Drothiker

Keeping a watch on Azryle’s and Alpenstride’s training was a fool’s errand, and Vendrik was inclined to contact the Enchanted Queen and put her in mind of what, exactly, were they nearing.

Feast of Melodies.

It was a Royal Ball, a night people from all over Cleystein gathered in the Glass Palace of Olkfield, danced all night and gave their rein to music. A night music was mejested, it was impossible for Vegreka to halt unless the tune did, unless one was tugged from the dance floor, unless one was knocked unconscious by force. It was a challenge, really, whether one could endure dancing without feeling obliged to pause.

Once the feet began, they didn’t balk until dawn roused.

Feast of Melodies, indeed: a night when music seemed to feed on humans—Vegreka and Grestel alike.

Usually, preparations for the night began a month before, enchantments were sprawled all over the palace for safety purposes. But Feast of Melodies was a week away, and yet Queen Felset had sent no word demanding Ryle’s or Vendrik’s presence for arrangements. No word from Maycusen, either. It was the Jaguar’s favored night, for the man had all the women lining up for a dance with him.

“Focus,” Azryle snarled at Alpenstride, bashing the sword right off her bleeding hand. She was drenched in sweat, breaths rasped and heavy. “Grip it tighter.”

She bent to lift the sword, hand trembling. It was the fifth time, and she seemed to have abandoned objecting—doubtless, realizing that arguing with Azryle was futile. Difficult than urging Queen Felset for something, even.

There were three pale scratch scars on the side of her neck, connected with the scarred necklace of beads; Ryle had told Vendrik what had happened, how they’d healed. Made Vendrik wonder what information, exactly, did Queen Felset long so much.

He perched against a tree nearby, watching them cursing at each other, more so than training. His fire was still burning his insides with more movements, still agitated at times. But at least it wasn’t lashing out, thanks to Maeren’s witch friend—whatever spells she’d confined him in.

Alpenstride’s movements were heavy, as if the sword weighed more than her whole body. She swung.

Silencer, however, in Azryle’s hand seemed to weigh as much as the air as he knocked her sword off her grip again with one fluid movement. Wintershade heirloom. Its balance and aptitude unrivaled.

Alpenstride groaned in exhaustion and peered up at the sky, as if the piercing sun would come helping her, salvation in hand. The azure of the clear sky, however, a mirror to her eyes. The resemblance, of her eyes to the day, cloudless sky was uncanny, her honey hair near-gleaming in sunlight.

Azryle seemed to have a loose leash on his temper, today—or maybe it was Queen Felset’s leash on him that had stiffened, keeping him in check. For the ripper’s silver eyes were lively with fury and impatience. And otsatyas knew how long before he grew intolerant, and struck the human. One blow from him will down her … and not only her.

Azryle will be slaying himself, should any lethal harm come to Alpenstride. All Queen Felset’s tethers around his neck would be striking Ryle himself.

Vendrik only hoped his friend had enough of his own leash on his emotions, should Her Majesty get sidetracked and lose Azryle. Should the queen free him during the Pensnial Duel and free the beast on Alpenstride. With a free rein, the ripper wouldn’t even know whom he’d be slaying. And if Queen Felset played that move … if she was indeed planning to lose her control on Azryle during the duel …

Otsatyas above.

The queen would never allow Azryle to face defeat, would unleash him if need be.

“Use a break,” Vendrik suggested. “Both of you.”

Azryle turned to him and glowered, sweat beading to his dark brow.

“Pushing her will not do.” Vendrik could have sworn gratitude flashed across Alpenstride’s face when her gaze moved to him.

But then she peered up at Azryle and muttered, “Old, cranky bastard.”

Abyss spare him, Azryle’s cruel smile tugged at his lips when he wheeled back to her. To Vendrik’s eternal shock, the prince lightly pulled a strand of her hair. Alpenstride hissed, bringing a hand to her head as Ryle crooned, “Foul mouths don’t suit youngsters.” He angled his head, a movement more animal than anything. “Or cubs.”

She punched him in ribs. Azryle didn’t so much as flinch. Though his eyes glinted, and Vendrik knew that glint it too well—the prince had grasped a thread to tug on her rage. Just as he’d done with Maycusen to train him.

Before Vendrik could so much as brace himself, Azryle threw his first worded dagger. “Kessian Wensel said you killed his brother and left him to rot.”

Alpenstride stilled, any expression dwindled from her face.

“What was his name, again?” As if a messenger of air whispered it to him, Azryle said, “Ah, yes. Lucran.” Sorrow—slaughtering sorrow seemed to swallow her eyes. “You enjoyed it, didn’t you?” Ryle grinned, looking every bit the monster everyone believed him to be.

“Shut up,” Alpenstride breathed.

“Why, is the truth too painful, Syrene?” Azryle lifted her chin with his finger. Then looked her dead in the eyes and whispered, “You’re no less of a monster than I am, aren’t you?”

She jerked out of his touch, loathing simmered in her eyes. And told Ryle what he could go do to himself. Vendrik was content to stop this, but rage indeed darkened her eyes. Molded her fragile face.

Azryle caught it, and went on. “You’re a killer, Syrene. A monster.”

“Shut up.”

“Monster.”

Syrene struck, tears formed by rage more than pain lined her eyes. She shoved him; Azryle remained unmoving.

“You left his body to rot, did you feel any remorse? Did you even recognize Lucran?”

She screamed, shoving him again, “Shut up!” But her voice was broken.

“You accepted the duel, to clutch Windsong, but are you strong enough to take it back? You weren’t even there when your duce was slaughtered.”

There—Vendrik caught wrath in her eyes, unforgiving and unearthly, as she punched his torso over and over and over again. She grunted, trying everything to unbalance him, tears streaming down her face. Kicking his sides, elbowing him with all her strength, shoving him.

But Azryle towered like a wall, his own face impassive. “You want revenge from Deisn Rainfang, you want her to feel the pain you felt, but you can do nothing because you’re too weak.”

Syrene clawed at him. “I hate you.” Vendrik wasn’t entirely certain whether it was Azryle she said those words to. The world of hatred in her eyes was for Azryle, yes, but … not wholly for him.

But for herself.

She sobbed, “I hate you.” Alpenstride grew frantic, ripped Azryle’s shirt with her nails—as if seeing those claws of her cursed form—he began bleeding. But didn’t falter.

“Killer. Monster. Coward.” It was only when Azryle spat those words with such harshness and rawness in his voice, did Vendrik realize—

Predator. Monster. Murderer. Assassin.

Azryle had been called those all his life, hadn’t paid them any heed. Or Vendrik thought.

You left his body to rot, did you feel any remorse?

Is the truth too painful, Syrene?

You’re no less of a monster than I am, aren’t you?

Vendrik stilled. Yes, Azryle never felt remorse, his queen had her unseen rein too tight, but … Vendrik had never asked whether his friend had ever wanted to feel it. Never wondered. All Azryle had ever felt was rage, triumph in cruelty, savageness. Never anything … humanly.

Anything but joy. True joy. Or affection towards someone. Never sadness, guilt, fear.

“You run from it all,” Azryle was saying, “carrying terror in your heart. So afraid of honing it, so terrified you might harken back to that beast.”

Syrene lifted the sword and charged. The wrath in her eyes, the hatred on her face … it all intimidated Vendrik more than he would like to admit. There was nothing mortal, nothing human as she aimed for Azryle’s heart.

He ducked in a swift motion. “Coward.”

She let out a sound that Vendrik could have sworn was an inhuman, vile growl as she swung, blood from her hand steaking her sword.

Azryle swept, not bothering to lift Silencer. “Face it. Your rage in a living weapon, use it. Hone it. Shape it as you will.”

It didn’t seem like Syrene was listening at all as she stuck and struck and struck, lost in the burning inside herself. Maycusen had been nothing like this … he hadn’t had this wallowed anger in himself, this beast that Alpenstride had become.

➣

One thing Azryle had known for a while now was: Syrene had a dark, burning fire inside herself, trapped and impatient to lash out. This woman had never known fondness, there was only hatred—so much of it, all ambushed inside her.

And it was a poison capable of taking down most barbarous beasts with only a whiff.

She just didn’t know she had it in herself. Didn’t know that monster she was so terrified of could be her only savior if only she ventured.

She’d slept in the living room, last night, on the couch—terrified of the guestroom since whatever baeselk had assailed her. Hadn’t tackled it. And if this fear remained, if she let it rule herself, there will be nothing but smoke of that fire burning within her. It’ll eat her up. Slowly, creatively.

“You said the Fallen Duce and the Lady of Wolves trained you,” Azryle drawled as she went for his chest again, seeking any route to have him stop talking, “don’t you think your predecessor would be disappointed to see you so incapable of fighting?”

Her face grew white with wrath.

“Or your duce.”

That was it.

Syrene pounced for him, stretching her claws to him, movement so similar to that of her unearthly form.

But Azryle did not allow her to clutch him, and ducked, swiping a leg for hers. And Syrene was on her ass, sword slipping out of her hand.

He waited for her to lift.

She didn’t. Instead, she fell back and glared up at the sky, eyes unseeing as tears slid down. Her face remained blank.

“Get up,” Azryle said.

She remained motionless. Vendrik was at his side instantaneously.

But Syrene only watched the sky, azure eyes darkened by sorrow and unholy wrath. The wrath that seemed to be guttering.

Azryle could not allow it to hollow out. “Get up!” he snarled down at her.

“That’s enough.” Vendrik’s voice was soft, but not gentle. “Enough training for today.”

Azryle cast him a sidelong glare. “Pensnial Duel is in two weeks—”

“And she has trained today.”

His jaw clenched, willing Felset’s command to calm in his blood, letting Rik’s words sink in and coax the bindings.

And when it did and oath cooled, Azryle perceived what he had done to the human. The void in her eyes and that reek of grief and ire seeping in the trees, setting in their bark. The inertness on her face.

Still, when he reached out to the place where it was meant to hurt, where his gut was meant to bleed with regret, there was not a shade of guilt.

➣

Vendrik led the human to the infirmary, though she seemed no more alive than a phantasm. She sat in the white bed, shoulders slumped, stared at the floor unblinkingly as the healer worked on her bruised hand. Faolin Wisflave stood beside her, looking down at Alpenstride with worry, her jaw working in fury. The sorceress had trailed when caught them heading towards the infirmary. Vendrik hadn’t objected.

Neither had Azryle when Vendrik had helped the woman up, or when he’d herded her to the fortress. Azryle was unpardonably harsh at times, and couldn’t even be held responsible for it.

Vendrik himself lounged in a chair nearby, waiting for the bandaging to be thru, give the woman a ride to the apartment—since he obviously didn’t trust Azryle to do that without butchering her.

Vendrik had meant to ask Alpenstride about Kessian Wensel’s body when it’d been found, its condition, about his past … and see whether she owned any valuable information to this hopeless case. But that seemed to be impossible without kicking her further down.

Faolin Wisflave snapped, baring her teeth, “What in Saqa happens during her sessions with that ripper?” She glared at Vendrik, fury written across her beautiful face. “Every time she returns, there’s less life in her eyes.”

He was at loss of words, his own fire burning silently, violently, in himself, his tongue paper-dry.

Upon his silence, she turned back to Alpenstride, lilac eyes bright with ire. Yet she did not seem to notice the healed neck, and waist. Something about it did not sit well with Vendrik … The Plunge had seemed rather possible, but the healing … especially with xist in her system …

He monitored her bruised hand as the healer bandaged it—not healing at all.

When her hand was coated thoroughly, and the healer mildly propped it on Alpenstride’s own thigh, the Grestel remained lifeless. Vendrik didn’t fail to notice Wisflave’s tightening grip on her shoulder as she said, “Feast of Melodies is nearing. Prime Raocete, as every year, will be attending the ball, and she might—”

“I. Do. Not. Care.” There was enough violence in Alpenstride’s voice and on face that Vendrik lifted to his feet and found himself reaching for his fire, very conscious of the witch’s spell he’d be breaking past. “I do not care about the tribes, about what is coming and what is not. I do not care about these hopeless festivals, or what everyone guesses of me, leave me alone.”

Wisflave’s blink was slow, her grip loosening on the Heir’s shoulder.

But that was not what Wisflave had meant to say at all. Instead: the Lady of Wolves might visit Nofstin, might attempt to buy Alpenstride from Queen Felset, and she might never have to face any of it after a week.

After Feast of Melodies.

But the fury that enhanced in the sorceress’ eyes was not for the Human Wolf.

Her gaze snapped to Vendrik, a muscle in jaw feathering, and then she stormed out of the infirmary.

He knew just where she was headed, and didn’t bother stopping her.

➣

The pearl-haired sorceress barged in Azryle’s chamber, looking for all the world as though she might behead him with a glare.

He remained in bed, holding the book he’d been reading to unload his mind from what had befallen in the training session not fifteen minutes ago. “Not every day a slave dares to get past all the sentries and soldiers and barges in a prince’s chamber with death in eyes.”

Indeed, the two sentries behind her seemed content to beseech he forgive them. “We beg your pardon, Your Highness. She—” One of them began.

But the sorceress bared her teeth at him and cut them off. “What are you doing to her—” But then her gaze slopped to the blood still marring his torso, shirt ripped at places. And he could have sworn she refrained herself from blinking.

A look from Azryle had the sentries leaving.

And when his hearing caught the steps declined, he lifted a brow at the sorceress, conscious of the hollowness in his own chest. The lack of regret or shame. He kept his eyes on the book, words struggling to take a shape. “I don’t suppose that’s any of your concern.”

She didn’t seem to have heard him. “Do you even notice that every time she returns, there’s emptiness on her face. She is dead, Prince. And you’re still keen on crumpling her, even as there’s nothing left to end.”

He clicked his tongue. “I, very respectfully, disagree.”

She flinched at that, and Azryle scented blood. Her hands were held behind … nails digging in the flesh of her palms no doubt. “You look at her, you see a slave and a weak Grestel, easy to pick on. Someone easily humiliated—”

“I’ll have you know,” he said softly, “you’re just wasting your time—and mine—by making up wrong assumptions.”

A long moment passed, that she used to calm her breathing—restraining herself from clawing at his face no doubt. Faolin Wisflave was not someone to be played with, someone to taunt and bully. No, she was one of those warriors who might seem like an insect easy to crumple, but when provoked, she’d tear past her skin and leap out as a dragon.

“She’s lost all hope, Your Highness.” Her tone was that of a wise leader trying to make peace. High, and demanding. “She’s so lost that it might be impossible to lead her to bring her back, something she so desperately needs. But you keep kicking her down, you keep sucking on her life.”

“I know what I’m—”

“What do you see when you look at her?”

Azryle deigned to remain silent, since she seemed so keen on cutting him off—whatever he might say.

“Do you know why Prime Raocete took out time to train her? When Syrene was led to the forests, I’d gotten reports about her training with Duce Hexet and the Prime of Wolves. Thirty-five years ago, I heard rumors about the Human Wolf, but never got to meet her. But I heard stories about her viciousness, about her being able to take down the burliest wolves. You ever wondered why the two most powerful women took out time to train an unskilled Grestel? Why, of all those deadly wolves in her pack, Prime Raocete chose a human to anoint an heir?”

Azryle only stared.

Annoyed, her dark lips thinned in a tight line. “I’ll tell you what the Prime of Wolves saw in her: a sturdy will. An unfaltering soul who had too much to offer to the world. Who was willing to offer all to the world. When I looked at her in Jegvr, bony and lifeless, even then I knew whom I was looking at. Tribes are breaking in forests, rivals are a breath away from tearing each other down. Have been for centuries, now. Ianov is already at the brink of destruction after the Jagged Battle. You will survive if a war breaks, all the brutes will. But what of the weaklings? All these slaves, all those poor. What of them?

“She has nothing left to give. Everything in her has already been taken out. Help her, Prince, instead of sucking on the remaining shards of her will. If not for her sake, then for your own Abyss-damned planet. For all those she can offer life to.”

She turned to leave, but Azryle asked, “And how might that be?”

The sorceress looked over her shoulder. “The Human Wolf who made the Plunge, Syrene Alpenstride is capable of achieving the impossible.”