Abolisher

Syrene heard it—as Azryle’s silent steps withdrew.

Farther, farther, farther.

Until they vanished from her earshot.

Heard the hoarse breaths of Faolin at her side, heard the rasp of Ferouzeh’s fingers against Faolin’s skin as she healed the sorceress.

Heard the endless silence in the world, stretching all the way to Silvervale—farther.

She won. Felset won.

The realization hit her—hit her so hard that she felt as everything within her reduced to splinters and ashes. She couldn’t move. Didn’t want to.

Not as Dark claimed her world right before her eyes.

Not as her mother died over and over and over in her mind.

Not as her father’s words rung to her core like reverberations of a thousand chimes.

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

Not as her own last words to her mother scraped against her bones.

You succeeded at being a duce. But don’t you see how terribly you failed at being a mother?

She gripped her knees to her chest, feeling the shield Azryle had thrown around her to keep the Darkness at bay.

Something burned within her, burned so fiercely that she felt her heart dying, her lungs trapping the smoke and suffocating her. She wanted to close herself in a shell and never return to this wretched, merciless world. The world that had not neglected a single chance to harrow her, to wreck her.

She heard a groan at her side—indicating Faolin had awoken.

But she heard something else.

Felt it.

Winds rustled the lifeless twigs as it strived for Syrene’s direction. The forest before her seemed to open, the trees clearing the way.

Faolin instantly gained her posture and equipped herself with weapons, hinting she’d felt it too. The strange wind.

It tasted different, felt malicious. Unearthly.

Syrene managed to sit up, because even now she couldn’t help the caution and survival instincts that seared their way into her. But that was all the movement she could manage with that invisible weight weighing her down, pinning her to place.

Ferouzeh was on her feet too. The healer swore. Then—

She whirled and hurled the contents of her stomach on the trunk behind Faolin.

The sorceress motioned to her. “What’s wrong?”

But Ferouzeh only continued retching.

One eye on the gloom sprawled before them, Faolin rubbed Ferouzeh’s back. Her voice dropped, gentled, “Was it my mejest—”

Ferouzeh managed to shake her head, still doubled over, a hand braced on the tree.

Understanding dawned upon the assassin’s face. She turned to Syrene. “It’s … the surroundings,” she imparted. “Ferouzeh’s mejest is pure—untainted. Whatever’s headed this way is fiddling with her—”

Her words halted when a shadow appeared at the far end, hidden behind the sickening dark.

The shield around Syrene seemed to pull when she managed to lift to her feet. She was bracing herself before she realized it, because Drothiker, treacherous as it was, stirred. Thrilled—prattling enough about just who was approaching.

Syrene’s jaw ground.

Still, she failed to summon the fury—that anger that had fed on her energy. Now dormant, as if it found nothing to feed on. No anchor to yank at.

Felset approached slowly, as if relishing every second. Why wouldn’t she? She’d won. She’d stolen this world—stolen hosts for her people. Now all she waited for was the freedom she’d bargained for.

Syrene felt as each thought landed like a blow, diminishing her spirits slowly, painfully.

Faolin’s hadn’t, though. The sorceress was wholly disposed to fight—wouldn’t cave in without it, even if her body yielded, Syrene knew she would fight her lungs for last breaths. Syrene admired her for it, though she questioned what use was that fierce will at this point—it wouldn’t undo the Darkness, the enslaved Vegreka.

Wouldn’t defy Destiny—

Destiny.

The word snagged, rung in her head. They still had a chance—not at survival, definitely not at survival.

But at freedom.

She could free them—she could offer them this—

“Syrene Alpenstride,” Felset drawled in a way that had chills skittering down her spine. In the same way she’d uttered it a year ago in her throne room.

Then, fury had been with Syrene as armor to shield her from any fear.

Now she was left unguarded.

Felset drew closer and closer, and Syrene managed to reach for her lightning and winds—

With a flick of Felset’s wrist, Faolin went to her knees, grunting. Ferouzeh was pinned against the tree she’s been using to hurl her contents at, restrained by some invisible force.

Their breaths quickened as they fought against the bonds, but Syrene knew it would be fruitless. She was just glad Felset had kept herself out of their minds—though she wondered for how long.

“Or shall I call you sister.” Her voice was like silk bearing sharpness of knives.

Syrene could just make out her wide grin.

“Looks like you didn’t need Drighrem after all,” Syrene drawled, fighting the rising panic to keep her cool.

“Oh, I need Drighrem, sister. And I will tear it from you, perhaps not as gently as your human mind might think.”

Her breath hitched.

All she needed was to remain alive—even if that meant being entombed in some stone, or trapped in coldness of cells. She needed to remain alive for centuries—for the burrowed time to end and let Drothiker unleash itself on the world.

She must remain alive—even if it cost her everyone left in her life. Even if she had to watch them all die.

Even if she had to watch Azryle suffer.

She deserved it—deserved that pain. If only she’d been more vigilant, if she’d only been more cunning, her mother might have been alive. Her father—she might have had time with her father.

All these humans trapped in their minds at this very moment might have been alive.

Death wasn’t the answer for her—death was a quick release. She deserved whatever was to come for her.

Syrene willed her fear to rise to surface, let Felset see it. “You would get bored.”

“Of suffering?” The queen snorted as she came to a pause. “Never.”

Syrene stomped on her disgust.

“I would carve Drighrem out of you, Syrene Alpenstride.” Her voice brimmed with millennia of the bitterness she’d been clinging to. “Grinon Alpenstride would watch and rue the day he decided to refuse providing aid to Rukrasit.”

“Your world was filled with monsters,” Syrene snarled. “You can hardly expect him to open his doors only for them to come feed on his people.”

“You know nothing, girl.” Felset’s hackles rose. “Humans bear bodies like this.” She gestured to her own form, lethal and sharp like a dagger—whatever lost soul she’d stolen it from. “They can be shared. You humans are all souls and minds—allotting hosts would have hardly meant anything. It could have been a peaceful pact if only he’d freely accepted.”

Syrene couldn’t believe she was hearing this nonsense. How could she not see—it would have still been a constant battle in mind, whoever emerged victorious would rule the body.

How could she not hear how ridiculous she sounded.

Faolin, brave as she was, spat on the twigs. “Senseless hag.”

Syrene expected the queen to lash out, and direct her preposterous power at Faolin, but Felset only assessed her with narrowed eyes. Then her lips quirked in a cruel smile. “You’re the one Deisn imbued her ruins in.”

Faolin bristled, lips pursing.

Maybe Syrene imagined it, but a sorrow seemed to enter the Enchanted Queen’s eyes as she uttered Deisn’s name, as if the sorceress had truly meant something.

You and I—we shall bring my people homeward. You will help me get my revenge, won’t you, Deisn?

Perhaps in her own way—in that cruel, merciless way, Felset might have cherished Deisn. The thought had Syrene’s gut twisting.

And it was only that thought, only that vision Drothiker had shown her from Felset’s memories, that Syrene felt her anger rising.

If only she’d been more vigilant, she could have noticed Deisn’s silent suffering all those years ago, she could have saved her friend from decades of torments of her own mind—torments she’d borne in that wretched white-walled room, where Felset had unleased her baeselk and otsatyas knew what else upon her friend.

“You took her,” she breathed, her throat tight. “You took Deisn and broke her.”

Syrene knew she was equally to blame—knew she was no better than the woman before her, no lesser monster.

Felset’s smile faded. “I made her powerful, girl. I gave her what most humans would kill for,” she hissed. “I didn’t know she would be foolish enough to throw it all at someone else.” She threw a writhing glare in Faolin’s direction. “What a waste.”

“Enough chitchat,” another voice drawled.

Syrene didn’t dare turn, didn’t dare take her eyes off Felset for even a second. But she knew the voice.

“Just be done with it, Felset.” It was the demanding note in Delaya’s tone that had Syrene’s spine locking. How powerful did she have to be to be commanding the Enchanted Queen—

But Felset wasn’t powerful anymore, was she?

Otsatyas, of course.

Felset’s power was Drothiker, which now ran in Syrene’s veins, leaving Felset nearly powerless.

Nearly—because even with only a drop of it, Felset was more powerful than any being on Ianov. So powerful that Syrene’s mejest needed to be tangled with Azryle’s to subdue her.

In that case, Delaya …

Bleeding Kosas.

Syrene had been deeming Delaya the weaker one, had planned to kill that one with herself. But if Delaya overpowered Felset, that meant …

It had to be Felset. She had to take Felset down with herself to kill Delaya.

“No, I think I’ll take my time with her.” Felset smirked, even as her face had tightened slightly.

Syrene remembered what Kefaas had told her—Delaya had sided with Erauth, meaning she’d been watching Felset struggling to rule, with her brother, up until the moment he’d come forward and betrayed Felset before her people, taken the throne from her, as Vendrik had put it.

Felset had made no point to hide her disdain towards her brother.

Syrene wondered if traces of that crack still burned towards Delaya too.

Delaya chuckled. “You would do that to our baby sister?”

“Sister,” Syrene snorted. “Please do not insult me like that.”

“You might have taken a new life, Syrene,” Felset said coolly, “but you’re still bound to us.”

Syrene contained herself from grinding her teeth—a habit, she found, she’d acquired from Azryle—she tried not to think of him. Because if she did, she doubted she would be able to hold herself.

Instead, she displayed mock offense on her face. “And that gives you the right to insult me by indicating I’d once been related to you? In front of my friends!” Syrene sighed. “Careful, Your Majesty, embarrassment might kill me before you get a chance to.”

Delaya’s mejest brushed Syrene’s side as she moved, smiling. Something in Syrene’s too-alert instincts relaxed slightly as the shapeshifter moved in the range of her sight. “Careful, indeed, Felset.” She paused right beside her, blocking Faolin and Ferouzeh from her sight. “Brother had wanted to see her alive, I seek to know why.”

Syrene’s heart crept into her throat, but she wasn’t foolish enough to bare any inkling of that fear. “Speaking of him.” She picked at her nails, frowning. “Not very wise of him to be missing such delightful family reunion.”

“Oh, he won’t be attending.” Felset idly waved her hand, ignoring the jab. “Don’t miss him too much.”

Something in Syrene seemed to sag. Still she inquired, “And why is that?” She felt Faolin threading through her dark mejest, felt her busting a gut to free herself of the bonds.

Syrene needed time—for both Faolin to release herself and Azryle and Vendrik to return.

She couldn’t do this without them—certainly not without the prince.

Felset seemed to assess Syrene with those cunning eyes. “I have only ever sought to protect this world, Syrene.” There was an honesty in her voice—Syrene tired to shake herself, willing her mind to clear. But … Felset’s words still rung true. “Sure, Brother had offered me freedom, but he was foolish to think I would let him make my people suffer.” Her chin lifted. “He’s trapped in Rukrasit.”

Hurt—there was hurt in her voice.

They adored their brother, as absurd as it sounds, with human feelings despite being … not human. More intensely than a human could ever love actually.

Did Felset still care for him?

Syrene didn’t care—she knew she’d grasped a string of weakness and tugged at it.

“And you still didn’t kill him and free us of the curse,” she sneered.

The queen’s throat worked. She opened her mouth, but—

“I said enough chitchat,” Delaya interrupted. She snapped at Felset, “Start with her already.”

Syrene’s heart raced. She willed lightning in her veins. It’d meant to keep her equipped but—

One moment, Syrene felt the rush as her mejest zapped her veins, felt the awakening.

And then it was gone. Blocked.

Her breath snagged. She tried again but … nothing came.

She looked to Felset and found her smiling.

Drothiker—she was wielding Drothiker’s power to thwart her mejest.

No, Syrene pleaded to the power—and felt it grinning, as if it were truly another beast wishing suffering on her. No, please.

She yanked at her mejest again. Nothing.

Even as Syrene couldn’t see her, she knew Faolin had stilled—the sorceress was aware what was happening, felt the halt in Syrene’s mejest. The hesitation. Then—

It came—the power.

Not as she would have expected, not as she’d felt it before.

Rather, it blasted inside her.

Then came the burning.

The freezing.

She felt frost over her veins, felt the unnatural fire in her blood, felt the burning of her bones and the power—destroying, and lethal—scratched at her.

The inside of her skin was being torn open, as if sprinters of her bones wanted out, out, out—

Syrene was screaming. She was screaming as pain assaulted her head-to-toe.

She was screaming at the onslaught of destruction she didn’t comprehend.

Reverberations on pain echoed in her flesh—her soul.

Her thoughts vanished, her senses were charred to nothing. Only pain and pain and pain.

She wanted to die. She wanted it to stop—

But nothing came. She didn’t feel the stones as they peeled her skin when she fell to her knees.

She clawed at the ground, at the trees, anything to spare her from this agony—

Splinters of wood brutally tore into the soft flesh behind her nails, drawing blood. But that only felt like a touch of wind against what was ensuing inside her.

Syrene sobbed.

Everything burned. Everything froze.

Winters and summers and days and nights broke behind her lids.

It felt as if Ianov had been shoved down her throat and now it was fulfilling its Destiny.