Drothiker

“There is no time to rest,” Alpenstride shoved Azryle, charging again.

Ever since he’d told her about Feast of Melodies, the cub had been training relentlessly. When Azryle wasn’t around, he returned to the apartment to her committed to daggers. Not eating much, as if food would waver her routine. When she was not training with weapons, she drowned herself in books, endeavoring to read, as if expecting the duel to take place during the ball.

When Azryle returned from exploring another hopeless disaster with Vendrik today, Alpenstride had been wielding the sword in her bedroom, as if challenging an invisible opponent.

He’ll admit it: she was honing faster than he’d anticipated—better than he’d anticipated. But if this continued, and she remained starving herself, overindulging herself so intensely, she might as well knacker a muscle or two.

This time when she attacked, too swiftly slithering out a dagger from beneath her sleeve, Azryle gripped her wrist.

The pommel of the sword in her other hand dashed for his waist to have him loosen his grip on her, but Azryle clutched that wrist too … so delicate in his hands.

Her sword clunk to the tiles.

She bared her teeth and snarled up at him, exhaustion festering her blue eyes, hair—now stretching to her shoulders—disheveled. He noticed her nightclothes from yesterday, ink on her hands from writing. Azryle asked flatly, “Have you even bathed today?”

Her blink was slow. “Why, do I stink in your too-tidy apartment?”

“Yes.”

Color bloomed at her now-full cheeks, but didn’t avert her eyes, annoyance seized them. “We are rescinding for Olkfield tomorrow,” the cub seethed, “I have no intentions of being your queen’s dinner.”

“I don’t think she would regard you at all if you don’t even bathe.”

Her face flowered a darker shade of red—dark enough that her freckles almost disappeared—nose crinkled as she scowled. Syrene made to yank her hands out of his grip, but her efforts proved fruitless. She gritted her teeth hard enough that for a moment, Azryle braced himself for a crack. “Let me go.” She grunted, struggling.

Azryle called for a kernel of baeselk mejest burrowed deep in. Invisible hands shot out of him.

He released her wrists from his hands, and she made to go for the sword.

But Azryle gripped her arms with those mythic hands, savoring in Alpenstride’s widening eyes as she felt the touch, and pinned her to the wall, his mejest around her waist lifted her slightly. She began thrashing her feet against the wall, frantically eyeing her arms, her waist, searching for the unseen grip. “What the—”

He bent to lift her sword and the dagger. “I gave these to you to practice, not to drive your muscles to dysfunction.”

Her whole body began thrashing against the wall, bared her teeth as she busted a gut to jerk herself out. “Release me!” Something like panic sparked in those eyes, her chest began heaving.

“Alpenstride, relax yourself—”

She began shouting. “RELEASE ME!” Silver lined her eyes. There was enough panic in her voice, her scent and face, that Azryle loosened his grip on her, began conveying her to floor—

As soon as he released her, she swept to her knees and began trembling, tears were spilling from her eyes. She didn’t lift to her feet—instead, she clasped her knees and remained on the floor.

Azryle ground his teeth. “Why are you crying?”

She said nothing and rubbed her tears—he caught her hands balling into tight fists, to cease her trembling. Azryle scented it before blood stained the tiles beneath her hand.

He crouched before her, and the cub looked at him as if he were someone else, fear tanging her scent. “What happened?” His voice came out gentler than he’d ever heard from himself before, and Azryle reined his own surprise.

A plea limned her eyes when she met his gaze, and Faolin Wisflave’s words sounded in Azryle’s ears.

She’s so deep in that it might be unfeasible to help her out, something she so desperately needs.

Azryle said, “If you don’t tell me what’s wrong, I can’t … help you.” He almost choked on the word.

Alpenstride lifted her chin, another tear skating down, her voice was weak when she spoke. “Can you remove memories?”

A blow seemed to have struck Azryle. “Why?”

“Can you?”

“Yes.” Her eyes sparked. Until, “But I will not.”

“You—”

Azryle fell beside her, propped himself against the wall. “Talk to me about it.”

He felt her shudder where their shoulders touched. “I can’t.” Her voice was raw, thick. She hugged her folded legs tighter to her chest.

“If you don’t tell me, then I can’t help,” he stated. “Even to confiscate a memory, I need to know which one.”

She shuddered again, then whipped her gaze in his direction. “If I asked you about your memories, would you be able to express them?”

Azryle stilled. “That’s hardly fair, I don’t want mine removed.”

“Fair?” she mocked, snorting. “Where is anything fair, Azryle, show me. Is being shoved in a duel in exchange for what’s already mine, fair? Is being chased by assassins since age ten to the point that the only escape is cursing myself, fair? Is returning to human body after three decades, only to be thrown in some hellhole for five more years, fair to you?” She met his gaze as she said, “Or is being born a ripper only to be commanded bloodshed your whole life, fair? Was watching your mother’s head rot, commanded to feel the horror, but having those feelings ripped off right after, fair?”

Ancient, cruel images began crawling up to his mind, and it took everything in Azryle to not disembowel the woman. As he spoke, his voice was a lethal calm. “One more word about my mother, one more word about anything linked with my past, I don’t care what you went through, I don’t care what Felset would do to me; one more word, and I’ll gut you right here. Understand?”

He’d seen men tumble to their knees when he’d come anywhere near this temper, but Alpenstride … her gaze did not falter. Instead, she had stopped shaking, and the smirk she gave was small and bitter. “You tell me to confront my own horrors, how about you heed your own otsatyas-damned advice?”

Azryle knew he should stand up and leave, knew he should let this matter rest here. Yet he could not stop himself from saying, “I do not have horrors.” Suddenly holding her gaze was a monumental task, her azure eyes seemed to be crumpling each wall Felset had assembled around him. He did not break her glare though.

“You are afraid, Azryle,” she said through her teeth. “You feign being a rock that can never be broken by any force, but you know you’re terrified of the world, of what your queen might do, should you refuse a command. You’ve been in armor for too long, sheathing yourself to the point that you believe you’re nothing but a weapon, born to kill. You called me a coward, but you’re the one who has been cowering for three centuries.”

Azryle upheld his calm with those same three centuries of training, schooled his face into boredom. He propped his head against the wall and balled his hands, restraining from punching her fragile face again. He’d made progress with this task, one wrong move will have it puckering down. “Fair enough,” he said finally, “I told you to speak, should have expected nothing but absurdity from your mouth.”

“Absurdity?” Her laugh was hostile and icy. Then she lifted to her knees, and wheeled to prop herself before him.

Before he could brace himself, her both small hands came to cup either side of his face. It took fighting each predatory instinct to not drive the sword through her, or simply thrust her back. No opponent had ever come this close to him—hadn’t let them get past his defenses. He’d lost count of how many times this one had come so near, enough to feel her breathing on his face.

Her eyes were livid, cruel. “Look at me, and tell me you’re not afraid to fight her. Tell me you’ve not contemplated it a million times and cowered from your very thought. Tell me it doesn’t drive you insane to not be able to alter your life, to live like a weapon.” Her voice lowered to a whisper as she said, “Tell me you don’t want to feel, to just be human for a day.”

Azryle willed himself to speak—tell her, and get this silliness done with. But the words did not come.

Powerless—he felt so powerless.

He hated it. Hated her for it.

“Why would I bother fighting my nature and wishing otherwise? Why would I wish to be weak?”

The words sounded a lie to himself, different than all the others he’d ever spoken.

For a moment, she just stared at him with those keen eyes he wanted to rip out. But then she said, “You’re an expert liar. Thanks to three centuries of practice by lying to yourself, I’m guessing?” She did not release his face.

Instead, her gaze dipped to his right cheek, where he knew lain a scar bestowed by herself five years ago. They’d never mentioned it—the curse.

You ruined my life the moment you entered in it.

He remembered the creature growing frantic when she had gulped down the antidote, remembered her rushing somewhere as if an attempt to thwart herself from returning to her human form.

She’d cursed herself. Azryle didn’t comprehend why the thought made his gut roil, but …

Her gaze now roved over the zegruks—hemvae markings—inked in his cheek, his neck. Her brows furrowed slightly … Azryle wondered if she recognized them somehow, could read them.

Is being chased by assassins since age ten to the point that the only escape is cursing myself, fair?

“Why did you curse yourself?” he asked, his voice soft. It hadn’t struck him that he’d been wanting to know—been keeping himself from asking—until now.

Her eyes snapped to his, then, and went wide with alarm. Syrene’s chest heaved once, but then those wide eyes relaxed. The breath she heaved with her sigh confided in his face.

And otsatyas damn him, a part of him wanted to stay here—relished in the way her skin felt against his. The way her breath called to him, trapped him in a trance he didn’t comprehend.

Azryle wasn’t surprised to find that he loathed that part of himself.

“If I offer this part of myself, would you offer me yours?” There was a plea in her voice, a well-hidden desperation.

She’d been wanting to tell this to someone, wanting to get it out of her chest. Been wanting someone to ask it. For how long? “Yes,” Azryle muttered without thinking. With her so damned close, each thought seemed to have deceased. But Azryle yanked himself to attention. “But not here.”

Alpenstride blinked.

Azryle reached for her hands on his cheeks and dropped them before lifting to his feet.

He extended his hand and jerked his head. “Come with me.”

➣

Azryle steered Syrene to a forest nearby their building.

She didn’t even notice where he was escorting her so deep into the woods, was vaguely aware of the approaching midnight, she was occupied brooding over how she’d survived the death that had sparked in the ripper’s eyes not ten minutes ago. Syrene had half-expected he’d snap her neck right there, would drive her own sword through her chest.

But he’d done nothing. For someone who was known by the Pall Moira, as the slaves in the fortress called him; for someone who had never been familiar with mercy, scowled at the word help, Azryle’s sudden lack of violence towards her was too appalling.

Too unnerving.

Syrene had known she’d pressed the wrong wound by mentioning his mother, by venturing to tell him he was a coward, but driven by the memory of the overseer shackling her arms up and whipping her, of him … touching her, Syrene hadn’t cared. Hadn’t been in her senses. Particularly when Azryle had asked her to contend with him, and she’d wanted to. Otsatyas, she’d wanted to start shouting everything to him, to spill everything that haunted her with each breath she took, to him.

She’d hated that feeling—that need to weep to him. Syrene hadn’t, because in the end, he’d just stamp her with coward, would tell her how weak she was … couldn’t even endure her own feelings.

Why would I wish to be weak?

He already believed emotions were for weaklings. For humans—Grestel.

Felset removed his feelings. Told him he was a ripper, born to kill, not a weak human cowered by feelings. Maeren’s words had begun roaring in Syrene’s head.

Azryle came to a halt before her, shattering her thoughts. He peered up through the canopy of trees, blue shade in his midnight now-short hair shifted with the movement, and muttered something. Syrene could have sworn his slate eyes gleamed for a moment before he turned to her. “Follow me.”

Syrene rubbed at her forehead. “Wonder what else had I been doing for past five minutes.”

“Brooding,” he mumbled.

Before she could even react, Azryle stepped onto the air. A ripple of light flashed, as if he’d just stepped onto invisible water. “I …”

Azryle climbed another step in the air; earning another flash. Invisible stairs—“I don’t see you following, cub.” He turned to her.

Syrene wrapped her arms around herself. “Am I supposed to be seeing anything?”

He hopped off the air. “If you’re gifted the ability to see invisible barriers, sure.”

Before she could muster a reply, his arm slid around her and hauled her over his shoulder. Syrene bit down her shriek, but pinched his other shoulder. “Let me down!”

But he was already ascending the air again. “Pinch me again and I’ll chop your hand off,” he snapped.

She craned her neck enough to see the tall trees around her lowering, his brutal shoulder digging in her stomach. Syrene bit her lip and clamped down the grunts that rushed to her throat.

“There is a good vast ground,” she breathed.

“If we’re going to get personal, cub,” he said, “I don’t want even the trees hearing.”

Unease washed over her at the word personal.

A few moments later, Syrene’s nails dug in his shoulders as he propped her down. And taking in the surroundings, her breath caught.

Sheet of bright stars was sprawled all around her like sprinkled glitter on black paper, crescent moon seemed to be just a few steps away. Bright light rippled wherever her feet pressed. Everything in her seemed to bloom thanks to the open air here.

How she’d always hated the dark, but this … this was Haerven.

Syrene turned, only to find Azryle perched on … what seemed like air. His gaze was trained on her.

“What,” she snapped.

He sketched a brow. “I asked you a question.”

Why did you curse yourself?

She suppressed yet another shudder and slid down a few steps across from him, suddenly regretting proposing it. “There were assassins following me. Apparently, there was a bounty on my neck.”

He stared, waited.

She rubbed at her forehead and folded her legs to her chest, propped her chin on her knees. “Two were sent to my house when I was ten.” Don’t break, don’t break, don’t break—“I …” Her heart grew heavier and heavier. “My brother was beheaded. That had been their first arrival. Then for the next six years, there was nothing. Things were quiet and calm, my— Duce Hexet and Prime Raocete kept me from dangers, kept me hidden in the woods. With time, we supposed it was just one attack … but Duce Hexet was still suspicious. Apparently, her uncertainties proved right. As I turned sixteen, I was attacked every day. I was not safe in woods, not safe anywhere … every day, wherever I was, an assassin came to capture me. With time, they began coming in clusters. Sometimes I ran, other times I killed. Duce Hexet guessed they were tracking me, but never grasped how. I had to protect Windsong at any cost.”

Azryle looked baffled. “So you cursed yourself, thinking they would stop tracking you, with the sword hidden inside your Abyss-damned flesh?”

“I didn’t know what else to do. Seven well-trained assassins were hunting for me that night—six years of training was not enough to take down giants as yourself. I was far from Raocete and my mother!” Syrene cringed at the memory of how Windsong had felt inside that inhuman body, wedged like spine. How it had felt in her hands, wet and gluey, when she’d awoken in her human body.

He flinched. “Your mother?”

A jolt went through Syrene, but she schooled her features into neutrality—was too trained at that. “Yes, she was friends with Raocete, I lived with her alone.” She shook her head, and steered the conversation quickly. “Windsong needed to be protected, with my soul and flesh and bones, I could not allow it to be robbed by wrong hands.”

“Why?” Ryle narrowed his eyes in curiosity.

“I get to ask the question now.”

His shoulders tensed. “You already know everything.” The mockery in his tone was unmistakable. So he had taken Syrene probing Maeren to offense.

“You said you would offer a part of yourself, not your past.”

“There’s nothing to know.”

“There’s always something to know,” she countered. “I have to live with you and I know nothing about you.”

He angled his head. “Are you failing to recall you’re also my enemy?”

She didn’t quite comprehend why, but the word was like a jab to her gut. Enemy—she was his enemy. Foe, opponent, rival, they were just words in any contest … but this was life and death.

Enemy. The word clanged through her.

Syrene shook it off—tried to. “Tell me what you feel … right now.”

His brows shot skyward. But then he brought up his hands and studied them. “I feel the air on my bare hands, it feels really good. And on my face, it’s usually smeared with sweat. Relaxing, in this brutal summer—”

“Azryle.”

He paused and met her gaze, any amusement from his eyes ebbed in a heartbeat. “I feel nothing.” His voice was raw, unfaltering. “I feel nothing, cub.”

How could one not feel anything? Having a hollow inside his chest, feeling no sorrow, or joy, or fear, or regret, what must that be like? Being alive but … dead—“You can’t feel nothing,” she decided.

Azryle only shrugged. Then, “My turn to ask—”

“No,” Syrene protested. “Answer with the truth.”

“I feel nothing, Syrene,” he snapped.

She opened her mouth, but he went on.

“But now, I feel anger, irritation. I’m furious that I feel nothing. I feel hatred for the same reason. I hate that I’ve come here time and again and not once have I felt the wonder that was tattooed on your face minutes ago. I hate that she did this to me, and I can’t throttle her, instead she gets to command me like a dog. I hate that I have to return to her tomorrow, only to get commanded in bed with her, to serve her. I hate that there’s nothing for me to look forward to, but only this invisible collar around my neck, this leash to my soul, for eternity.” Vein bulged at his neck. “She took everything from me, but she left desire in me. So I would want to feel, so I would keep begging her. Hoping one day, I will desire her.” His voice lowered to a whisper as he said, “I hate that there’s nothing in me.”

Syrene’s heart cracked, her throat tight. When she spoke, her voice came out a whisper. “And what do you feel now?”

It took him a moment to reply. “Like something heavy has been lifted off my chest.”

Her eyes burned. “Why have you never talked about this to anyone?”

“Nobody bothered to ask.” He shrugged, as if it were nothing important. “You were right: I have been in armor for too long, I never bothered telling anyone either.”

Silence stretched on for long moments. Then Azryle continued, “That’s not even what I hate the most,” he whispered. “When you were assigned to me, I felt the relief of being away from Felset, if only for some time. She caught it, and made me feel anger towards you—so much anger that only your voice drove me enough to punch you. For the duel, the training, so I would weaken you, instead of honing you. And that worked, didn’t it? I’m aiding her in this mission to break you.”

“Azryle, I—”

“She can make me feel whatever she wants, but that does not change the fact that you’re my freedom, Syrene.”

Tears pricked at her eyes.

“I hate that I have to fight you this duel. And I …” His lips drew a taut line. “I don’t want to be the villain in your story. Because you’re not in mine.”

“You’re—”

“My turn to ask a question.”

“What will happen if you don’t return to Olkfield tomorrow, and don’t attend the ball?” she asked, ignoring him.

“There will be no ball without me.” He sighed. “The masquerade won’t be in the castle, but in the sky. Like this,” he encompassed the surroundings with an arm, “I have to create a floor like this.”

“But what will happen if you don’t go?” She added, “To you.”

He rubbed at his face. “You mean if I try to fight the command.” Syrene nodded. “I will choke to death.”

She swallowed hard.

I hate that I have to return to her tomorrow, only to get commanded in bed with her, to serve her.

Syrene shut her eyes.

“Kessian Wensel said you tried to jump off a cliff.”

Her eyes flew open at that, felt the color draining from her face. “I …” She bit her lip. “Things were bad, Azryle. I couldn’t take it anymore … I was tired of running, I was tired of everything.” Her voice broke at the last word.

“You were just sixteen.”

“And you were just eleven.”

Silence fell. But then Azryle said, “If you get out alive, and regain your sword, I want you to go live. Not just survive and breathe as you have been; live, Syrene.” For he knew the value of that treasure more so than anyone else.

“What about you?” she asked.

He shrugged again. “If I survive, there is only one future. And if I don’t …” He smirked. “I’ll meet you in Saqa in a few centuries.”

Syrene didn’t smile back. “It was so much easier to hate you.”

He grinned, and Syrene found herself wondering how beautiful would he look if that grin was joyful, real. “Are you saying you don’t hate me?”

“No,” she breathed, “I don’t.”

Azryle blinked, as if no opponent had ever not hated him before.

“I told you that you ruined my life because you lifted the curse.” She met those silver eyes. “I hadn’t had a life to begin with.”