Drothiker

Killer. Monster. Coward.

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

Don’t you think your predecessor would be disappointed to see you so incapable of fighting?

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

You weren’t even there when your duce was slaughtered.

Something in her had snapped. Snapped so violently, so loudly, that she was surprised they didn’t hear it. A shriek began in each inch of her, an unfelt agony throbbing in her bones and flesh and soul, and hadn’t ceased even as night consumed the bedroom. Even as she slumped down against the bed, hugging her legs in the dark, dead-quiet bedroom—that might as well have been that tower.

That earsplitting, soul-crunching shriek did not cease.

She glared into the dark, willing herself to melt in it, her whole body trembling—from the terror seizing her or … or just those words ringing in her flesh, she did not know.

“You’ve been too quiet, Rene,” Starflame’s voice was gentle from where she sat on the drapes of windows behind her. Her wings dim. Those were the first words she’d spoken since the moment Syrene had returned from that fortress. Or maybe those were the first Syrene had heeded.

Killer. Monster. Coward.

She felt empty—so, so empty. Only these silent screams, only this miserable breathing. Even that was too loud, echoing in this abyss inside her. There seemed to be nothing left, nothing to fight for.

But you can do nothing because you’re too weak.

She was. She was weak, and lifeless. A mocking, petty bulk of flesh and bones. A coward, a monster, a murderer.

Flarespirit, her mother’s heavenly voice sounded past the shrieking, and the massacre within her. My sweet girl, are those tears? Did someone hurt you?

For long, long moments, she let that ghostly voice settle in herself, let that sweet memory lay claim to her. That was all she was left with, alone and wandering, homeless and suffering, her mother’s faint memories were all she had. All she will ever have. Her beautiful, strong face. Her abiding will, balmy touch.

Oh, my poor girl. Something sharp coiled Syrene’s throat. Come—come home to me. World is too harsh.

Home is lost, she replied. And I’m far from it, Mama. I’m far—so far.

She could have sworn a mythic hand cupped her cheek. Let your heart beat, my child, home will not seem so foreign.

A sob declared past Syrene’s throat, her heart bleeding and suffocating. It’s so difficult. I’m so tired, Mama. I’m so tired.

Her mother’s reply did not come, and that touch vanished, leaving the cold air to come itching in her skin, as a knock at the bedroom’s door sounded.

Each ounce of warmth in her eddied, and there was nothing but hatred—lethal and irreverent—now polluting Syrene’s hollow self. So silent that she hadn’t even overheard the steps approaching, she knew just who stood on the other side of the door. And she wanted nothing more than to drive a weapon through his chest.

“I can scent you, you know,” Azryle said, voice soft. Gentle, to an extent.

She remained glaring into the dark, one corner of the room moonlight didn’t stain.

“I heard you cry.”

“I’m sorry my filth disturbed your beauty sleep.” She meant to show him she didn’t give a care—that his words hadn’t impacted her for much long. That he did not have that power over her, and she was not so weak. But her treacherous voice was hollow and hoarse. Like she felt to her very core.

“That’s not what I—” His sigh was sharp and audible. “I’m coming in.”

“No.” Though the door was locked, it wouldn’t take him long to unbar it. “Leave me alone!”

She still had his blood beneath her nails, dry and filthy. She hadn’t bathed, hadn’t bothered moving from here. Certainly did not plan to do so any time soon.

One moment, the knob thudded. The next, a click sounded, and the door opened.

He stood at the threshold, hair tousled. The lights from the living room casted a lanky shadow that stretched to her feet. His face was dim, not wholly traceable, save for the sides. Just looking at it … that beautiful face she loathed so much that red soon glazed her sight, her hands balled into fists.

She hated him—with each remaining shard of her soul, each beat of her heart, Syrene hated Prince Azryle Wintershade.

He leaned against the door-frame, and crooned, “As flattered as I am you consider me pretty enough to think I take beauty sleep …” His gaze fell to the tears caking her face. “Same could not be said about you.”

“Leave me alone,” she repeated. Her jaw clenching.

“Oh, you’re angry.” He frowned.

There was nothing—no sign of the torturous brute who trained her, who’d spat shit in her face. This man … he was someone else entirely. There was softness in his eyes—though no warmth, cold violence still churned there—but … softness. Less annoyance, or fury. A shade humane.

Leashed.

Still that was inadequate to loosen her fists, inadequate for her own hatred to cool down. And Syrene wanted nothing more than to see him dead.

Azryle went on. “You have reasons to hate me, of course. But don’t take it out on yourself, that’s just unwise. Extremely unwise.”

“What do you mean,” she ground out.

A dark brow lifted. “Have you eaten anything, today?”

Syrene blinked—only now heeding the empty pit in her stomach. He’d called before for dinner; she’d locked her door in answer. What time was it—“I’m not hungry.”

He winced, as if she’d pinched him. Then shook his head. “Unwise.”

“Are you relishing this?” she seethed. “Is some ruthless, sadistic part of you so pleased to see me like this that you continue coming back, doing everything to make me helpless, vulnerable?”

Azryle’s face was unreadable.

“Are you doing this to make me nothing by the time of duel, making it even easier for you to kill me during the course of it? If that’s it, Azryle, I’m already empty. You have to do nothing, I’m already broken and helpless.” Her voice cracked, but she didn’t care. Even as her heart bled, felt like someone remained piercing thorns there. “You ruined my life the moment you entered in it. And yet you continue doing so. So tell me, Azryle, because I do not know what I did to make you loathe me so much. I do not know why you’re so keen on taking even this last ounce of life left in me!” Her each next word louder than the last. Until she was shouting. “TELL ME!”

“I don’t hate you, Syrene,” was all he said. All. He. Said.

“Get out.” She didn’t bother hiding abomination in her own voice.

A muscle in his tattooed jaw swelled, shadowed. And he snapped, “Why, so you can sit here and cry yourself to emptiness?”

“Get. Out!”

“No.” Then—

He crouched before her, fury fashioning his features. This close, his tattoo was even beautiful, she hated it. This close, she could see that the pale scar on his cheek she’d given him all those years ago was deeper than she’d gambled.

“Look at yourself.” He harshly wiped a tear from her face, she jerked out of his touch, abhorring it. But he displayed his now-soaked thumb for her. “This is what you’re planning to do all your life? Over what? Your past was loathsome, I understand. Three decades in that form obviously could not have been easy. But you’re immortal, Syrene.” He’d never said her name without any mockery in his tone before. “You have yet a life to live, centuries yet to come. Millennia, even. This is how you’re planning to live all of it?” He glanced towards her tear on his thumb with scorn, disapproval.

“Then what am I supposed to do?” Her voice came out desperate, whiny. Tears still seeping from her eyes.

His voice steered harsh. “You’re supposed to fight.”

“I don’t have strength left to fight.”

Azryle shook his head, his face again unreadable. “Faolin Wisflave asked me today what I see when I look at you.” He fell beside her, inclined against the bed, extending his tall legs. And relaxed his head back, glared up at the ceiling. Syrene waited. And then Azryle shut his eyes. “When I look at you, Syrene, I see someone willing to fight. You say you’re broken, even that sorceress said you’re empty—even I first thought you’re hopeless … if that were the case, what I said earlier today wouldn’t have been of importance. You wouldn’t have felt that wrath towards me, since there would have been nothing left to crease, to provoke. Nothing left to hurt.

“When I look at you, I see someone who spent three decades being a creature and survived, someone who spent three decades in that defeating darkness, and still came out human. When I entered that tower, I was gambling you wouldn’t have an ounce of humanity. When I entered, Alpenstride, in that poisoned dark, frigid tower, even the fire burning on the wood in my hand guttered. But you still survived.”

Azryle opened his eyes and met Syrene’s gaze in the gloom. “When I look at you, I see fire burning so violently that I think if you let it free, it’ll devour the world. You’re terrified of that monstrous part of yourself, what if I tell you if only you dared to embrace it instead of fighting it, you’re imperishable. That monstrous part, with claws and all, is still a part of you.” A pause. “You’re not broken. You say you have an ounce of life left in you, then take that kernel and build it anew. Allow it to grow and thrive.”

Syrene could only stare, holding his gaze. The shrieking in her had abated, that pit in her had gone wholly silent. There was such quiet in her, her thoughts empty. For a while she could do nothing but breathe. But then, as Azryle’s words leisurely sunk, Syrene wondered what leash had Ferouzeh talked about. And it snapped in place just as soon.

Her throat closed—

There were tales Queen Felset held the power to worm in minds and had all the warriors around herself compelled. Syrene had said as much during their trek to Nofstin, and Azryle had punched her. She’d supposed it was because she’d called him a monster, but—

“We’re all beasts confined in different skins.” Azryle lifted to his feet. “Don’t let yours die, otherwise you’re no more than skin.”

She still hated him. And yet … yet …

“I’ll heat dinner, come eat.” And then he was prowling out.

He was just at the threshold when Syrene called, “Azryle.”

He turned.

“Can you …” She swallowed hard. Can you—at times, if not always—feel? Why are you leashed? What kind of monster are you? she wanted to ask. But Syrene bit down all her questions, because those all seemed too private—especially since he’d literally punched her only for suspecting he was … restrained. He’d said he would answer her if she impressed him during training … whatever she asked. Fine, then. So Syrene asked instead, words rolled out before she could think better of them, “Can you teach me to read?” She made to eat her foolish, foolish words, but then she supposed if she couldn’t ask him about rippers, then she could surely read about them.

For a moment, he seemed shook, as if he’d anticipated anything but that. Well, that made two of them. Still, Syrene added, “You said to not ask Ferouzeh; I won’t be seeing much of Faolin. There aren’t many people I know—”

“What do I get out of it?” He lifted a brow.

It was Syrene’s turn to be shook—to blink, even. But then she scowled. “I was kind of thinking your tuitions would be at no cost.”

“Do I seem like someone who does charity, cub?”

She sighed, rubbing at her forehead. “What do you want for it? Though I hardly have anything to offer—”

He crouched before her the next heartbeat, and it was hard to rein her flinch. It will take a while for her to get accustomed to his preternatural pace. “I want you to make Maeren hate me.”

Syrene recoiled. “What?”

“I don’t care how you do it—tell her all the reasons you hate me, tell her I have venereal problems, if you have to. Just get her to hate me and leave me alone.”

Syrene gagged. “Are you serious?” Venereal problems— She shut out the heat that began rising to her face, and was again thankful for the dark room. That was another thing, Syrene supposed, he didn’t feel embarrassed of what he spoke, or did. In front of whom.

Azryle’s face was impassive. “Does it seem like I’m joking?”

“I wouldn’t know—I don’t suppose you know how to joke.”

He gasped and clutched at his chest in mock despair. “That sounds even insulting coming from you.”

She just mimicked his words before he stalked out.

And when Syrene lifted to her feet and walked into the bathing room to shower herself clean, different words echoed in that hollow pit inside her.

When I look at you, I see fire burning so violently that I think if you let it free, it’ll devour the world.

You’re not broken. You say you have an ounce of life left in you, then take that kernel and build it anew. Allow it to grow and thrive.

➣

Azryle had just returned to his bedroom after heating and serving food for the cub when greone in his sweats’ pocket began vibrating. He slid it out, considering it too late for Felset to holocall—

But the device was not blazing iridescent.

Fire was screened on the square glass smaller than the size of his hand. Vendrik.

Azryle poised greone on carpet, tapped to attend the call. He propped himself against the bedroom door, crossed his arms, as Vendrik vaguely figured atop greone. Pressed against the door, he could hear Alpenstride practically devouring the food after staying ravenous for the whole day. But she was eating, at least, not starving herself to death.

Vendrik, however, seemed as if he had just escaped death by a hairsbreadth. He was fronting something else, not knowing Azryle had joined his holocall. Worry molding his face, confusion Azryle could almost scent all the way here. It didn’t seem like his friend was at his apartment across the hall, though. “Where in Saqa are you?”

Firebreather’s gaze snapped to Azryle. Worry and confusion did not alter. “I’m changing the screen.”

“Why—”

But Azryle’s bedroom was already fading, Vendrik’s position sprawled all around him.

He stood before a temple not far from the fortress—on another hill nearby. Azryle could perceive it from here, looking like a ginormous boulder.

The temple before him, however, was in debris.

There were rifts in the hill he stood on, stretched like a spiderweb.

A few soldiers around them bowed to Azryle as he took in everything. Dust was still falling—it had just crumpled. Vendrik was saying, “The impact was felt all the way to the fortress, like an earthquake. This cliff will not hold for long, but it seems the rifts will keep expanding.” To the fortress.

Azryle walked inside the temple, felt the carpet from his bedroom beneath his bare feet as he advanced towards the heart of the spiderweb—heart of the stone temple. “Any glimpses of what might have caused it?”

“No,” Vendrik answered from behind, carrying greone, as Azryle crouched where all the rifts linked. “These are all the witnesses”—he referred to the soldiers—“they only caught the temple falling and reported.”

There were no traces of any baeselk—not any he’d ever hunted—though Azryle couldn’t know for certain, not unless he visited and stretched his mejest around, to feel their outrageous waves. A step he loathed.

Rik crouched beside Azryle. As he spoke, his voice was as low as it could get, holding greone near his mouth. “I feel it in my own self, Ryle.” Azryle’s head whipped in Vendrik’s direction. “If it’s a baeselk, it’s too dangerous. But if it’s not …” He shut his eyes and shook his head, ruby braid on his shoulder catching moonlight. “This edginess in my fire for past few days … and now this … It does not seem like a mere coincidence.”

Azryle knew better than to ask what was he implying. “I’ll come over.” Waiting till dawn was unwise. If it was a baeselk, monstrous tendrils would be long gone in a few hours. Particularly if it was powerful enough to do this damage while being in the Crack.

Vendrik only gave a curt nod before cutting the holocall.

And Azryle’s bedroom returned in a ripple; he was crouching before his bed. He lifted to his feet, threw on a shirt and his cloak, grabbed a few weapons from his armoire and beneath the mattress of his bed, and headed out.

Alpenstride had fallen asleep on kitchen counter, a deep slumber—so deep that he could hear her heavy breaths without concentrating with his ripper hearing.

You ruined my life the moment you entered in it.

He shut out her words and advanced towards her. She had indeed devoured the food, mouth was wholly stained … some of the sauce even marred her cheek. Her hair was still damp from the bath, a strand sticking to the sauce on her cheek. Azryle made to call for her but—

Her face pained, brows twitching towards one another. She began mumbling. Azryle could not make out most of the words, but a few … “Run.” Panic molded her fragile features. “Fly, Starflame, run.” Her voice grew louder, her breaths ragged. “Protect Windsong until I return.”

“Alpenstride.” Azryle shook her shoulder.

But she went on, too deep in her nightmare. “I will explain everything when I return, I promise, but do not engage with Deisn. Watch out for Levsenn, remind her to dive in water every night.”

Azryle began shaking her shoulder aggressively. “Syrene.”

Her agitation only grew, the scent of her terror went around the living room in a powerful tendril. Then she was mouthing a language he was not familiar with, the skin beneath her eyes vividly fading to a darker shade.

Azryle swore—she was too sunken in her nightmare. The upshot of the Pojekk’s power hadn’t yet wholly drained from her. His jaw clenched before he sat down on the stool beside her, his two fingers reaching for her temple. And Azryle called for his mejest, that small scrap of skillset he’d whipped from a baeselk long ago to slay it. It soon reached his fingertips and seeped in Alpenstride’s skin.

Azryle shut his eyes, and followed her.

➣

He stood outside the door of a rooftop bathed in the light of rousing dawn. The guardrail was finely adorned with flowers—lilies and jasmine—enchanted from rotting. Tables set along the guardrail were just as handsomely ornamented with lilacs. The floor carpeted.

And amid the rooftop, knelt Alpenstride. Her honey hair was long, drooping from her shoulders, her face was that of a girl in misery, silent tears of terror rolling down her cheeks, her neck. Her face … young, but full—healthy. Beautiful. Her skinny arms muscular and freshly wounded, dried blood streaked them. She was trembling head-to-toe.

Behind her, on that guardrail, sat a faerie. Her wings seemed to be burning brighter that the rising sun behind. And she was weeping, watching Alpenstride mouthing that otherworldly language.

The Tiny Moon whispered, “I will wait for you, Rene.” And then she flew away.

And when Azryle once again eyed the rooftop so quickly bathing in golden of the sunrise, the carpet, and the tables, an image flashed in his mind, struck him like a lightning bolt.

He had been here before, five years ago. When he’d dealt with a grotesque beast on this very rooftop. Then, the carpet had been burning, that fire had been the only light in the whole tower. Then, the guardrail had been traded with steel.

And for a moment, as that sixteen-year-old Alpenstride read the words in sunlight, as if remembered by heart, Azryle was struck by what he knew was to arise.

Then he was racing towards her, realizing he was in a memory. A memory that was now the nightmare killing her.

“Syrene!” he called, shaking her shoulders.

When she looked up at him, Azryle stilled at what had seized her eyes. Something beyond horror, beyond darkness. Her lips still read the words, and smoke began oozing out of her skin—as if being burned by the sunlight. Life began diminishing from her azure eyes.

If she completed—if she transformed—

Azryle’s hand slid to her nape, and another to her chin.

And snapped her neck.

The girl fell to the ground.

➣

Syrene gasped back to life, and jerked up.

Saying her heart was hammering would be an understatement. There was an agony in her throat, her lungs, her body.

Only when he withdrew his fingers from her temple, did she notice Azryle perched beside her. The tinge of burning that began in her eyes told her how wide her eyes were open.

It took her moments and moments to take it all in. The nightmare—memory. This … this feeling of mejest coursing through her.

And when she did, when she grasped what had happened, Syrene began shaking, having relived that wretched day once again. And hurled the contents of her stomach right on the kitchen’s counter. Everything in her was burning and burning, so fiercely that she barely registered Azryle sliding out of the stool and rubbing her back. Barely registered as his hands raked in her short hair to hold it back. Letting her vomit here. In kitchen.

When she was thru, he helped her out of the stool, and began ushering her towards her bedroom. She didn’t protest, even as that feeling of his untamed, destroying mejest made her want to pull her hair out.

Syrene went straight into the bathroom.

With vomit still marring her mouth, she slid down against the door and hugged her legs to her chest. Partially because of her own lethal feelings.

Partially because Azryle Wintershade knew a secret of her life, and she refused to face him.

Because Azryle knew Syrene was cursed by no one but herself.

➣

You ruined my life the moment you entered in it.

Not for this harshness during the training, not for the nearing duel.

But because he’d lifted her curse, ruined whatever plan she’d had before trapping herself in that horrid form.

Azryle waited fifteen minutes outside the bathroom before his greone blinked color pink: How long?

Vendrik was waiting at the temple—almost slipped Azryle’s mind.

He did not wait more, and left.