled to. “I’d been building it for years, hoping I would show it to you someday. But it’s all gone. They did this—Felset and Delaya. They came in pursuit of you and …” He shook his head. “They’re all gone—my people … all the hemvae …” A dark, paralyzing sorrow gripped his eyes, so intense that Foalin felt frozen in place.

Syrene stared at him, tears soaking her cheeks. The immense pain in her eyes spoke more than any words ever could.

Faolin didn’t blame her for the wordlessness. Saqa, she was surprised the duce was even managing to remain towering on her feet. What was she to say here, anyway? Watching her father die slowly, learning about another life, learning all her ilk were dying in another world where she couldn’t reach … Even with all the power, she could help no one.

Not even herself.

With Syrene, it seemed, Destiny resigned to a pitiless death always. Even if she managed to kill her sisters, the curse would cleave her apart. If she didn’t … that was no choice.

Faolin couldn’t help the pity. After all, she knew what it felt like to have Destiny play against you over and over, but never once had Destiny and universe been so cruel to her. Never once had she had to fight her very heart to her soul’s death.

Syrene was stronger than anyone gave her credit for, and Faolin respected her immensely for that. It was a pity respect couldn’t save someone from the games of universe.

The man—the King of Hemvae—limped towards his daughter, and placed a vague blood-drenched hand on her trembling shoulder, as if he could touch it. “It doesn’t matter what you were. Your powers, your memories from that life are long lost. You’re not that person, Syrene. You’re human. You’re my daughter, my heir. My baby princess.” He pressed his lips to her forehead, a tear slithering down his cheek. “You fight, my Flarespirit. No matter the circumstances, you fight your way to victory—if not, then at least a way to survival.”

Syrene sobbed then, hardly holding her own world together. Faolin could tell she was already giving up, fighting to grasp at her chances but all slipped from her hands.

There had only ever been one end waiting for her.

But she divulged none of that—not when her father was literally dying. She only nodded.

Faolin’s heart ached.

“Whatever you decide to do,” Kefaas breathed, “know your father would always support you. Even if you let Ianov crumple to dust, I love you.”

Syrene remained nodding, her lips trembling.

“Goodbye, Princess.”

Syrene shut her eyes tight as that. Her whole body tensed as she kept herself from collapsing.

Just as Kefaas slowly faded away, Syrene whispered back, “I love you, Papa.”

But he was gone before she completed. She didn’t open her eyes.

Timidly, Faolin reached out a hand to her shoulder. Syrene motioned to face her. Resignation brimmed in her red-rimmed eyes.

Her gaze lifted to Faolin. Slowly, her shoulders rose.

But the words she spoke sent shock searing Faolin’s spirit.

“Faolin Wisflave, I free you from the oath. From any obligations binding you to me. Your soul shall be yours only, your life shall be yours only. From now on, you will not wait for my commands. You’re free.”

Pause.

But Syrene spoke again.

“Faolin Wisflave, I, Syrene Evreyan Alpenstride, the last heir of Evreyan bloodline, the last Starblood, name you the Duce of Tribes. You may claim the Crown of Stars and its power, you may wield the tribes however you wish. They shall bow to you—heed your commands. You must maintain the promised peace—must keep the tribes together.”

Silence. Such dead silence seemed to have backhanded Faolin. Everything in her seemed to pause—seemed to have lost any will to function. Her thoughts, her heart, had numbed.

Faolin heard the whisper of twigs, the rustle of trees as winds swept through them. Heard everything, but the beats of her heart.

She felt dizzy—her legs buckled.

“Syrene …” She shook her head. “No. No, you can’t do this.”

Faolin’s heart hammered in her throat. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t move—

Syrene lifted her chin. “It’s already done. When I’m gone, there should be someone to rule the tribes. My mother, Haerven forgive me, is a fool. She made me a duce, and also trained me my entire life to sacrifice myself. She did not see this through. But I will not ignore—”

“Syrene.” Faolin wanted to shake her by shoulders and make her see the gravity of what she’d just done. She wanted to pull her own hair out. “This is not how it works. The Crown is threaded to your bloodline. Impulsive decisions will only—”

“This is no impulsive decision.” Her face remained unyielding, even as her eyes remained exhausted. Tears had already begun drying on her cheeks. “When Azryle died, Drothiker showed me … things. I knew our world needs change. I realized I’m not the person meant to bring it forth. Because I don’t have the time left to understand the severity of the circumstances. I’m the one meant to save this planet. You are the one meant to save our world. The tribes mean the world to you—they never mattered to me. You know the wrongs of the world, I don’t. I was only reborn as Hexet’s daughter, but it was never meant to be me.”

“Syrene …” Faolin warned.

But she was already shaking her head, an emotion finally warping her face. “Please don’t let my death be in vain, Faolin. If I’m going to do this—if I’m going to kill Felset and Delaya, and take myself down with Drothiker, I need to know my sacrifice wasn’t for this worthless world where helpless are never given a chance. As a duce, you can have a say in decisions tcoiines make for Jegvr. Tribes are spread across the world—in every country. With the Crown’s power, you are more than any queen. You have control over people all across the world. You’re the only person capable of bending this world to your will, Faolin—shaping it anew. Because you’re that insane and wild. I made you the duce long ago—Drothiker gave me enough power to alter my very blood. It gave me power to cut the thread binding me to the Crown.”

Faolin’s throat felt tight—jampacked with all the words she wanted to speak, but knew would be futile spoken out loud.

Duce of Tribes.

Duce of damning Tribes—

Faolin wasn’t given time to complete the thought.

Not when she noticed it the same moment Syrene did—

Her heart skittered to a pause as she scanned the trees, the sky, just as Syrene was doing with widened eyes, heard the deafening silence.

The silence—whole and eating.

There was no movement in the trees; the wind rustling them—the wind Faolin had heeded just moments ago—had ceased to exist.

The grass wasn’t moving, the night clouds were motionless. There were no birds, no chatting of insects.

Faolin and Syrene moved to each other’s side, weapons drawn.

“What is happening?” Syrene muttered.

Just as she did, a strong tendril swept the forest, almost unbalancing them both. The trees rustled. To the west, a temple’s bell tolled. Once, twice.

And those were the only sounds in the world.

Faolin’s heart was thundering now.

Even with her each instinct alert, she didn’t see it coming.

There was a movement in the trees not far from here. Then—

A blow seemed to have hit the ground—as if an otsatya had punched it with all their might. This time, a tendril went skyward.

The ground was now trembling—Faolin and Syrene managed to hold firm, but all the strength vanished from her when she realized that was no tendril shooting skyward.

But a void had yawned open.

A portal.