Drothiker

Syrene awoke to the sound of buzzing.

She sat up in the bright, moonlit bedroom. She looked outside the window, only to find crescent moon still hovering atop the glimmering city.

But it was not only the moonlight illuminating her bedroom.

Syrene sagged at the sight of Starflame lying silently beside her leg, unharmed, her wings blazing as bright as the moon itself. Utterly oblivious that Syrene was awake and sitting behind her. Lounging ever so peacefully, until Syrene spoke.

“How did you get here?”

The faerie let out a stunned shriek and soared up hastily, panicked. Her wings casted shadows on Syrene’s blanket, and the wall behind. Starflame scowled. “Cruel woman.”

Syrene rubbed at her face. “How am I the cruel one, when your wings are what woke me up?” She shook her head. “I’m guessing Levsenn is still at the crypt, carving her own demise?”

But Starflame’s tiny features molded to worry. “You need to leave here, Rene, this bedroom. I feel something … it’s glaring at you. Call—call that prince, or go sit with him for the night. But get out of here.” When Syrene again shook her head, Starflame seethed, “Take me seriously for once, Rene. I greatly dislike seeing you in pain, struggling every day.” A pointed glance towards the wound on waist, now obscured beneath the cotton nightshirt—left by Ferouzeh.

“Your little fascination with His Highness is highly worrisome.”

Starflame’s wings illuminated a color of pretty red and she made a moue. “That is not what it is.”

“That is exactly what it is.” Syrene threw herself back in the bed, reveling in its softness. “I’d like to sleep, and accelerate this healing process.”

“Syrene—”

But Syrene was already dozing off.

She faintly heard Starflame, “Fine. I’ll stay with you, Rene, as long as I have to. You will not face it alone, because you did not let me face it alone.”

➣

Far in the world, there was something slinking down her temple.

She stirred in the cool bed, shaking it off. But it resumed not a moment later.

Something distant sounded so near her ears.

Not words, not snarls. Not any language of this world.

Yet so familiar—that sound. That abhorrent, profane voice of horrors. The language of monsters she was no stranger to.

Something in her gut churned, and Syrene jolted awake, soaked in cold sweat. Her heart was hammering in her chest, agitated, so violently that her body might as well have been a birdcage and her heart an impatient beast inclined to burst forth.

It was still dark, and the moon … the moon had crept behind the clouds.

Starflame was dead to the world on the dressing table across from Syrene’s bed, her wings dim and slumped in a way that told Syrene her Tiny Moon was too fatigued.

But there was no other in the room. Sweat—it had been sweat slithering down her temple. Sweat, not … what the devilish faerie had implied.

Syrene heaved out a sigh of relief from deep within her and slid out of bed. She needed water—needed to get out of this room wholly swallowed by dark. Save for that little twinkle of light seeping from Starflame’s dimmed wings.

Her hand reached for the knob, the metal cold against her skin. But—

She paused.

Could’ve sworn something in the room behind her stirred. Her breaths came short and quick.

She willed her body to turn, to face it—whatever it was. Willed herself to calm and believe there was nothing behind her. Her palms began sweating, hands slightly shaking with terror now coursing through her.

In the moment, Syrene wasn’t entirely certain her body was her own, forgot that she was a commander to it—that she wielded it. This human body, not that grotesque form of horrors.

But it did not answer—her feet seemed to be sinking in the porcelain of tiles.

She began turning the knob instead.

But something from behind charged for her.

And her body answered to an instinct. She was dodging, rolling on the cool, brutal tiles amid her bed and the bathroom.

Syrene felt the wound of her waist tearing. But she thanked the otsatyas for that tonic—thanked all those who had been watching over her for the absence of agony as the warmth of her blood slunk down her waist.

She didn’t reason, didn’t allow herself to feel the tinge of the ripping skin as Syrene lifted to her feet and aimed for the bathroom—

There was a snarl.

And then she was hurled across the room.

Syrene’s yelp occupied the crammed air as her back violently met with the armoire.

She didn’t let herself consider what might have befallen had she crashed into the glass windows beside the armoire as she lifted to her feet, ignoring the awakening ache in her bones. Even that was faint.

There was no one. Nothing in the room. But—

Starflame’s wings burned and burned as she tossed herself around the room. A star roving like a fly. “The walls, Rene!”

Shadow—she was casting shadow.

The room grew brighter and brighter, until her eyes began burning, but Syrene didn’t dare shut them as she sized up the walls. Where are you, where are you—

There.

It was right before her—the enormous beast lifting an arm to shred her apart in one blow—

The bedroom door thudded.

“What in Saqa are you doing, cub?”

The shadow towering hers on the wall vanished at Azryle’s voice after emitting a revolting, thick sound conveying its annoyance.

➣

She was pale as death, sweating, when she opened the door, trembling violently head-to-toe. But it was not her terror’s reek that devoured her scent, it was the blood that poured from her thin waist, drenched her shirt.

Alpenstride looked up at Azryle with pure terror in her azure eyes, had him reaching for his mejest as he took her bony wrist and tugged her behind himself. She was terrorized enough to refrain from protesting.

Azryle sized up the dark guestroom. Dark—no hint of that bright light that was oozing through the borders of the door not a minute ago.

He stepped inside.

It struck him then—the remnants of the monstrous wave fiddling with his skin, rousing his ripper mejest. He was no stranger to it … anything but a stranger to it.

But whatever it had been, had fled.

Her blood stained the tiles near the bathroom and near the armoire across the room.

Azryle waved a hand, and it was gone, his mejest leaving a sweet taste in his mouth in its wake as he walked out to Alpenstride still trembling. Her eyes vacant.

He might have inquired, wouldn’t have measured her condition and forced out answers, had Felset’s command not been Mend her. The wording of it made a few exceptions to Alpenstride than the other targets of his queen. Had she commanded Prepare her, those exceptions might have been damned, and Azryle might have probed the woman regardless of her state.

Instead, he wordlessly beckoned for her to walk towards the couch.

And, to his eternal shock, she complied, wrapping her arms around herself.

Azryle approached the kitchen for med kit.

When he emerged, the cub seemed to have sunk in the couch, gawking unblinkingly at the cloud-painted wall across.

Azryle only said, “Sit up,” as he advanced towards her.

She obliged, not even blinking at the discomfort the gaping wound must have caused. Her face had gone unnervingly blank from any expression. But the dread in scent and vacant eyes …

Without halting, Azryle found himself glancing over his shoulder towards the guestroom again. What was it—

He knelt before the couch. His hand approached her waist but stopped. She’d seemed utterly uncomfortable when he’d touched her to unshackle her at the Glass Palace—

“Get it done with,” Alpenstride now snapped at him.

Azryle clamped down his retort and began unfurling the blood-soaked bandage, careful to not press the wound—

Syrene let out a sound that might have been a gasp that snapped his head to her. Azure eyes were jammed to somewhere behind him, eyes threatened to burst out—

Before he could reach for his mejest, it hit him then—the scent.

He shook his head at Alpenstride. “She’s harmless.”

Maeren tutted from where she’d appeared behind him. “I’m trying to not be offended by your remarks, Ryle.”

He ignored her, and looked at Syrene, who was still wide-eyed and still slightly trembling. Azryle perceived her hand in a tight fist on the couch, as if primed to fight even in that state. “She’s a wraith. She travels in walls.” Then he snapped over his shoulder, “It’s about time I figure wards bulwarking this apartment.”

Mae leaned against the wall, crossing her arms. “Still trying not to be offended.”

“Why are you here.” Azryle continued on Alpenstride’s bandage.

“I heard the scream. Vendrik is still slumbering like a tired beast.”

Indeed, his friend had been on this Wensel case diligently.

“What happened?” Concern limned her voice. And Azryle had a good sense that it was not for the cub, never mind that it had been a female cry.

He didn’t deign reply, if only because Azryle himself merely had any idea what befell in that room. Even if he’d had any thought, it dispelled the moment Alpenstride’s wound lay bare.

Or, better yet, the healed skin. Left only a terrible, hideous scar behind.

Azryle’s thoughts cut short, then.

But then his hand was advancing towards the bandage on her neck.

He ripped it off, earning a hiss from the cub.

Healed. The wounds—a Grestel’s wounds healed wholly. For long moments, Azryle was only watching the three scratch scars marring her slender neck, akin to the ones on his tattooed arm—Syrene’s own curtsey five years ago.

Alpenstride was patting her healed waist, eyes wide with shock and … amazement revealed by her gardenia and rain scent. “I …” Her words trailed off.

Maeren stepped beside Azryle and peered down at the stark scars. And scowled. “On days like this, I’m more than thankful to be a wraith.” Because wraiths did not bear scars, no matter what body they imbued themselves in. Their scars vanished with the wounds.

But Alpenstride pinned Azryle with a questioning glare, confusion seizing that lingering dread. “How—how is this possible?”

Azryle only said, ignoring his own confusion clouding his senses, “The same way you made the Plunge, being a Grestel.”

She went rigid at that, and swallowed.

But Mae exclaimed, “You’re a human?”

He lifted to his feet, towering Maeren. “Go home.” That was the politest a ripper could stretch to, she knew. Yet he made himself add, “We’ll speak tomorrow.”

Maeren frowned, crinkling her straight nose. He’ll admit it: men would tread lengths to be with someone who looked like Maeren. Saqa, for the years he’d known her, he’d witnessed plenty men do shit to allure her attention. She could have any man in the world, and yet …

Maeren wanted Azryle. A ripper. He’d had this conversation with her years ago, even Vendrik had attempted sermonizing with either of them.

At first it had been all fun and games. Azryle had even gone along with it; playing with her, flirting with her constantly, but then … Maeren had begun wanting more than he could give, more than a ripper leashed to Felset was capable of giving. The wraith was well aware of Azryle’s limits, his bounds, and yet she’d taken it as a challenge to make him yield.

“You leave for the fortress so early,” Mae countered. “I’m here for a few days only, are you even planning to offer me a tour?”

Azryle refrained from rubbing at his temple when he motioned back to Alpenstride, who was watching him and Mae keenly, assessing. Missing nothing. A look from him had her averting her eyes. He said to Maeren, “You’re here on a mission.”

A secret mission, to be precise. So secret that Felset hadn’t even bothered mentioning Maeren was arriving in Nofstin when she’d holocalled him the other day. He’d only known when he’d been gathering his clothes to move to Vendrik’s apartment, and vacant this one for the cub, and Maeren had appeared right in his bedroom.

Even then, Mae had refused to mention why she was here.

She was waving her hand. “I can put that aside for a few hours.”

“Then ask Rik to give you a tour.”

“Vendrik is busy with the case.”

Azryle lost any tether to his temper, and snapped, “So am I.”

Mae crossed her arms, smirking. “Then maybe I’ll take the Human Wolf and we’ll tour the city, Ferouzeh being our guide.”

Alpenstride blinked at the title.

Maeren snorted. “We’ve all gotten the wind of you, Heir of Raocete, fret not.”

But the cub flatly stated, “I have no interest in tour.” Her eyes had gone wholly blank, masterly concealing any emotion.

Equivalent could not be said about her scent, though.

Maeren pressed, “Are you certain? I don’t suppose you will get more chances to dodge slavery duties.”

“We’ll speak tomorrow, Mae,” was all Azryle said before sprawling his mejest like a wide net around the apartment. The wraith disappeared the next moment.

A muffled voice from outside the apartment muttered, “Prick.”

He turned back to Syrene, who was blinking belligerently. “I don’t know what profane performs coerced it possible for you to make the Plunge, and I’m the last person to care as long as you’re not trouble. But if you can control it—the healing—it’ll make a world of a difference in the duel.”

“I can’t—” Her throat bobbed. “Isn’t it possible that—that creature had to do something with it? Or the tonic Ferouzeh had left?”

Azryle blinked. Again. “What in Saqa attacked you?”

“I couldn’t—I couldn’t see it.” There was a slight tremor in her hands before she curled her fingers into tight fists. “Like the Pojekk—” She shut her eyes, crinkling with the tautness.

Azryle heaved out a breath. “You can’t see them because they’re not in this world.” She blinked, seemed to slacken slightly, held his gaze; curiosity simmering in her eyes. Felset’s command to mend her roared in Azryle’s blood. He slumped down beside her in the couch and continued. “In the Jagged battle, a portal was opened for the enemy army to stream in. But when the battle concluded—after whatever arose—hemvae could not close the portal completely. Not even the King of Hemvae, with that eternal power. There is still a rift in Ianov, a crack linking all the countless worlds. There’s like an ajar gate that will lead to the Crack, where all these creatures are stuck—it’s now their home—will be for eternity, unless the portal is closed wholly, and the Gate is sealed shut.”

Alpenstride’s expression was bewildered, brows furrowed, as if trying to solve an arduous riddle.

Azryle tried again. “Imagine walking down a hallway and seeing a door opened slightly. You approach it, and walk into a dark room. There, you find light spilling from countless other doors partly open, leading somewhere. The door you will walk in through is the Gate of our world. The dark room you will step in is the Crack where all these creatures live. All the other doors in the room are the gates to different worlds.

“Being stuck in the Crack allows the creatures to wander all these worlds, squeeze through the Gates. The Crack is nothing more than darkness, they have nothing to feed on there. They sneak into the other worlds for that exact purpose. To feed on beings.” He nodded to her. “The Grestel, of course, being their desired—which is what causes them to come here more often than other worlds. In fact, your kind’s tally has lowered to near-extinct because of those creatures. They’re called baeselk. The Pojekk are a kind of baeselk.”

“But …” Questions—there were so many questions in her eyes. Baeselk and the Crack and the Gate were a common knowledge to each being. They were educated in schools, and there were exorbitant amounts of books … She couldn’t read. “I saw the Pojekk after I killed him …”

“Ah.” Azryle rested his head on the lip of backrest and looked up at the ceiling. “When they’re killed, they either return to their own world, or transfer wholly here.”

“Can you—can you see them?” As a ripper, she meant.

“No.” He whipped his head in her direction. “No, I can’t.”

Syrene blinked. Not at what he said, but—evoking something. “Cook said the King of Hemvae fell during that battle.”

Azryle arched a brow. “Cook has been speaking?”

She clamped her bloodless, full lips.

He stared up at the ceiling again. “The King of Hemvae died shutting that portal. It was during the battle.”

“You are their enemy, right? All the rippers, I mean. Your powers are to hunt … baeselk. You were … created? After the Jagged Battle.”

The question had him gazing towards her. “Our history remains a mystery. But, yes. Those hundred hemvae spared after the battle, many of them volunteered to be experimented on. That is all I know. All there is in the books.”

“And—”

But Azryle lifted from the couch. “You are asking too many questions. Amaze me in the training tomorrow and I might answer more.”

She scowled. “Missed being an asshole, did you?”

Azryle smirked. “Too much.”

She ducked her head, fear returning to her scent. “I’ll—I’ll spend my night here.”

He knew he should have remained quiet, should have strolled back to his bedroom, but Azryle said, “Cowards are who choose darkness to prey on helpless, cub. Don’t you spend a single second giving them the kernel of fear they look for to feed on.” When she looked up at him beneath her lashes, Azryle shrugged. “Take that as a training lesson.”

Azryle could have sworn her eyes were a shade clearer, but Alpenstride only said, “Careful. Your asshole mask is coming off.”

“Oh, no,” he drawled, “that quality is in my veins.”

And then Azryle walked to his bedroom. He might have offered her his own to sleep in, but he hoped to see her in the guestroom tomorrow morning.

Alpenstride ought to seize her fear, if she was to walk out of the duel at all.