Drothiker

As night fell, Vendrik had been in the pool behind the fortress, busting a gut to rest his pain-in-the-ass fire when Azryle returned from his training session with Syrene Alpenstride, looking exhausted enough to suggest he’d been constructing buildings all day.

Vendrik sighed. “Did someone bite off your favorite parts?”

Azryle narrowed his eyes as he leaned against the stone wall across. “Have you been drinking?”

Vendrik had indeed had a drink to take his mind off the constant, unnerving sweltering in himself, half hoping it’d soothe, but it seemed to have burned out all the all the alcoholic particles instead, leaving him utterly sober. Either way, it was not like Azryle at all to not have a smug retort to a comment.

Vendrik leaned against the bank of swimming pool, propping his elbows on it; warm water whispered with his movements. “I take it the session went unexplainedly fantastic?”

Azryle shook his head, exhaustion laying heavy on his friend. “It’s fruitless. The woman is desolated. She has no hope, no life in herself. She’s already accepted her defeat.”

That was new. All those they’d trained had either been too smug or too proud or too eager to impress, or wholly ill at ease. But they’d never trained someone … desolated. “What happened?”

The prince ran a hand through his dark hair, hauling spilled strands of his half-bun, back. “She’s too weak; first of all. I’ve had her chopping wood all day, to get her muscles to strengthen. But then someone from old days came attacking her.” A sigh. “He said shit that had her turning to a wraith.”

“That bad?”

“Worse.”

Vendrik knew Azryle’s brutishness during trainings well, could almost imagine what Alpenstride’s hands must look like. “I hope you sent her ointments? Or a healer?”

Ryle narrowed his eyes. “If she would need one, she’d ask.”

Vendrik shook his head in exasperation.

“What.”

“She’s a Grestel. She wouldn’t heal overnight, you prick.”

Azryle shook his head, rubbing at his temple. “Fine, I’ll send a healer.” He crossed his arms. “Though I don’t think she’ll see Ferouzeh—or anyone, for that matter.”

That had Vendrik blinking. Azryle only knew that because he’d had to take care of Vendrik himself when Lilith had died. He’d never thanked his friend for that … for being there when each trace of life had drained from Vendrik.

“Felset is out of her mind.”

“Oh?” Vendrik lifted his brow. “What was her command, exactly?”

“Mend her.” Azryle blew out a breath. “I supposed she’d meant physically, but apparently …”

The thought of the Pall Moira being nice at all, let alone mending someone had Vendrik choking out a laugh. But when Azryle gave him a look that promised a slow death, he asked, “How are you going to prompt that?”

His brows furrowed. “Saqa if I know. Felset wants me to prepare her, not for the Pensnial Duel, but so she can break Alpenstride later.”

Vendrik flinched. “What do you mean?”

“She wants to know how Syrene made the Plunge, and the cub is ready to be tortured only to stow that information to herself.” Queen Felset had usually preferred physical torture, but this … this was low even for his queen. “I’ve broken bones and torn muscles, Rik … literally. But I’ve never done this before. To mend a broken person, just to crumple them later …” Indeed, the ripper was rubbing at his face.

Being a ripper, Azryle was as much to a property to Queen Felset as any other asset. It was impossible to work around the commands; even trying to withstand them might be fatal to him. Mending Alpenstride meant the command forcing him to protect her round the clock, venturing any lengths to settle her wellbeing. Vendrik only said, “You’ve done the mending before, Ryle, you’re no stranger to it.”

“It was different with you.” Azryle shrugged. “Besides, I did nothing, only convinced Felset to give you time.” Convincing Felset was like bargaining with the rulers of Saqa realms. Let alone have her agree … near-impossible. That, and Ryle had taken him to Lilith’s grave, somehow knowing it would help. “I’m not an otsatyas-damned therapist.”

Vendrik snorted. “Say that to Her Majesty and she’ll make you one.”

Azryle snarled. “Where am I supposed to start?”

Vendrik drew whorls on surface of the water, drawing steam as the liquid gurgled beneath his finger—which was glowing scorching-red, as if it were steel. “You’re commanded to mend her, not only train her, Az; that should give you a few exceptions towards Alpenstride. Maybe try not being too harsh with her?” Vendrik shrugged. “Or impolite.”

Prince ground out, “Raswell gives better advices than—” Words halted, Azryle’s brows knotted, slowly motioning to the fortress behind him. Listening.

“What is it?” Vendrik braced himself, delving into the place where his fire burned like a wild stream, equipping himself.

Not facing him, Azryle muttered, “There’s a faint scream …” A moment later, he added, muscle in jaw flicking, “Syrene.”

And then he rushed inside.

Thanks to his fidgety fire, Vendrik remained in water.

➣

Following the scream that swallowed the air in the crypt, Faolin hastened to Syrene Alpenstride’s chamber, Vur and Eliver flanking her.

Syrene had entered the crypt with bleeding hands whilst everyone had been dining. As if in a daze, she hadn’t responded with even a blink when Cook had invited her to dine with everyone and had approached her chamber. Just as a few slaves had begun murmuring about her being discourteous, laying it on the prince’s momentous attention, the shriek had sounded.

Not many people left their food after today’s pitiless work, but a few tagged along with Faolin to Syrene’s chamber. “Someone must have pranked her,” Eliver murmured. But—

They entered the hallway of quarters. Syrene loomed outside her own chamber, pressed against the stone wall across it, shrinking away from it, a hand clutched at her chest in horror. Azure eyes were widened with terror, red with tears, jammed at her room. Faolin approached her.

Holy damning Saqa.

Her breath snitched; stomach turned.

A man lay in the Grestel’s bed. In pieces. His stomach was cut open, organs spilling out, as if someone had aimed to feast on them.

She vaguely heard Eliver puking, and someone else with him. Many slaves returned to the crypt; screams and murmurs and gasps occupied the place. A few criminals remained unflinching, as if the sight was very casual to them.

But Syrene was whispering one word, over and over again. When Faolin took another step towards her … not a word.

A name.

“Kessian, Kessian, Kessian, Kessian”

Vur stepped before her, blocking the sight to the body … the pieces. “Syrene.”

But the woman continued looking, as if she could see through Vur, right to the dead man behind. She began shaking violently. And another scream had Faolin and Vur and everyone in the hallway covering their ears.

Syrene mercilessly collapsed to the stone floor. “No, no, no, no, no”

Faolin knelt beside her, steered her by her shoulders. “Syrene.” But the woman refused to avert her eyes.

“She’s in shock,” Vur said, concern coating his eyes.

Eliver appeared from behind him, olive eyes slid to Syrene’s hands—blood-coated. And throat bobbed. Faolin snapped, “That’s her own.”

Syrene lifted her trembling finger and pointed to her chamber behind Vur. Azure eyes moved to Faolin—terror; cunning, wrenching terror—and said, voice quivering, heavy, “Kessian.” A bead of tear slid down her cheek. “K—Kessian.”

Faolin’s hand rubbed at her shoulder, being at loss of words.

But Syrene’s head fell to Faolin’s shoulder, as if a heavy weight, or just to strip the sight from her eyes; trembling violently enough that anyone would deem her weeping on Faolin’s shoulder.

Faolin felt the crowd behind her stirring, and clothes rustling. Vur and Eliver beside her bowed.

Prince Azryle stepped beside her, gaze slopping to Syrene, two soldiers headed straight into the chamber. The prince followed after that glance at Syrene.

Faolin heard the soldiers swearing filthily, but not a whisper from His Highness.

She lifted to her feet, hauling the Heir of Wolf Tribe to her full height, grappling her by beneath her shoulders. Syrene didn’t protest; thank the otsatyas. Vur held Faolin’s gaze—and she could have sworn there was worry there. For Syrene.

She only gave him a reassuring nod before leading the woman to her own chamber, and hoped Gnea wouldn’t demur it.

From what she’d heard, there weren’t any vacant chambers available—slaves were sold to deplete them before Faolin, Vur, Eliver and Syrene were delivered here, and she doubted the Heir would venture in that room again.

Gnea wasn’t here when Faolin entered—must have stayed in the crypt—though she supposed she should have asked the prince’s permit before towing Syrene here.

Faolin propped Syrene on her own bed—

“Otsatyas.”

She turned at Aazem’s hiss.

He lingered by the threshold, sheathing his sword at his side. Brown hair was disheveled, gold-and-white uniform ruffled.

Faolin rubbed at her forehead. “I don’t think she’s going to answer anything—”

Aazem glanced towards Syrene behind her. “I know.” His brown brows furrowed. But then Aazem was shaking his head. “I heard the scream, so I came to check.”

She lifted a brow. “I’m fairly certain you’re sharp enough to know the body is where the slaves are thronging at the end of the hallway.”

A corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Judgmental, are you?” Before she could open her mouth to reply, Aazem rolled his pretty eyes. “I came to check whether you’re fine.”

Faolin flinched. “Oh?”

He shrugged. “You know, if you’d died, there aren’t many other slaves who will so wittingly hone my weapons.” Aazem frowned, crinkling that hideous scar on his nose’s bridge. “And all my time spent in swordplay would go to waste.”

“You mean, all the time I spend surprising and impressing you with my tricks?” She smiled.

“Why do I not recall that?” He angled his head, brows knotted in mock concern. “Have you been dreaming too much, Faolin?”

She mimicked his words. Aazem laughed.

But it faded when he glanced towards Syrene again, the stillness in her. “His Highness would not care about her condition. Don’t tell him that she will not answer when he comes for her.” Pall Moira, indeed. Dark Cloud of Destiny.

“How nice of him.” Faolin swallowed, her voice soft, “Do you know what they would do if no chambers are vacant for her?”

Aazem was rubbing at his strong jaw. “That has never occurred before; chambers are usually emptied before slaves are brought.” He shrugged. “Though I don’t suppose anyone would be allowed to stray near that chamber for days.”

“Would they sell her to someone else?”

“That’s likely.” Aazem lifted a brow. “Is she someone important to you?”

Faolin sighed. “Not particularly, no.”

Understanding simmered in his caramel eyes. She supposed soldiers must measure out same understanding during wars. Aazem smiled. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And then he walked out, a hand at his sword. Faolin reached to shut the door but—

Prince Azryle appeared.