Drothiker

It had been a few days, yet Syrene wasn’t entirely certain how to feel the air of clouds encircling her, how to let it seep in her skin, wasn’t certain how to look in the sunlight as she stood in what they called a birdship.

The vehicle hadn’t existed thirty-five years ago; nothing had existed beyond simple carriages. But now she stood on the quarterdeck of an airborne gilded ship with wings and parachute atop her steered by the captain who sat in the cabin, with a few sentries around.

The firebreather—Vendrik Evenflame, Second to the Queen of Cleystein, was airborne beside them, on his personal griffin. The enormous mount’s feathers were, too, gilded as if the kingdom Syrene was being hauled to was bathed in gold and jewels. The thought made her cringe, she had never felt jewels on her skin.

The birdship was the definition of luxury, if not the firebreather’s eagle-headed creature beside it. The white and golden ship only a few rulers could meet the expense of, she had no doubt. Its lean white wings sprinkled with gold flapped like any other living bird’s; almost made her wonder whether they’d slain a creature to forge the vehicle. The shade beckoned by the golden parachute atop her was no help when the sun felt as if it loomed beside Syrene.

Out of the fifteen slaves, only four—including Syrene—were being transported to the luxurious country, Cleystein. What Saqa others were Destined with, she hadn’t the faintest idea.

The four, however, were all purchased by Queen Felset. At least they weren’t purchased by a lowlife who would have quite possibly made the remaining life a Saqa. Worse than the sort Jegvr had been, perhaps. The immortal Enchanted Queen, however, was not very merciful, Syrene had gotten the wind. She’d lived millennia, they said, and still managed to look young.

There were tales about her captivating beauty, too, even in the Voiceless Pits. People had melted upon her sight. Sometimes literally.

Syrene remained on the quarterdeck, despite the sun, while the others had decided to hang about in the quarters they were treasured with. She had wanted to feel the air, wanted to let the rays of sun settle in her bruised, scarred skin. Thirty-five Abyss-damned years without the light of day.

First thirty years thanks to her being cursed and wallowed in a creature’s body, and then the last five years in Jegvr. Her eyes had stung and burned when she’d stepped out of the Voiceless Pits, at the strike of the first light of sun. It had taken her an hour to wholly open her eyes to it.

That was when Syrene had trod in the birdship, the sight of the enormous vehicle marveling her enough for her eyes to widely snap open.

And the moment all four slaves had stepped in, they were all immured in quarters for a few hours. Had them drink something that numbed mejest in their veins—and a tracking liquid no doubt, lest someone played clever and attempted to flee.

No one would be that foolish to gamble this one chance at freedom from Jegvr, yes, but also their names be forever eliminated from the list of ranked Chosen. Forever in the Saqa of Jegvr.

Syrene allowed herself to survey the griffin beside the birdship. The luxurious saddle and treacherous talons. And the red-haired rider that patted the beast as if it were just an ordinary hound. Maybe it was—maybe griffins had become common in past thirty-five years.

Windsong—her mother’s sword—was still in their possession. Hadn’t let Syrene perceive it, if only a glimpse. Said Queen Felset would elect when to hand it to her. Whether to hand it to her. Her gut had roiled at that, but she’d said nothing.

She’d clutch Windsong, even if she had to walk on a ground blanketed with blazing charcoal. Her mother had entrusted her with it.

Vendrik Evenflame caught Syrene’s glare on his mount, and offered her a smile. Strange, and extremely rare, to see a smile on a predator’s face, even Syrene knew that. Especially if they were from Queen Felset’s squadron of most fatal warriors on planet Ianov.

So she didn’t return the smile, and simply snapped her glare.

Steps sounded from behind, soon the laughter followed. A manly and a womanly. Syrene paid them no heed, didn’t turn. She’d already made clear that she had no interest in having friends to the sorceress, Faolin Wisflave, and they had all heard it. Hadn’t approached Syrene.

Good. At least Jegvr taught them to hang on words and conform.

Just because they shared certain traumas, did not in any way mean they had to become friends and talk about it.

The man’s name was Eliver Domwil. A half-hemvae. Rare—so extremely rare. It had taken all in Syrene to not have gaped when she’d perceived the inking on his neck—tracing the concealed vein at the side of his neck. Zegruks—hemvae markings, linked with hemvae mejest.

Full hemvae had gone extinct centuries ago. Had it not been for the existence of half-hemvae and the immortals that lived to tell the tales, it would have been too easily believed that hemvae were a pure and simple myth, a lie told by raconteurs to make their tales enthralling to hear.

Eliver’s words snagged Syrene’s attention. “You know, they say it’s just a myth, that no such thing exists. Then how would you elucidate the events millennia ago? How did hemvae win the Jagged Battle, when they were only a hundred against six-hundred-thousand?”

The Jagged Battle was when hemvae became so rare. Each one had joined and fought, they’d assembled from around the planet, and yet they hadn’t been enough. The foe army had been from a different world, and no other Vegreka from whole Ianov had gone to their aid, no one had shown up.

What happened on the battlefield, how the hundred remaining hemvae had clinched the battle, it still remained a contradiction. A few said that they forged a weapon, Drothiker, mustering their power and setting planet Ianov to near-annihilation. Others claimed the hemvae race was that mighty, and it was not challenging to believe that they’d managed to win with their own power.

Either way, hemvae were feared after the Jagged Battle, and became so rare. After centuries, they went extinct. Not a single hemvae was to be found today.

“You’re insane.” Faolin snorted. “That does not essentially mean they used Drothiker. We have all heard tales about the might of full hemvae, and how their power could not be vied with any other Vegreka, a hundred could have effortlessly lain Ianov in shreds if they’d willed.”

The half-hemvae’s voice was cold, bearing no humor in it. “Not every rumor about them could be true, you know.”

“Fine, let’s consider something as dreadful as Drothiker exists and hemvae did indeed use it,” Faolin affirmed, “how come no power has ever been able to dredge it up? If it indeed stomachs such force, why has no one felt it? Why did you not feel it, being a half-hemvae?”

That’s why Eliver had been convicted then—being on search for the forbidden device that could summon any power, could course any mejest in the wielder’s veins.

Eliver mused, “That is what I don’t understand. Maybe because it’s not all hemvae, maybe it responds to full hemvae only.” A pause. “Another proof that Drothiker was forged by those hundred hemvae on that battlefield.”

Faolin snorted again. “No. I’ll tell you why: because it does not exist.”

His voice lowered to the point Syrene could barely hear it. “Rumors are Hexet Evreyan held it.”

“Bullshit. You say that only because of the duce’s heritage as half-hemvae.” Silence from Eliver had Faolin adding, “You realize if Drothiker exists, the Elite Kaerions must exist too.”

It was said that Drothiker’s power was beyond Ianov’s endurance, that if anyone with more-than-enough power was to be born, the planet will overburden and begin its destruction. And apparently, those consequences were articulated while forging Drothiker. When the universe and the otsatyas put forth the price, hemvae had accepted it in their desperate time.

The Elite Kaerions. Five individuals will be born in the world to sacrifice themselves and end Drothiker.

It would be nerve-wrecking. Because the moment they would all master their mejest, the planet will commence its slow destruction; the Kaerions would be too heavy power for Ianov to endure. It’d demand time for the five to meet, to come to an age and commit themselves and settle with their Destiny. To even just rack their minds to what in Saqa were they supposed to do.

The lousiest possibility was that the Kaerions might never meet, might never know what they were meant to do. A few said that each Kaerion would know their Destiny with each pulse of their mejest. Others claimed that it was nothing more than a fool’s hope.

There was a long sigh from Eliver, but he did not utter anything further. Syrene felt their gazes on her back and stiffened. Not only their gazes, the firebreather’s curious kind too.

That was enough indication for her to hop off the quarterdeck and return to her quarters. Not glancing in Faolin’s and Eliver’s direction as she went.

➣

The next day, the birdship landed in a forest.

Syrene had awoken to dresteen shackles in her hands and feet. No collar encompassing her neck.

They had reached Olkfield, she’d heard sentries say. Capital of Cleystein. City of Gold. Indeed, as Syrene and the three other slaves walked and walked in the forest, even the piercing sunlight seemed to be gilded, also the water trickling down the leaves.

No one had spoken for however long they’d been walking. But Syrene took in each sweep of air against her skin, each rustle of leaves. Took in the beautiful flowers she’d never anticipated she’d ever see again. The warmth and the odor of the City of Gold.

“You know,” Vur—one of the slaves—stepped beside Syrene, earning a look from a sentry as he did, “for the Heir to the Lady of Wolves, you’re too quiet.”

The man’s wavy curtain of black-brown hair was a bright mirror to sunlight, length almost as long as Vendrik Evenflame’s. To the waist. Only women’s hair was cut short in the Voiceless Pits then. Syrene’s own honey hair barely reached her shoulders. Vur’s blue eyes were like a bright, calm river in daylight.

Upon her silence, the man went on. “I’m not accustomed to being ignored, you know, but I’ll grant immunity to the Heir of Wolf Tribe.” An attempt at joke. Before the Voiceless Pits, she supposed, Vur must have been a charming flirt.

Syrene only said, keeping her eyes on the limitless woods ahead, “Then being a slave, I don’t think you’re going to like what’s coming for you.”

Though she spoke true, Vur snorted. “It’s better than the dungeons, wouldn’t you say?”

She hadn’t decided that yet. But she stayed silent. Chatting invited friends, friendships invited more chances of being hurt and betrayals.

Syrene was better off without them.

Vur seemed to have gotten the point. The man didn’t say more.

Vendrik Evenflame halted and lifted his hood, sentries and slaves doing the same as a male figure appeared deep in the forest, approaching them. No one drew any weapons, or took defensive positions.

He emerged from the shadows, prowling towards them with a steady, unfaltering gait. Everyone stilled around her and she heard someone swallow. Even the rustling of trees seemed to have hesitated in his wake.

His broad shoulders held squared, unyielding. The man was tall, carved with muscle and blooded with power—too much of it, Syrene could almost feel it outstretching to her skin like a hand trying to grip her. Her throat tightened.

The steps so silent, not even a twig whispered.

And Syrene’s breath cut short when she perceived the harsh face, the shoulder-length dark hair. The tattoo starting from beneath his cheekbone, curving on his brutal jaw, sloping down his neck and disappearing somewhere beneath the dark layers. The decors of black ink stark against his sun-kissed skin.

She recognized the slit, pale scar on his cheek; recognized the still, lethal grace, movements like flowing with the winds. Recognized that cape swaying behind him twinning with the silver of his eyes, only darker.

Syrene knew who he was, knew before the firebreather and he swapped a nod by the way of greeting as the man came to a halt.

Knew, before the sentries bowed deeply and muttered, “Your Highness.”

Knew, before she heard Faolin mutter to Eliver, “Azryle Wintershade.”

Knew, before she felt the stillness in Eliver as he muttered back, “Prince of Cleystein.”

Then, the three other slaves’ clothes rustled as they bowed but Syrene couldn’t—couldn’t motion at all but just stare and take in the ripper who’d lifted her curse and harkened her back in her human form.

And when she was the only one who stood still, bright silver eyes with the core of burnt gold of immortality belonging to Azryle Wintershade, and fire eyes with bright burning flames belonging to Vendrik Evenflame, drifted to her. And she held the former’s glare. Whether he recognized her, the ripper didn’t let on.

When the other three straightened, Syrene felt their glares on herself too. Doubtless, deeming her a brave fool, not knowing it was the stillness gnawing at her that kept her from bowing.

But the Prince of Cleystein only said to Vendrik Evenflame, in a deep voice that seemed to have rumbled in the trees, “To the fortress. Castle does not need them.”

She didn’t fail to notice the firebreather’s long blink. But didn’t utter anything and beckoned for the slaves to return to the birdship. For the fortress was not in this city.

Syrene half turned as others, but the warrior-prince called, “You.” She stilled at the sheer gaze he held and jerked his head. “You’re with me.”

Again, Syrene felt the stares and stiffness in Vur beside her. The prince was taller than even him, if only by an inch.

Vendrik beckoned again, another rare sight from the Second she had no doubt. Because the irritation flared in his eyes, having to repeat himself. A man hardened to having his commands heeded without having worded them, and having to repeat himself …

They all walked back, including all the sentries. Faolin even threw Syrene a concerned glance before she went, so did Vur and Eliver. A fear, Syrene realized, for their own kind. They’d all withstood correlative brutal torments for years after all. A thread of understanding without having known each other.

When the steps faded, Azryle Wintershade cloaked himself and simply said, “Let’s go.” He looked like nothing more than a lethal assassin.

To Queen Felset, she knew. To his distant aunt, if that. Why, she didn’t know. Didn’t suppose she wanted to know. The queen had someway Chosen her before Syrene was ranked to be, there must be a damn well reason.

So as the Prince of Cleystein turned, dark sheet of his glinting hair sliding off his shoulder, and began walking, Syrene followed.