Drothiker

Syrene could feel each beat of her mounting rage, numbing the barking in her waist.

“What do you mean.” Everything—it took everything in her to not pounce at the prince, not claw out that smirk. Her hands were trembling … with restrain or the blood loss, she didn’t give a care.

Azryle’s quicksilver eyes missed nothing—not even the scratches of the Pojekk’s talons bleeding on her neck. But he didn’t answer to Syrene as he beheld the confused sorceress holding Syrene upright. “Do not sleep tonight.” Not an order—an advice. His gaze again slid to Syrene, and jerked his head. “You’re with me.”

Like Saqa she was. She gritted her teeth. “Did you send that beast for training.” Not entirely a question. Her rage was a living, blazing fire in her veins, her temple seemed to be pounding with it.

The prince smiled terribly. “So what if it was?”

Even Faolin seemed to be fuming beside her, content to shred his eyes out. But the sorceress’ posture … her face was a portrait of lethal calm, chin-length white hair near-gleaming in the moonlight. But Faolin remained quiet.

Azryle’s gaze sunk to Syrene’s blood-drenched waist again. He extended his scar-flecked hand. “Come.”

It was Faolin who spoke. “She’s going nowhere with you.” Her words flat, unyielding—of someone settled into being listened to and complied with. Her chin high, back straight. Syrene then glimpsed it, if the calluses on the sorceress’ hands hadn’t already been an indication.

A warrior of words, steel, heart. A warrior by blood, in all aspects, that’s who Faolin Wisflave was. A weaponized fighter, a gloriously deadly slayer.

Azryle’s extended hand lowered, only to cross his arms over his broad chest. It was then Syrene noticed the edge of a hidden dagger peeking out through the dark cloth at his elbow, how heavily armed he was. “Then where, exactly, is she going?”

But Faolin snapped, her voice still low but not weak, “She could have died.”

The ripper’s sheer gaze ran over Syrene, and simply asked, “Did she?” Faolin seemed content to retort, but he cut her off, holding Syrene’s gaze. “I am in no mood to spend my night here.” Then—

There was a grip on Syrene’s waist, around the wound … the agony diluted like splashing water over scorching steel. A groan of pleasure began rushing to her throat but she clamped it down as she peered up at the prince—caught his hand balled in a fist, as if clutching her wound. His face, though, bared nothing.

He lifted his thick, ridiculously perfect brows at her. “There is another lesson today. A healer is lying in wait for you at the apartment, to demonstrate healing for you.”

Faolin stiffened under Syrene’s touch.

“Can you walk?” His Highness’ gaze slowly descended to her legs—surveying for blood on the dress concealing them. And she could have sworn those unclothing silver eyes lingered longer at her right calf, as if he could perceive the scar of the wolf bite from Lucran concealed behind the thin cloth.

Syrene snapped, “Yes, I can walk.”

She attempted to slide her arm off Faolin’s shoulder, but the sorceress seemed reluctant to let her. She was holding the Prince of Cleystein’s gaze, nothing but promise of slow death in her lilac eyes. “I hear you’re one of the very few rippers left on Ianov, Your Highness. Any harm comes to her, I wouldn’t entirely hate to reduce the tally.”

To Syrene’s eternal surprise, Azryle clutched at his chest in mock despair—utterly unfazed by the open threat to the Prince of Cleystein—“How very rude of you, my Lady.”

Faolin grinned—more like bared her teeth.

Even then, something in Syrene’s heart tightened to the point of pain. No one had ever been that … protective towards her. Only the Lady of Wolves and the Fallen Duce of Tribes. Only Raocete and Hexet. Mostly because Syrene had always known how to tend to herself, to hold herself intact—how keep vulnerability from crumpling her to ashes. But now …

Syrene straightened, only to find Azryle’s gaze upon herself. Surveying, calculating. Something in it made her feel utterly naked … as if he could see each layer of gratitude brewing in her.

She leveled a glare at him, a soft snarl rumbled past her throat.

He only gave her a smirk.

When Syrene stood on her own, Faolin did not move from beside her. “When are you returning her?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

Faolin flinched, just as Syrene herself.

The prince noted it. Silver eyes drifted to Syrene. “You will be staying in an apartment down in the city.”

“What,” Syrene blurted. “Why.”

The prince rubbed at his forehead, annoyance reaching its peak no doubt. A muscle in his brutal, tattooed jaw swelled. “Like I said, I do not have the whole night.” The grip of Azryle’s mejest tightened around Syrene’s wound, further soothing it. “Neither do you.” Indeed, his hold was not enough to cease the blood wholly.

➣

The apartment was definition of decency. Nothing too lavish as one might expect from a prince. Nothing too chaotic as one might expect from … well, Azryle.

It was clean, porcelain tiles even sheen to an extent. No splotches of blood, no disemboweled organs lying around, thank the otsatyas. Grey couch lain amid the living room, facing … an empty, dark cloud-painted wall. It was cozy, beautiful. What Syrene was invested in was the kitchen to her left as she entered, her stomach grumbled its fanciness.

“You were meant to stay alone,” Azryle revealed, shutting the door behind. “I was to stay with Vendrik at the apartment across the hall. But his … friend arrived today. So she’s staying there.” And I’m stuck with you.

Syrene was too weak to reply, to even breathe evenly and take in everything. Her blood stained the porcelain tiles, her head throbbed. Her sight not entirely clear, the walls seemed to be spinning in a slow curling around her.

Azryle was saying, “Do whatever you want. I will take you to the fortress every day at dawn, bring you back at midnight. What you do here is none of my concern. You will have your privacy, as will I.” A pure command. “But if you so much as try to escape—”

Syrene stumbled—her hand was instantly braced at the kitchen counter. It was an effort to keep her eyes open, her lids suddenly heavier than the northern mountains.

“Ferouzeh!” One moment he was behind her—the next, Azryle stood before her. He gripped her face—not harshly—so small in his rough hand. “Hey, do not fall unconscious.”

A rather difficult task, she couldn’t muster enough strength to word. Too much blood—she’d lost too much blood.

An indistinct, slim female figure emerged from a room. She did not pause as she beheld Syrene. “Abyss devour me, what in Saqa happened?” Her voice was serene, beautiful like a song itself.

Azryle released her face and straightened. “The Pojekk.”

“Ablaze Kosas. If she falls asleep—” Her words trailed off, and through the unclear sight, Syrene could make out the shaking of head. The woman jabbed a finger to the couch. “Lay her down.”

And then Syrene felt a strong arm sliding to her lower back, her own being hauled and poised on Azryle’s broad shoulders. His other arm slid beneath her knees; then she was being lifted.

Her head spun and ached like a dozen needles had been pierced there.

The prince laid her down on the couch. Otsatyas above. So soft—it was so damnably soft, like she had been dumped on a sponge. Syrene was content to fall asleep, when the prince commanded atop her, “Don’t you close your eyes.”

Syrene felt gentle hands at her legs, sliding up her light, delicate dress. Through the blur in her eyes, swinging of her head, she caught Azryle’s gaze falling to the legs now bare up to her thighs—

Then he quickly looked away. “Keep her alive, Ferouzeh,” was all he said before striding to somewhere. Maintaining his stealth even in his own apartment—

A scream broke out from deep in Syrene’s chest as the grip of his mejest loosened on her waist and blinding pain greeted her.

He was again atop her, frowning, if the faint trace of crinkles was to be believed at all. The grip on her waist tightened, soothing the cruel agony. Respectfully, his eyes remained on her face, because Syrene could feel the air around waist … on the scorching wound. And on each inch of the exposed skin below that.

Her lids felt heavy—so heavy. But she couldn’t sleep, no. She’d had enough of nightmares, certainly did not intend to rot away from her own filth.

Azryle asked the healer, keeping his gaze on Syrene’s face, “Can’t you give her something to hold her conscious?”

“The Pojekk are baeselk, Ryle. So long as the wound is on her, my mejest is banished from her body.”

He shook his head, certainly already aware of that. “I meant, some sort of tonic.” His voice was … for once, not harsh. Maybe the injury had treaded to her head, but she was fairly certain she heard softness in it.

“No tonic keeps conscious, Az.” Her tone … she spoke to him as if he were a child, made Syrene wonder how old were they. Though she doubted they counted their age.

There were only a few immortals who kept tally of their age, the precise number. Many Vegreka tended to let it slip from their memories over years, but others opted to not remain reminiscent. For once immortal, time, age, they were no more than particular numbers. Whether one was twenty-year-old, or twenty-thousand was not considered of importance; the only piece that was taken in account was immortality.

Syrene only knew her own age because her life had been divided in segments—it was all math. Family butchered at age ten; after six years of training with Wolf Tribe, she was cursed at sixteen; spent three decades in that beasty form; five years in Jegvr.

Calculating, if only to keep herself conscious: Syrene was fifty-one-year-old.

Since she’d made the Plunge at age sixteen, she looked no more than eighteen. Twenty, if she were to have a healthy appetite.

It was as if her life, too, ceased at age sixteen—not only the aging. For Syrene had not seen the world, had not been alive for last thirty-five years. She had been in an endless, stygian dark. Felt as if she had been … hibernating. And she had yet to come alive again, soon—had to clutch Windsong back.

But it was so difficult—to breathe. Each intake of air felt as if she were taking an unearthly poison to her lungs.

There had been times in Jegvr, when there had been no light in that four-walled stone cell, when she would peer down at herself and see that monstrous form, when she would feel as if she had returned to that tower, when she would start screaming and wouldn’t stop. When her only tether to reality had been the overseer’s whips that followed after plangent, pleading screams.

Heard by no one, left to rot.

By the time the overseer left her cell, Syrene had been nothing but a bleeding bulk sprawled on the stone floor. Even tears welshed on her.

I wish you had jumped that night, Kessian’s words sounded in her ears.

In that cell, she had contemplated it—had wished she had dived that night, had wished she had done it sooner so Kessian wouldn’t have been able to stop her.

Her life … it was a constant, fathomless nightmare she couldn’t steal away from. Couldn’t bring herself to smile broadly as she once did with Lucran and Kessian. Even as she had had the burden, this … this incessant weight, her smiles with Lucran had never been feigned.

A curse. No, even in her human body, that curse never ended. For she was still astray in dark.

She was long from home, and she did not know a way back. Did not know if there was any.

And maybe in this dark sea of lost souls, hers was shrinking somewhere deep within, dreadful of light and the cost of salvation.

“She has gone utterly still,” the healer was saying from where she knelt before the couch, now bandaging Syrene’s wound, “is she conscious?”

Syrene blinked through the burning in her eyes, warm tear slithered down, cleaved past her sweat caking her skin. Through the darkened vision, she caught Azryle’s silver eyes tracking that tear as he replied, “Yes.”

“What were you even thinking.” The healer’s voice was harsh to an extent. “Sending the Pojekk for training was low. Even for you, Az.”

“I didn’t send it.” He rolled his eyes. “I was with Vendrik in the crypt. Felset has given him order to get to the bottom of the body found.” Kessian—“Vendrik froze there. I hunted the Pojekk, found her and another slave fighting it already.”

“And you took the opportunity.” Not a question.

He only shrugged, even as his eyes remained on Syrene’s face—no regret or shame or guilt. She was too weak to even rage.

The healer heaved out a breath of exasperation. “What about the other one, did you check for their injuries?”

He ran a hand through his silken hair, taking the spilled strands from his half bun. “There were none, only a scratched arm.” Silence; then, the woman probably gave him a questioning gesture. Because Azryle added, “I had salve sent.”

Minutes passed, no one spoke. Just as Syrene’s eyes closed for more than a long moment, the healer spoke again, “Get her something to eat—preferably fruit.” A command—to Azryle.

And the next moment, Syrene knew she was dreaming.

Knew, because Azryle only waved a hand and a plate of freshly sliced melon appeared in his hand. The healer swore—filthily enough to indicate this wasn’t usual, even for her. “Lazy bastard.”

He shrugged again, smirking.

➣

Syrene gasped awake in a cloud-soft bed. Sunlight pierced her fragile eyes; she squeezed them shut.

No, no, no— She’d fallen asleep—

As sweat beaded to her brow, glided down her temple, Syrene eyed around—Is this a nightmare?—and took in the surroundings, the cozy bedroom, the silver threadbare blanket in her lap, walls painted the color of rainy cloud, floor-to-ceiling glass windows—

It greeted her, then—the barking in her waist for sitting up too suddenly, too swiftly.

A sob indeed escaped her gritted teeth as she looked down to the unbearable wound. But—

The pain greeted Syrene on her neck … talon wounds. Her hand was already there, only to find more bandages covering the side of her neck. But her waist … Ablaze Kosas, her waist—

“Relax, will you?” an irritating voice drawled.

The next thing she knew was a soothing in her wounds … the pain eddied away too soon—

It was then Syrene noticed the clothes on her. The clean, sleeveless off-white shirt … her waist was bare, half covered by only the bandages. The legs … she couldn’t feel cloth on her calves beneath the threadbare blanket—no, the tights only covered to her knees.

Not the scar on her right ankle.

She was clean. There was not a stain of dirt on her hands, arms. She was clean—

“Those are Ferouzeh’s clothes.”

Syrene’s head snapped up, then. Still, the movement did not send agony nipping her neck.

Azryle stood at the threshold of the bedroom, strong arms crossed over his toned chest—revealing through the neck of his grey undershirt—and inclined against the doorframe. No weapons in sight. Hair was disheveled from the half-bun, dark strands spilling to his absurdly beautiful face. That brutal, stark tattoo of his started from beneath his angled cheekbone, flowed down to his neck, to the muscled arm, landed right on his fingertips.

Beautiful—it was so beautiful. So daunting. So … familiar.

He went on, “You will have to return them, soon. She can quickly turn from a healer to a slayer when it comes to her clothes.”

Slowly, so slowly, from the hazy memory, words from last night registered, then.

You will be staying at an apartment down in the city.

I will take you to the fortress every day at dawn, bring you back at midnight. What you do here is none of my concern. You will have your privacy, as will I.

Nightmare. Definitely a nightmare. She will wake up soon. Soon—

He sighed. “Training will continue in a few days,”—a pointed glance to her wounds—“as soon as you heal.”

Nightmare. Nightmare—

“As for your clothes,” he jerked his chin to an armoire to her left, “Ferouzeh has left a few. But not … enough. You will go shopping, too, as soon as you heal— What,” Azryle snapped, baring his white teeth.

Syrene then realized she had been staring, already exhausted of this nightmare. Yet she blurted, “You’re being … nice.”

He drawled, a terrible, mocking smile tugging, “Don’t get used to it.” He waved a hand, encompassing her bed. No—

She failed to rein her flinch as plates of meat, vegetables and fruits appeared before her on bed. And beside them, lain two small glass vials of the size of her finger, filled with violet liquid. “Eat something, then take one of those tonics. They are for pain. Take one now, I’m leaving for the fortress.” The grip on her wound, he meant, will vanish. She swallowed at the thought. “The other … that’s for night.”

Even as her stomach practically begged for her to eat—“What about … the nightmares?”

Azryle lazily waved his hand. “I took care of that.”

He began walking out but, “How?”

He looked over his shoulder, and then Syrene noticed the … heaviness in his eyes. As if he hadn’t slept for days and days. “You needn’t worry.”

And then he whooshed away with his preternatural speed.

She did not remind him he did not force xist down her throat today.