Drothiker

It had become impossible to sleep.

Today was the third—third—night Faolin was unable to sleep, tiredness had been relentlessly gnawing at her bones, and yet … yet sleeping had become a monumental task.

But she wasn’t the only one who was unable to catch a shuteye tonight—no, Gnea on the bed atop her was stirring every next minute. Why she couldn’t doze off, Faolin hadn’t the faintest idea, but she hadn’t uttered anything. Neither had Faolin, trying to slip into that haziness.

All her attempts proved fruitless, though, and cursed she couldn’t even go out for a walk. Not with those sentries keeping a watch outside, breathing down her neck. She will have to soon fathom a way to avoid xist every morning and night somehow, this place seemed to already be driving her insane. Faolin didn’t give a shit about the Enchanted Queen, or the tcoiines; they will be dealt with later.

She just … needed to get out. There were myriad businesses to be taken care of yet—her past was not wholly to be left behind. She’d made an oath, and the fact that she was even alive … that must mean—

Faolin needed to flee. Soon.

She sighed and curled to her side, gazing out of the small glass window so high, so near the ceiling, could only perceive the shimmering stars—that, too, to only an extent. The glass was thick—of mejest. She’d surveyed it to see whether she could escape.

No luck. Nothing could be done without that song in her now hollow veins.

She hadn’t seen of Aazem these past two nights—since the Pojekk’s attack. Since the night he’d gotten a hold of her past.

Ask me tomorrow.

Both nights she’d gone to wash his stallion, he hadn’t made an appearance. Neither had his book been poised on the usual spot. Though she’d honed his swords and daggers—she wasn’t foolish enough to deny she did that in wait for him.

But he didn’t arrive. Both nights.

Maybe he loathed her, as she’d already anticipated, now that he was familiar with who she had been. Being a soldier, so keen on rules and laws, surely he loathed her, might be giving her a wide berth, must be disgusted by her. Faolin hated that she even cared, that she let herself get into these thorny relationships again.

Associating with a soldier, what had she even been thinking?

“What’s keeping you up these past days?” Gnea asked from the bed atop her.

Faolin slid out another sigh. “I truly do not know.”

Silence fell, thick and heavy. Even their breathing was audible.

“Are you well?”

“Of course I am.” Gnea’s words were too quick to be believable. When Faolin said nothing, the woman went on. “That body that was found …”

Ah.

“They sold that Grestel woman …” Her swallow was within earshot. “I—I just—”

“Syrene wasn’t sold.” Faolin did not know for certain, though, whether she was alive. Whether the Pojekk’s nightmares claimed the human. “His Highness granted her an apartment down in the city.”

“What.”

Faolin was spared from replying by muffled voices outside the chamber. She sat up, her gaze going straight to the door. Hearing the creak of her bed that sounded with her movement, Gnea stated, “They don’t chat usually.” The sentries, she meant. But—

The door creaked open.

Aazem stood at the threshold. Faolin was instantly on her feet.

“May I have a word?”

Never once had he ever sounded so … formal.

➣

He led her not to the sables, not to the courtyard.

But behind the fortress, where she’d come to cool water for Vendrik Evenflame in the bathing pool—where she had felt her mejest, the liveliness in herself not days ago. It was so quiet today, Aazem did not speak a word. Moments and moments had passed since he’d led her here and leaned against the fortress’ stone wall, strong arms crossed. Only the howl of cool wind engaged with the silence.

He was not in his dull uniform today. The askew beige shirt was carelessly unbuttoned at the neck, as if he’d hurriedly thrown it on. Sleeves folded to elbows, revealing the bulging vein of his arm. And the brutal battle scars. Short brown hair disheveled, either he’d raked his hands through it over and over again, or had just woken up.

Clear eyes filled with curiosity suggested the former.

“Surely,” Faolin broke the unnerving silence and crouched before the pool, “you didn’t hurry to my chamber to admire my looks, Aazem.”

Her hand dunked in the cool, clear water. Otsatyas knew why she’d seen no soldier swimming in this, when it took all her training to restrain herself from diving right in.

When the soldier remained quiet, Faolin went on. “I mean, I am a heavenly sight but—”

“You were not guilty.”

She paused, head whipped in his direction. But made a good show of smiling. “I’m only guilty of being too good at swordplay, Zem.” She innocently batted her lashes at him.

But he didn’t smile today, didn’t even remind her that she was so out of shape and practice. “You were not guilty,” Aazem repeated, his voice might very well have been a low, inhuman growl. “You didn’t even fight when they came to capture you, when you could have taken them down so effortlessly.”

Images began swirling in her mind, began taking a shape of a hand tugging her back to that wretched day. But Faolin frowned. “Don’t be so cruel, Zem, I didn’t want to mess up their pretty faces. Not many have left on Ianov.”

He snarled low, caramel eyes a rich, darker shade of brown in moonlight, held no humor today. “And you’d rather be sent to that Saqa.”

She couldn’t—couldn’t stomach it, reminiscing that day, that vulnerability, being dragged to Jegvr by hair as if she were no more than a stray dog. Couldn’t stand these reviving images in her mind. Faolin withdrew her hand from the pool, doing everything in her power to bury those memories.

“The Moon Sadist.” Her heart crawled up to her throat at the old title. “The Slayer of Twilight. The Steelier Weapon.” He angled his head. “Swords, you never told me your preferred weapons were daggers.”

He knew, then. Everything. Her palms began sweating at her sides.

It meant nothing. Not after—

“You were an assassin.” Breath caught up in her throat. That piece of information was not vital, no. But his next words, the next portion of her life that was burrowed up by no one until today—that secret that was meant to be buried with her seemed to have sent talons ripping her throat. “Not any assassin, though. Hexet Evreyan’s personal assassin. Oathed by soul to the Fallen Duce for life. And to her bloodline.”

➣

A vicious, warning sound ripped past Faolin’s throat.

She did not want to ask how he knew, since that was never worded even between Faolin and Duce Hexet, for there were myriad hidden ears. Even the air carried secrets and chatters.

Faolin hissed, “Don’t say it out loud.”

“You were a known assassin twenty-five years ago, people trembled in your titles’ wake. They didn’t dare whisper them. They never gleaned your real name, never even knew your sex. The only precise detail available about you was your white hair”—the Moon Sadist—“even that was just a rumor.” This pause sure as Saqa felt like an eternity. “You were convicted on the same date Hexet Evreyan’s body was burned on a pyre—in the same forest.”

Her stomach lurched, unsettled only at the fact that someone knew too much about her. Too dangerous. Her each assassin instinct began roaring in her blood, bones, soul: Kill him now, kill him before more know. Kill him kill him kill him

But Faolin didn’t move an inch.

“You weren’t guilty—”

“I was an assassin,” she snapped. Otsatyas above, she’d never once said those words out loud. Admitting made it true. That she had been a slayer, that she’d killed all those people—

Aazem’s voice grew soft. “I went through a list of your victims.” Faolin didn’t dare breathe. “And not one of them was someone who deserved to live.”

Of course they weren’t. Duce Hexet would never have had an innocent slain. But … Faolin said something that had been buried so deep within her, so secret to her own self. “That doesn’t stop me from seeing their faces.” Her eyes began burning. And the images began seizing her wits.

“You never do,” Aazem’s own voice was soft, raw. She realized, then—he offered a piece himself, they both did. But softness soon ebbed from his face. “Why didn’t you fight,” he demanded.

“Why do you care,” she snapped, fighting that hand tugging her back to that day.

“Because you fought!” he snapped back.

Faolin blinked. Again. “What do you mean?”

He rubbed at his face. “Nothing.”

“What do you mean.”

“I owe you no answers.”

Her teeth gritted to the point of pain. “Neither do I.”

“The difference, Faolin, is that you will still answer my questions.”

She lifted a brow. “And why is that?”

“Because I can help you out.”

Faolin stilled, hair on her neck arose. The oath binding her to Duce Hexet began roaring a different song to her blood, a different demand: Get out get out get out—“And I am to trust you?”

She could have sworn something like hurt flashed across his face, but only for a heartbeat before it was veiled like everything else. Instead, he drawled, “Might as well do that since I’m familiar with things that weren’t meant to be dredged up.” But then his voice softened as he said, “I’m not your enemy, Lin.”

Something in her vision cleared, like flicking out of a compulsion. No—no, of course he wasn’t. He was her friend, if anything. But … “I’m an assassin.” Her own voice came out quiet, weak.

“And?”

“You’re a soldier. I slay innocents, your duty is to protect them with your life.” Her gaze slid to the pool, shame coiling her own gut. She hated it.

Before Jegvr, she’d never once felt shame for what she’d been, because at the end of the day, she was doing her job, she’d allied with Duce Hexet rather than with her own tribe—she’d seen the ruthlessness in Sorceress Tribe and had chosen the better side. And that was what had always mattered. But in Jegvr, in that dark cell with nothing but with her own filthy thoughts and memories of only gore …

To her eternal surprise, Aazem snorted. “Those people you killed can hardly be considered innocents.” He began walking towards her, crossing the distance in a few strides thanks to his tall legs. “If anything, you made the world a better place.”

No she hadn’t. But Faolin said, “Why do you want to help me out?” The gleam in his eyes was unmistakable when he’d offered it—freedom, survival.

“Because you don’t deserve to be here,” was his only reply. “You didn’t deserve to be in that rathole, let alone for twenty-five years. My duty is to protect innocents,” he lifted his brows at her, “then I’m helping an innocent.” Aazem turned to the pool and took off his boots, slumped down on its bank, plunging his bare feet in the cool water. “I knew slavery isn’t your Destiny the moment your hand wrapped around the pommel of my sword.”

“Slavery should be no one’s Destiny.” Though she hadn’t witnessed any of it here, but Faolin knew what fell upon those who defied, who tried escaping, how they were shown their end. And how a few were never shown an end to brutal, pitiless torments. Where those were carried out … if she ever broke free, she will find them all, and help them escape.

A smile, cold and small, tugged at his sensuous lips as he lifted his chin to peer up at her. “I know.” There—another glint in his eyes. And she knew it too well, that familiar, up-to-something glint she’d perceived time and again in her targets’ eyes.

Faolin held her breath. “What are you planning?”

He shrugged with a shoulder. “An answer for an answer.” Eyes dimmed. “What happened that day?”

She fell beside him after taking off her own slippers. Plunged her feet in the otsatya-kissed water.

She couldn’t say—no one could know what had happened. If even some folly part of her had sought to speak, even if she had sought to pour it all out to Aazem, her oath to Duce Hexet forbade her tongue from it. Forbade each drop of blood coursing through her. “I can’t say.” She offered the truth—it was all she could do.

Aazem’s gaze whipped to her, she didn’t dare meet it. “Because of your oath?”

Faolin only swallowed, knew he was watching each movement of her throat keenly. Yes, because of the oath. But also because she didn’t want to bring him trouble, didn’t want to tangle him in these tribes’ rivalries. Sorceress Tribe was no more than a wide cluster of snakes.

Aazem’s gaze slid to the pool—their feet rippling the moonlit water. And then, with a sigh, he began.

“My father’s letter of treachery arrived eighty years ago, to my home. I’d had a fight with my sister that day. She’d wanted to marry a man: wealthy, well-reputed but … he had little to no respect for women. I said I didn’t like the man for her.” Faolin looked in his direction, only to find a muscle in his jaw swelling. “Nicasen said she didn’t give a shit about what I thought, and I could come to her with my opinions when I’m something of my own. I was struck enough, furious enough that I didn’t return home that night.”

Faolin’s voice was soft. “What of your mother?”

“She didn’t live with us, she has her own family. She visited sometimes but …” He shrugged again, as if it were nothing. “When I returned home the next morning, though, Nicasen wasn’t there. I searched everywhere, but found no trace of her. I waited a few hours, she didn’t return. It wasn’t like Nicasen to be out for hours, let alone so early in morning. I searched the neighborhood, went to her friends’, they hadn’t heard from her. It was afternoon when I reached her … lover’s manor.” Aazem frowned at the word. “He wasn’t at home, his servants said. I knew better than to believe them. I began climbing the manor, then I heard the murmurs. Nicasen’s silent sobs.

“I got hold of the chamber’s window. I could see nothing, only quiet whispers. Three people. Two women, a man. And to my shock, her lover did not sound very pleased … neither did my sister, for that matter. I broke in.” Aazem’s eyes dimmed further at the memory. “The first things I see: Nicasen’s torn clothes. She had old, scarred bruises on her arms, I’d never realized she had been obscuring those beneath her sleeves. The next thing I see: her lover was kneeling, trembling in terror. Even with that, I knew he was the one who’d given those bruises to my sister, he was the one responsible for her torn clothes. But—”

It was Faolin who spoke. “There was a cloaked assassin in the chamber, her dagger’s tip digging beneath Jhabel’s chin.” She smiled.

And to her relief and delight, Aazem smiled back—grinned, really. “You were clothed in black wholly. Masked from nose’s bridge to chin, only the sorceress eyes were revealed. But even then, delight was written across your eyes, you were enjoying each second of the trembling Jhabel. And you told my sister: I will never grasp why you long a pig disguised in a human body, girl, but for otsatyas’ sake, treat yourself like a jewel you are. My sister’s reply had been: I’m no jewel.

“You winked at her and said, Every woman is a jewel, foolish girl.”

He imitated her words mockingly, doing hand gestures, earning a smack from Faolin. She didn’t fail to notice the gratitude in his caramel eyes though. And … awe. Faolin couldn’t contain what bloomed in her heart at that.

“When you were leaving, having Jhabel contained in ropes, you said to me: Teach her to fight. Teach her when to protect herself, and when to bite. For Destiny is a bitch and only decides certain times to help. Other times, we’re on our own.”

“Did you?”

He snorted, cold and indifferent. “When we returned home, I found the letter. I couldn’t tell Nicasen we had to choose who will serve in military or slavery, not when she’d just returned from …” He shut his eyes, jaw working in fury. “I told her I wanted to be a soldier. I didn’t get to … train her. I haven’t heard from her in years.”

Her chest pained. “I’m sorry.”

Aazem met Faolin’s gaze in the gloom. “When I saw you in the stable, you looked so familiar … so unnervingly familiar.” His eyes roved over each inch of her face—from eyes, to cheeks, to lips—as if grasping each detail. Then he said in hushed tones, “I had to know who you were.” He shook his head and his gaze withdrew from hers to meet with the water, and she felt the absence of it like leeches sucking at her skin. “I will help you out of here, whatever it costs. And you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want, Lin.” His eyes shut tight. “I don’t even want to imagine what might have happened to Nicasen that day, had you not been there.”

Her heart strained. Friend—yes, he was her friend. Not enemy, as everyone had been, not a danger at all. “I’m not going alone.” She couldn’t help the words, the truth. So she couldn’t divulge what had befallen the night she’d been convicted, she will offer him another truth. “Aazem, I can’t—I can’t leave all these slaves behind. They are not all bad. There is good in them, I have seen it.”

For a long moment, Faolin waited for him to object, to say those were all Ianov’s more dangerous criminals, that they could cause massacres but … Aazem only smiled.

Her breath caught. “That’s what you have been planning, isn’t it? To free not only me, but every other slave here.” She constrained the tremor in her hands.

His feet began playing with water. “I have a few more soldiers who want to help. We have—”

Faolin’s hand reached for his forearm, her calluses scraping one of those hideous battle scars—it was not a loose grip. “You could get killed. If anyone gleans the slightest idea, if Queen Felset finds out—”

“It’ll be fine—”

“This is treason, Aazem.” Otsatyas above, his father was sent to Jegvr for treachery. She could only imagine what they would do to the traitor offspring. Aazem will be offered a ruthless death, tormented to death—“No.” Faolin was shaking her head. “I will do this alone.”

“How, exactly, Faolin,” he drawled, “will you do this alone?”

She snapped, “I will find a way.”

“I have ten soldiers who are willing to help. We have been planning for four years now—”

“No,” she gritted.

He slid his arm off her grip, its broad hand gripped Faolin’s. “We will be fine.” He squeezed her hand in emphasis. We. Her heart thumped at such harmless word. She ignored it.

But then Faolin’s heart was hammering, afraid, which was ridiculous. She’d known Aazem for only a week or so. And yet … and yet …

“I will help.”

It was neither Faolin, nor Aazem who’d spoken. They instantly lifted, water whispering as they withdrew their feet.

Turning as one, Aazem’s drew his sword. But—

Vur stood leaning against the stone wall, blue eyes glimmering in moonlight. His hair … gone was that glorious waist-length, the black-brown shade. It was short, today, golden hair. He looked … prettier, somehow. But Faolin frowned. “Had a little makeover, did you?”

He smirked, mischievous and taunting. “No, I didn’t.”

Aazem beside her was in a fighting stance, his face unyielding. Faolin muttered, “He’s not a danger.” She glared at Vur. “I’m hoping not.” Not enough for the soldier to unwind and withdraw his weapon.

Vur merely said, “I want to help with your piss-off-enchanted-queen mission.” Though he kept his smirk, his eyes … he was serious. More serious than she’d ever seen him.

“How much did you hear?”

His growing grin told Faolin he’d heard everything. But Vur didn’t answer as he peeled off the wall, the grin fading. “Look, these soldiers have been planning for four years, they obviously have mustered information, made arrangements—”

Faolin scowled. “I can’t take you seriously with this new look.”

Aazem finally deemed it safe to sheath his sword.

Vur heaved out a sigh. “Would you rather prefer my miraged form?”

She flinched. “Your what?” And that certainly had Aazem reconsidering his decision of withdrawing his weapon.

“Faolin,” Vur drawled, idly cloaking his head. “That was my mejest. An image I drew for guards and … well, everyone.”

Abyss swallow her.

Faolin braced herself, began falling in her own fighting stance, as Vur’s hair grew to waist-length, golden segued to black-brown in a flash of light. Aazem moved closer to her, his own mejest reaching her skin.

Vur jested, “Is this fine?”

Faolin felt her face draining of color, her hand reaching for her throat. “A miragist.”

Miragists were lethal. Utterly lethal if they grew strong and powerful. They could cast mirages their targets could feel, could drive someone insane, unable to tell what was real and what was not. Rare—so rare to come across one. Especially a male one. Like sorcerers. Those were two Vegreka races that started with women eons ago.

“What—what about xist?” was all Faolin could mutter.

Vur waved his hand in the air. “With my skillset, that was effortless to dodge.” His blue eyes glinted, satisfied with himself. “Every morning, and night, all I have to do is cast a mirage of myself drinking the sparkly liquid.” His hair returned to short, golden. “And I don’t like wasting my mejest.”

A lock of his near-gleaming hair slid off his brow as he angled his head. “Let’s discuss how do get out, shall we?”

And then—then, Faolin realized she didn’t know Vur at all. Didn’t even know why he had been in Jegvr.