Drothiker

The only thing Faolin liked about the scullery duty was the odor of Cook’s food here. Something she hated the most was the hotness, though windows above the copper sinks were open to let the morning’s cold breeze sweep in and keep everyone sweat-free. Cook was tending to the bubbling pots on the hearth, accompanied by Eliver, whilst Faolin sat with Vur and Syrene on the wooden table dividing the kitchen in two halves, cutting the vegetables.

Despite the absurdly early hour, Cook and Eliver laughed and cooked merrily, unlike the ones on the table.

Faolin hadn’t slept last night, thanks to the lack of space, though she doubted Syrene had either—she hadn’t moved a hair the whole night. Gnea had arrived late, but had uttered nothing and proceeded to her own bed after a glance towards Syrene. She’d embarked on her day before Faolin had so much as cracked open an eye today.

Wraith—Syrene was a wraith. When she had gone to bathe today, and hadn’t returned after thirty minutes, Faolin had been half tempted to squeeze in and check on her. But the Grestel had turned up eventually.

What had engendered Vur’s silence today, she hadn’t the faintest idea. But the man had hardly smiled. The slices of his onions were as perfect as Faolin’s, though she couldn’t say the same about Syrene’s. Cook had approached the table, frowned at her slices, but hadn’t said a thing, noticing the human’s state.

Whoever this Kessian had been, he’d been too important to have prompted such limpness.

“How did they go wholly extinct?” Eliver asked the raconteur, their voices taking a sharp edge. “I mean, a hundred or so had been spared after the Jagged Battle, right? And a heap must have been immortal, they never reproduced?” Hemvae—they were talking about the hemvae. Bore upon Drothiker.

Vur was shaking his head. Even being someone who believed in the device, the man was fed up with Eliver’s relentless obsession.

And Cook seemed to have flustered at the half-hemvae’s question about reproduction. But he said, “The Jagged Battle had been … intricate. It is said that hemvae were children of stars—”

“If that were so, wouldn’t Hexet Evreyan have been a full-hemvae? Since Evreyan bloodline was said to be blessed by stars too.”

“Indeed. If there had been any hope for a full-hemvae to be born again, it would have been from her bloodline. But … the duce never reproduced. Her bloodline concluded with her. Otherwise the next duce would have been her heir, not Deisn Rainfang.”

There was silence for long moments. But then Eliver mused, “Someone once told me that there had been a hemvae king once, that he’d partaken in the battle. Whatever happened of him?”

Faolin didn’t fail to notice the stiffness in Cook, and something like rage sparked before he seethed, “He fell, boy, in that battle. Ianov is on the brink of destruction because he used his eternal power to forge a devi—” Word cut off halfway, but—

Eliver went rigid, eyes widened; mirror to Faolin’s own reaction no doubt. Air in kitchen seemed to have dispelled wholly. Vur motioned to look at Cook behind him, color leeching from his face, and muttered, “Ablaze Kosas.”

Faolin was inclined to agree.

But Eliver’s eyes were lavish with triumph. “That means rumors about Drothiker speak true.” His gaze slid to Faolin. “I told you so.”

It was suddenly hard to breathe—hard to register his words. Her glare remained on Cook, who had gone ashen at the forbidden information he’d just divulged. “That must mean the Elite Kaerions …” Her words trailed off.

Still, there was no response in Syrene beside her, not even an uneven breath. Or a blink.

“Get to work,” Cook’s voice was harsh to an extent, a tremor surveying it.

“But—but you ought to tell us more,” Eliver insisted. “How did it all happen? Are you aware who the Elite Kaerions are? Or where?”

But Cook had already returned to his cooking, breaking out in sweat. “I know nothing, boy.” Even without her mejest, Faolin tasted the lie.

“What if one of us is a Kaerion? Don’t you reckon we are obliged to know?”

The old man blinked at that, loose skin of creased neck bobbed as he swallowed. “The Jagged Battle was nothing as you’ve heard. Ianov will begin its destruction should the Kaerions come anywhere near one another. So no, Eliver, I don’t suspect they ought to know. You’re better off without the burden of it.” His voice dropped, yet held steady. “Knowledge can be a weight your wits might crumple beneath.”

It was indeed Faolin who spoke, covertly cursing herself. “Ianov’s destruction will begin the moment they master their power. It is more suitable that they know before the planet’s malicious Destiny and figure something out.” Eliver grunted his agreement, she ignored him and went on. “Why must the most important truths stay veiled?”

“Because the most important truths are dreaded. It’s easier to pretend otherwise, even as it steers to death.”

Gazes moved to Syrene, but she seemed as if she had voiced nothing and continued chopping.

Faolin’s voice was soft, “That does not make it right.”

A cold, lifeless smile tugged at the Grestel’s lips. “You’d be surprised to know good and bad, rights and wrongs are only lies of this planet.” Her gaze moved to Faolin. “You’ve been to Jegvr, did it not teach you that?”

If anything, Jegvr taught her that this world was unjust and it ought to change. But she said nothing and continued chopping.

But Vur stated, looking over his shoulder at Cook, “You must know where Drothiker is, then.”

Old man yielded nothing, though there was a spark of too-grave curiosity in Eliver’s olive eyes.

➣

Aazem struck, but Faolin’s blade was already there to block the attack; steels whined.

But the soldier whirled his sword and attacked again.

She swept, grunting, her mind swarming with what Cook had yielded, just as it had been the whole day, not solely present in this brawl.

And thanks to that distraction, Aazem struck the sword right off her grip in an easy maneuver. Faolin threw him a look that usually set men sweating, but he just lifted a brown brow. The stallion beside them neighed, as if cheering for its owner. Faolin muttered, “Rogue.”

As she bent to lift the sword, the soldier asked, “Do I want to know what’s causing this?”

Faolin straightened and struck, but he merely angled his weapon to block the attack. Through the crossed swords, his heaving breaths reaching her face, she asked, “What’s causing what?” A bead of sweat slithered down his tanned-golden face, from temple to jaw.

A thrust from him had Faolin staggering a step back, but he didn’t attack, and remained there. “The bad mood and … distraction.” Caramel eyes glinted like honey in golden lights of the stable.

She shook her head, feeling the dryness of her lips, her throat. “It’s nothing.” When his lips thinned in disappointment, she added, “Nothing that would interest you.”

Aazem cocked his head to side, a halfhearted smile forming. “You think everything I do is out of interest?” His gaze fell to the sheen blade of his sword, a shadow seizing his eyes. “If that were so, I would have chosen anything but to venture to battlefields, Lin.”

Something in her heart tightened. “Then why don’t you leave and have a simple life down in the city?”

The soldier chuckled, shaking his head, but eyes darkened further. “I wish it were that easy, Faolin.” Those caramel eyes drifted to her.

And then he lunged.

Hindering the unpredicted attack with her sword, Faolin snarled, “Bastard.”

Aazem’s only reply was that crooked smile of his. Those shadows she hadn’t known this warrior bore were now wholly concealed with mastery. As if he’d been doing that the entirety of his life. But as she attacked again, Faolin asked, “What of your family?”

He swept ever so smoothly. “I have none.”

“Lies.”

Smile grew wicked. “What of yours?”

“I asked first.”

He shrugged with a shoulder, but remained silent.

Fine.

Only for a second, Faolin contemplated. But then she supposed it didn’t matter now, since she was no more than a slave now. And … she didn’t have to get into particulars, just in case her mother was alive and her enemies still lingered. “My father … I’m hoping he’s burning in Saqa.”

He paused and withdrew his sword. Waited—for her to say more.

“He was … not a very nice person.” Faolin sighed, letting her hand lose its grip on the sword; it dived onto sand beneath. “He wasn’t dead the last I saw of him, which was when I was seventeen. When he tried to kill me and my mother.”

Aazem went rigid, blinked.

She was very conscious of the cold smile that detained her lips. “What that say is true: father-daughter relationships are complicated.”

He didn’t smile. His throat bobbed. “My father was a traitor to Cleystein. He is in Jegvr, still. And as the law suggests—”

“Offspring must pay,” Faolin completed. “Serve the country your kin betrayed, with your soul, flesh, mind. Slavery or military.”

He shrugged. “It was either my sister or me. My cousins, obviously, wouldn’t pay for my father’s actions. His brothers and everyone he knew turned on him.”

That was why he was a soldier, an unsolicited burden.

Aazem fell in the sand and perched against the wall across, panting. “Your turn.”

Smiling, Faolin lifted the cloth perched on the chair’s arm beside her and began wiping sweat off her face and arms and neck, very conscious of Aazem’s glare monitoring each movement, each breath. “I think you already know enough about me, Aazem, you know things people in this fortress don’t. Things people in Jegvr didn’t know.” She motioned to him, finding a playful smirk on his face. “You’ve been researching on me, haven’t you?”

“Of course, I have.” He wasn’t lying, at least. She had noticed it—he being absent during soldier trainings, emerging only at nights.

Yet she asked, if only to see whether Aazem Shinkel was capable of burrowing up the junk greatest detectives couldn’t, “What did you muster, then?”

“I received your file from Jegvr just today.”

“Oh?”

“It was empty.”

Of course it was. “And?”

“If your file was empty, it means they found nothing about you, despite your full name—only your family. They had no motive to capture you.” He angled his head. “It gave them no right to keep you there.”

Faolin didn’t answer. Each word was content to reveal.

“Or …” One moment he was perched against the wall across, the next he was standing behind her—she was still not used to his preternatural pace. “You had connections,” he continued over her shoulder, his body almost pressed against her back. Almost. “Information was removed. You were a mystery even before Jegvr. But still a known criminal.”

She smirked, refusing to look over her shoulder at him—to meet his dark, unclothing glare. “But you still know nothing about me.” Faolin was picking at her nails. “Beginning to regret handing me a sword, are you?”

“Oh, no,” he drawled ever to gracefully, and began rounding her. “They kept you there and tormented you when they had no proof evidencing you guilty—”

“You just said I might have been a known criminal. Isn’t that enough?”

Aazem clicked his tongue and paused before her; she lifted her chin to meet his gaze as he crooned, “Were you?” When she refused to confirm, he chuckled—eyes full of mischief and amusement. Enjoyed playing detective, did he? But then he continued circling her, “No, it’s not enough, unless there was something that confirmed it.”

“For someone who suspects me as a known, mysterious criminal, you seem awfully fearless.”

“Should I fear you?”

Again, Faolin kept her mouth shut.

“You were in the Pits for twenty-five years …” Aazem mused, more to himself than to her. “Were captured on the same date as—” His words ceased.

Faolin’s breath caught in her throat. But she schooled her expression into causality. “Same date as what, Aazem?”

The next moment, he was standing a step from her. Eyes wide with alert. She waited. What would she do if he gleaned what she’d been hiding—what she was convicted to keep hidden.

Faolin would kill him—this was not something she would risk revealing. Future of tribes depended on this one piece of information—riots, even wars, would break loose. Twenty-five years in Jegvr to keep her a secret, all Faolin’s efforts would crumple if Aazem plucked the slightest idea that—

Faolin didn’t know if she would ever bolt from here, if there was the slightest chance of resuming her life, but whatever was waiting for her, her loyalty and soul still belonged to one person on the whole Ianov, and she would do anything to protect her.

Structure of her life molded with ice, melted to a puddle of slavery.

But Aazem only said, “Ask me tomorrow.” Tomorrow, when he’d have it deep-rooted. When he might even loathe her after knowing what she did to earn for living.

➣

Faolin found Syrene standing in the courtyard like a lost spirit, gazing up at the stars. No prince in sight today.

Doing nothing, but just—standing amid the grassy field, head tipped back.

Faolin approached the human.

Syrene didn’t move a hair. But Faolin said by the way of greeting, “Sentries will begin searching and herding all the slaves inside.”

Nothing.

“We should head in.”

Azure eyes—so dark and sorrowful—drifted to her; head remained tipped back to the sky. “You don’t have to be so good all the damned time.”

Faolin blinked. “I’m not being good. Sentries really will come.” Though she understood why the human wouldn’t know. Because Syrene spent her day with the prince—whatever they did—who returned her to the crypt right on time.

“Other slaves wouldn’t have bothered informing me it.”

“Others have been here for more than a year. You can understand why they wouldn’t opt to bother.”

“I don’t fault them.” So lifeless—her eyes were so lifeless and dark. “I haven’t been quite friendly myself.” Faolin didn’t have an answer to that, but before she could even stumble upon one, Syrene said, “I owe you an apology.”

Faolin couldn’t rein her flinch. “For what?”

The woman lowered her chin and faced Faolin. “I haven’t had best streaks of luck with friends. And in Jegvr, when fifteen slaves were crammed outside the office …” Her voice grew hateful, teeth gritted. “That overseer’s hand on my rear—”

Faolin touched her bony shoulder, near-trembling with unholy wrath. “I understand.” Syrene’s shoulders slumped slightly, weakly. “Though let me tell you something: there are countless others like the overseer. Next time anyone tries to claim your body without your permit, have the tendency to show them where a kick hurts the most.”

As they began walking, Syrene shrugged reluctantly. “What’s the point, it’s not like we’re ever wriggling out of here.”

“Don’t give up on hope. It’s your one thread to sanity. The moment you lose it, all the walls will come crashing down.”

Her head whipped to Faolin’s direction. The woman had a good sense to keep her voice soft as she spoke. “You hope to get out of here, someday?” Surprise—it was surprise in her voice. No sign of judgement or laughter—something Eliver’s and Vur’s eyes had simmered with when she’d mentioned it to them.

Faolin met Syrene’s gaze and muttered in hushed tones, “You don’t expect me to spend eternity here, do you?”

“If you do a bunk,” the Heir countered, “tcoiines will get involved, and …” The voice dropped even more, and something like fear limned it. “The Enchanted Queen will never forget the humiliation it’ll sow.”

Though Syrene had a point, Faolin waved a hand. “That’s only if she finds me.” She held the human’s gaze. “Or if you decide to tattle.” Which Faolin highly doubted she would. Not with that lack of life in her.

An unenthusiastic chuckle. “I think I have better things to worry about.”

“Like what?” Faolin snorted. “Scullery duty?”

The human was shaking her head, no humor in sight. “Like taking the ripper’s life and living my own—”

A rustle in the air was all Faolin perceived before tugging Syrene to side, ducking a fatal blow that would have ripped her head off.

Faolin’s heart began thundering as she straightened and scanned the surroundings.

But the courtyard was empty.

Sentries outside the building abnormally motionless.

She sensed another blow too close to her face and whirled, shoving Syrene out of the way. The human went sliding in the grass.

Once again, Faolin straightened and scanned the surroundings.

Nothing—no movement in grass, as if even the wind had dwindled from the entire fortress. Certainly felt like it.

“What the Saqa,” Syrene muttered.

“Stay close,” was all Faolin said. There were no weapons with her, nothing that could be used as one. Yet she yelled, if only to see whether anyone was around to listen, “Show yourself, coward!”

There was an amused hiss, profane enough to have her cringing. Chills skittered down her spine.

A baeselk. Faolin swore.

The thing certainly wasn’t clever enough to glamour the direction of its sounds. But Faolin remained clueless—remained a fool, and continued looking around. To her credit, Syrene was doing the same. And Faolin had a hard time twigging whether she concealed her fear too well, or there wasn’t any.

The invisible beast struck again.

So silently, that Faolin had little to no time to dodge. Even as she did, a scream cleaved the night.

Not from her.

She whirled, following the choking sound.

Syrene laid in grass, relentlessly scratching at the air around her throat—some unseen hand pinned her down, Faolin realized. Blood … there was so much blood drenching her flowery dress around waist.

That vile voice hissed, “You have something I want.”

Silently, so silently, Faolin approached the pile of staked wood a few steps behind where the human was pinioned.

“I have nothing,” Syrene choked out.

Then followed the most hideous laugh Faolin had ever come across. The sound enough to ensue someone with nightmares. “Let’s not lie now, dear friend.” Its voice steered harsh. “Out with it.”

“I have …” A gasp for breath. “I have nothing.”

The thing’s patience, Faolin could feel in herself like oil creasing her very bones, was giving out rapidly, like liquid being poured out of waterskin. “Aren’t you the one,” a pained hiss from Syrene, but the creature paid it no heed and went on, “who was wallowed in a wholly different skin for three decades?”

Fifteen steps to the wood.

As if the Grestel’s silence was an answer enough, the baeselk let out a spine-chilling laugh, making the hair on Faolin’s neck stand.

But then Syrene gritted out, “No, I’m not.”

No way in Saqa did the thing swallow that lie; not when Faolin herself tasted it like sour poison on tongue. “Your blood smells delicious, I haven’t tasted your kind in centuries and centuries.” Its voice veered gruesomely amusing, “Oh, I will take my time with you, Alpenstride wolf.”

Eleven steps.

Syrene’s painful, painful grunt had Faolin accelerating her pace. The human began panting. But then—“Stop.” The pain in her voice … The thing had begun feeding on her.

“Why shall I stop, Alpenstride?” Oh, it was savoring in each second of the human’s agony.

“Because,” she breathed, “I have a friend … he will kill you, should any harm come to me.”

An amused, filthy laugh. “Oh?”

Seven steps.

“His name is Azryle Wintershade.” Even Faolin almost paused at that. Almost. “Surely, your kind has heard of him—the famous prince.” It was hard to tell whether the woman was inviting her death, or stalling it. “He hunts monsters like yourself. He’s in this fortress, he will hear of this.” Lie.

Wrath molded the baeselk’s voice. “And why shall I not kill you to send a message to that ripper?”

Syrene let out a sound that might have been a buried anguished sob. “I can lead you to him.” Her words were quick, breathless. “If you’re certain that you will win, should you two engage in a fight, of course.”

“Of course I shall win,” it hissed.

Three steps.

Whatever this wicked game Syrene was playing, Faolin was half tempted to just stay and watch her fool the creature.

“Then let me take you to him, get your revenge for all he’s killed to your kind. Take his head home.”

The thing hissed, “And why shall I trust you?”

“I have been planning to do it myself.”

Amusement rallied in its voice. “And why is that?”

“Because I never wanted to return to being human, he forced me in this form.”

Something in Faolin churned, and she waited for that sour taste to greet her tongue and divulge the lie.

But none came.

Ignoring the horror that roiled her gut, the thought of the human being lurched in some inhuman body for three cursed decades, she bent and opted the wood with the sharpest edge. Faolin allowed it to lean in her grip as she turned.

“Oh, how you sacrificed for that sword,” the thing went on. “Your blood must be one of a kind, I’ve heard my ancient ilk brag.”

Syrene was saying, “But are you willing to let go of the most loathed enemy to your kind, just for some blood from a small body as mine?”

It fell silent. Judging by the woman still struggling to get the ghostly grip off her throat, the creature was still poised atop her. Faolin didn’t think much, and going through each training, each lesson, she broke into a run, tossing the stake to her right hand as she went.

Side—she had to strike its side, avoid stabbing Syrene beneath, lest it dodged. But—

She ducked the lethal blow that hurled for her … but something sharp and cold pierced the flesh of her arm. The burning it prompted earned a vicious swear from Faolin. Blood streaked her arm soon enough.

Syrene was immediately at her side, breathing hard, grass tangled in her dirty honey hair, when the baeselk hissed, “Clever, little sorceress.”

It was Syrene who replied, “Something you can’t relate to, apparently.”

But Faolin only snarled, looking in the air—the direction of its voice—“What is it that you want?” What in Saqa have you done to these sentries and soldiers?

It only hissed, like a snake speaking, “She knows.”

A sharp, raging release of breath from Syrene told her enough: the creature was either mistaken, or the human did not know what she possessed. Or simply that she was lying … so skillfully that Faolin tasted none of it.

Faolin simply said, “If it’s her blood that you want.” She angled her head. “I’m afraid your only friend to go home with will be hunger.” The stake seemed to be singing in her hand. “Or your death.”

Then the air rustled.

But it was not the creature that was in maneuver.

Chopped wood lifted like armed mists, sharpened peaks faced Faolin and Syrene.

“Oh, I will take death home,” it whispered, “just not mine.”

And the stakes dashed in a pace that had the wind cracking in its wake.

The next, Faolin was gripping Syrene’s wrist, and heaving her to the ground, brutally enough that the woman yelped, and Faolin remembered the injury in her waist.

The stakes whooshed atop them, and cruelly slammed into the border wall far across, clattered to the pavement. The baeselk tutted.

Then it was moving, an invisible power hurling towards them.

Faolin was on her feet; she did not register the pace and struck the stake. But—

She was shoved away with an uncanny force. The wood struck out of her grip; she didn’t hear it clattering to ground over the roaring in her head. Her bones barked when the ground mercilessly greeted her, grass scratching away her skin.

But she was on her feet again, ignoring the pain.

Syrene was looking around—looking for any movement in the air. Faolin charged towards her. With her human instincts—

The Heir ducked. She could feel the baeselk—she could …

She was closing in towards the fallen stake. “What are you!” she demanded, distracting it.

“The Pojekk, they all call us,” it hissed, proudness simmering.

The hair on Faolin’s arms, neck rose. The Pojekk—the nightmares. Literal Demons of Dreams. If all that she’d heard spoke true … sleeping tonight was not an option. Not unless she desired death by her own horrors.

Syrene neared the stake, slowly—so slowly. If Faolin approached, she will only be attracting the Pojekk’s attention. So she paused, stood beyond the bounds of its sight and hoped Syrene knew what she was doing as the human gibed, “Frankly, that’s the ugliest name I’ve ever heard.”

Even the growl that robbed the air from grass was not able to conceal the sound of air rustling as the thing lunged.

Syrene heard it too. For the woman dashed for the stake, rolling on the grass. Her own painful sob had Faolin wincing, blood from waist darkened the moonlit green of damp grass.

Then she was on her feet, tracking the Pojekk’s movements as it lunged again. And she whirled to side, dodging.

It laughed, sucking any life from the surroundings. “Oh, this is fun. I shall enjoy feasting on you.”

“So you’ve said.”

Then Syrene was running and sobbing in pain—but her feet and legs worked nonetheless. Not towards the Pojekk, not towards Faolin.

To the fortress—the sentries.

No, no, no—

But she was already there, withering air behind her betraying the baeselk’s glamour as it followed, slashing past the night.

Syrene was still running … to a wall, not the gates.

Nearer, nearer, nearer.

The pace—her pace … even with that weakness, she managed to outrun the Pojekk. Nothing like Faolin had seen before, no Grestel had right to possess that swiftness—

She was too near, needed to turn now—

But Syrene went closer to the brutal stone wall, close enough that Faolin braced herself for the sound of breaking bones, steeled herself to perceive the human’s crumpling face.

The Pojekk was laughing, no doubt foreseeing what was to occur—

Syrene banked, suddenly enough that Faolin could have sworn the winds around her balked.

She waited for a sound, waited for the baeselk to slam into the wall.

There was none.

But Syrene was already behind it. She drew the stake, and plunged in what seemed to be air. Yet the screech that seemed to have shaken the fortress suggested otherwise.

She stabbed again. And again. Until Faolin was covering her ears, as if that would keep them from splitting.

The glamour of the Pojekk fell, just as a wet grotesque body with discolored skin dropped to the ground.

The courtyard went wholly silent, as if life around here had ceased long ago. Reverberations of the creature’s vile screeching had not vanished entirely when Syrene swept to her knees and the human filled the air with her own painful cry, a hand holding on to the gateway of blood on her waist.

Faolin approached her, ignoring the roaring and the ghostly echoes in her ears. But—

Why had no one come? The Pojekk was dead … The sentries guarding the entrance near Syrene were still wholly silent. Sculptures.

The Grestel woman seemed to have noticed it too, as Faolin stepped beside her and helped her to her feet. Syrene swung an arm around Faolin’s shoulder and trapped her sob, biting her lower, bloodless lip. “Why—why are they still … unmoving?” Her words guttural, breathless.

“That was … better than I’d anticipated.”

It was not Faolin who replied.

They turned at the voice, Syrene grunting her protest.

But she paused—as still as those sentries—when Prince Azryle Wintershade walked out from behind the fortress.