Drothiker

Syrene returned to the apartment, disposed to speak with Starflame and acquaint her with Syrene’s trip to Olkfield tomorrow.

Azryle went straight to the kitchen to make dinner, snarling at her to go bathe before eating or sleep with grumbling stomach tonight. She’d just stuck out her tongue at him and stridden into her bedroom.

“Starflame?” whispered Syrene, conscious of the ripper ears in the apartment.

The faerie was not on the dressing table today, neither in bed. Starflame was half a millennium old, could obscure herself too well, having lived in secrecy ever since the Tiny Moons went extinct with hemvae.

Syrene walked over to the drapes and shook the silk. “Starflame.”

Nofstin was swallowed by moonlight behind the drapes, tall buildings echoing the glimmering stars atop them.

She ambled to the bedside tables, searched the drawers just in case.

But the faerie was nowhere to be found; Syrene swallowed down her noxious thoughts. She was fine—Starflame was fine, just hiding somewhere—

The thought did not settle, and her heart snitched to her throat as Syrene’s eyes arranged on the window’s glass again.

A drop of blood smeared its corner.

Agitation took a hold of Syrene as she rushed out of the bedroom. “Azryle!” Her voice came out shaky, loud.

The ripper emerged from the kitchen in a heartbeat. “What is it?”

She opened her mouth but words did not arise. Syrene clutched his forearm and tugged him to the bedroom, all the while willing her body to not begin shaking again. “Do you scent anyone else here?” she asked instantly as they entered.

He sniffed. Syrene waited.

Azryle went rigid, alert, and then he was prowling to the windows. She shadowed after him, her heart hammering. It took him a heartbeat to capture the drop of blood.

A muscle feathered at his jaw and Azryle reached into his sweats’ pocket, bringing out a square glass. He began tapping on it—the glass quivered with his touches. Syrene hadn’t grasped she had been digging her nails in his arm until blood marred her hand.

Azryle didn’t seem to notice, but Syrene released him.

A moment later, he bent double and positioned the glass piece on tiles. When he straightened and stepped beside her, it began blinking myriad colors.

Syrene almost staggered a step back when a milky-figured man stuck out atop the device like a blooming flower.

He was breathtakingly beautiful. A lock of chocolate hair was dancing at his forehead with the wind, amber eyes twinkling in the moonlight. He was scratching at his light stubble, pointed chin.

The man was reclined somewhere, his arm poised atop the knee of his folded leg, a key in hand. The other arm’s elbow was pressing in ground, holding him up.

He was whistling, looking everywhere but to Azryle.

The ripper inclined against the wall beside him and drawled, “I don’t remember you always being this shitty at sneaking in and out, Maycusen.” Azryle ran a finger over his own chin, indicating the other man’s stubble. “Did that quality slip out thanks to too many days roaming in the wilds?”

Maycusen turned his amber eyes to Azryle and crooned, “Shitty as my sneaking is, you still couldn’t catch me.” A smirk playing at his lips.

“You chose to intrude when I wasn’t home.” Azryle angled his head. “That says something, doesn’t it?”

Maycusen howled a rich laugh, and sat up, his brown cape snapping behind him. His two fingers lifted in a mocking salute. “Hello, jefe.” Leader.

A member of Queen Felset’s squadron of warriors, then.

Syrene could have sworn Azryle bristled, but his face remained amused. “Old referents as Your Highness still work.”

The man recoiled. “And I remember you loathing that one particularly.”

Syrene had had enough. She snapped, “What did you take from this bedroom.”

Amber eyes slid to Syrene, then. She noticed his gaze was anything but like Azryle’s. The ripper carried death and violence in eyes, meant to terrorize anyone who met it, the well-concealed pain that Syrene had just begun perceiving contributing a sliver in it. But Maycusen’s gaze was warm—if only to an extent. Mischief and delight simmered there, though violence remained.

“Ah, the famous Human Wolf.” Maycusen positioned a hand over his breast and inclined his head. “I am an admirer.” He grinned. “I’m hoping to keep what I took, as a gift.”

Syrene grinned back. “Weren’t treasured with enough presents during your childhood, to have driven you to steal one?”

His expression aggrieved, mockful. “I wasn’t informed you’re cruel.”

She felt Azryle’s cleaving glare itching at her skin, no doubt recalling that she had carried nothing with herself to this apartment. He could not know about Starflame—

“I will have one thing, Maycusen.” Azryle’s voice was soft. “It’s either your throat or the faerie, you decide.”

Syrene’s heart paused dead.

She schooled her face into disinterest, didn’t motion to him, even as her heart began thrashing in her throat. He knew—

Maycusen’s gaped, amazement widening his eyes. “You know!” He tipped his head back and laughed again. “Oh, how pleased our queen will be to hear you secreted this from her.” He flashed his sharp white teeth in a grin. “And let’s not flatter yourself with your aptitudes, Az, we are both aware you can’t near my neck without having your own leash choking you.”

Syrene’s teeth ground involuntarily. But, to her surprise, Azryle chuckled; a cold sound that sent chills skittering down her spine. He crossed his arms. “I never said I will be the one doing it.” Silver eyes gleamed as he jerked his head to Syrene. “Syrene Alpenstride is very well capable of gutting you herself.”

She stiffened at the praise. But she crooned to the amber-eyed man, “You heard him; it’s either your throat or my faerie.”

Maycusen rolled his eyes, his hand stretched to somewhere behind him, and drew out a birdcage almost the size of his hand.

Starflame lay comatose in it, her wings wholly dimmed out, shackled in tiny chains. Dresteen.

Syrene’s blood thrummed with rage.

Maycusen scowled. “Speaks too much, this Tiny Moon, had to do something.” He grinned again. “Don’t worry, faebane should wear out soon.” Syrene’s throat closed, her fingers curled into fists behind her. “So much as I would like to hear about how you seized this rare piece, Heir of Wolves, I have commands to deal with.” The man waved his broad hand and smiled. “I’ll see you on the night of Feast of Melodies.”

And then Maycusen was gone.

For moments, Syrene only stared after him, her blood strumming in her ears.

But then Azryle suggested, “If you want, I can go after them.”

She turned to him then. His face was solemn—he would really go retrieve Starflame if she asked. “Wouldn’t that be going against Queen Felset’s command?”

Azryle shrugged. “Her command to me was to watch over you—to mend you, to be precise. That means I will do whatever you wish me to do, so long as it gratifies you; whether Felset realizes that, I don’t know. And I don’t care. So no, I wouldn’t be failing to comply with her command.”

Syrene shook her head, rubbing at her temple. “I refuse to believe she will leave you harmless if you intervene.”

His shoulders tensed. Yes, then, the queen would mistreat him.

She shrugged. Even as each beat of her heart was an effort, heavy, Syrene forced herself to say, “We’re adjourning to the castle tomorrow anyway. I doubt she would harm Starflame at all; I think it’s only a way to get at me.” It would be unwise to haste behind the man now … utterly unwise.

Azryle sighed. “As you wish,” he said with a hint of delight.

Syrene padded to the armoire for nightclothes. “How long have you known—”

“You don’t think I would catch a single clue of some Tiny Moon living in my apartment—especially someone who hums that much?” She looked over her shoulder only to find him scowling. “You undervalue my skills.”

“Your skill of being a brilliant asshole, yes.” Syrene opened the armoire.

“Syrene.” The lack of amusement in his tone had her stopping and turning. His face was grim. “What you said earlier … about not hating me …” He shook his head. “I will not be the same person there. I will be the monster I am, the monster you came to hate. I will beat you only for Felset’s entertainment, if I’m commanded. I might do far worse things.” He shrugged. “All I’m saying is—”

“You’re asking me to hate you.”

Azryle said nothing.

“I don’t hate you, Azryle.”

“Syrene—”

“I don’t hate you, Azryle,” she repeated. She’d never believed something more, the truth in the words had Syrene inwardly flinching.

His jaw clenched. “And what if I’m commanded to assault you? What if I’m commanded to do something way worse than that? I don’t want you to stand there with tears and terror. I don’t want to be the one to return that lifelessness in your Abyss-damned eyes.”

Syrene’s throat closed. “You will be commanded to do what.”

Azryle rubbed at his face but said nothing.

Her hand reached for her neck. “Have you ever been commanded to molest …” She swallowed.

The silence from him had Syrene stepping back, revulsion washed over her—wrenched her gut. And the fact that Felset might command him … before the duel to break her …

Azryle stepped towards her, but Syrene found herself backing up another step. “Syrene …” he began.

“Stay back.”

She slammed into the armoire.

“I didn’t do it, obviously, cub.” His feet paused.

It was as if a hand tugged her down in a sea of relief, and kept her there. But she still couldn’t speak.

“She commanded me—after the dungeons. One last endeavor the break me, to shatter my mind. I gave everything to fight it. Fighting the command, I began choking—Felset couldn’t afford to let me die. She commanded me to kill the woman instead.” He added, “Slowly.” He shook his head. “Kill me, Alpenstride,” he added abruptly. “Kill me the moment I near you—”

“Azryle.” Syrene mustered enough strength to step towards him. The shame in his eyes—and such deadly devastation and that horror at what he’d been commanded to do—threatened to collapse her.

Just how loose was Felset’s hold tonight? And just how many layers of horrid piled up to shape the queen?

Syrene shut down her own revulsion—her own disbelief—as she took his hand. He let her clutch it.

Syrene took Azryle’s hand to his own chest—right atop his heart.

“Your power is yours as much as it is hers. And this …” She squeezed his hand. “This is yours alone. Yours to give, yours to command. And this is where the strength lies, Ryle.” Syrene’s gaze fell to their lacing fingers on his heart. “I know you think feeling is weakness, that having a heart means it can be broken. It’s what kills us, yes, but it’s also what gives us life. Without feelings, you’re nothing but a living corpse, rejecting to face what beats within you makes you a coward.”

When she looked up, she grasped how close his head had lowered to hers, how steady his breath was on her face. Those silver eyes were trained on her lips, and her heart dithered.

“It’s a difficult thing to command,” she breathed, “but if you learn to, and achieve holding it sturdy on your own, you will own the power to rattle the skies.”

Syrene hadn’t realized when she’d lifted to her toes, or when his hand had clutched hers on his chest, but when his forehead landed atop hers, she found herself closing her eyes, his heart a steady rhythm beneath her touch.

Her own was racing beneath the coat of skin and cage of ribs.

Azryle’s grip tightened on her hand as her chin lifted, leaving their lips parted by a hairsbreadth.

His lips brushed over her cheek.

Syrene’s eyes snapped open, she fell to her heels and retreated three quick steps. Azryle’s released her hand, a wicked smile playing at those … those lips. Her face seared.

Bastard.

“I’ll bear your advice in mind.” Thank you, in simple words. He jerked his head to side. “Come, dinner’s ready.”

“I’ll bathe first,” muttered Syrene, turning back to the armoire, willing her blood to unwind, her heart to slack off.

Azryle said, “I’ll wait for you.” And added, “Don’t fall asleep inside again.” Then stalked out.

Facing all the clothes, yet Syrene did not see them, did not see anything beyond the paint of Azryle’s close face right over her eyes. She clutched the clothes at her chest, as if doing so would have her heart calming. Her other hand reached of her mouth.

Her enemy, she reminded herself. Azryle Wintershade was her enemy.

➣

Next day, Syrene was given a grey mare to travel on. Braveheart—that stableman had named her. A brave heart she might have, but had taken fair amount of coaxing to let Syrene mount her. Probably thanks to how she was donned.

Azryle had armed her to teeth—there were makeshift weapons even in her hair. Ferouzeh had urged Syrene in clinging dark leathers, a cloak, saying traveling with Azryle amounted to walking between positioned knives, any could come dashing for her and gut her, all the while marveling at how Syrene had grown into shape in only two weeks or so.

Syrene supposed she had Azryle and his otsatya-kissed food to thank for that.

It was safe to say Syrene was looking every bit the predator she’d been lodging with as she rode Braveheart beside Ferouzeh, behind Azryle, Vendrik and Maeren. The three ahead were as good as dead, there was nothing on their faces but only a lethal calm, as if they would disembowel anyone who came near, or breathed a suspicious breath.

The nearer they rode to Olkfield—to Queen Felset—the more Azryle grew distant, harsh, and Syrene cringed at how everything felt to comparable to the day they’d trekked to Nofstin, the day he’d punched her. Despite, of course, three others hadn’t been there, and she hadn’t been cladded in leathers, and she’d had her wrists restricted in shackles. But … Azryle was the same stranger today, as he had been that day.

“I understand why Azryle is so … grave,” Syrene whispered, slightly slanting towards Ferouzeh and her brown stallion, very conscious of the ripper ears, “why are the other two?”

Ferouzeh sighed. “They’re bound to Her Majesty, too,” she muttered with equal quiet. “With mejest oaths.”

Hairs on Syrene’s neck arose, but she said nothing further. Queen Felset had them all around her finger, no wonder no one risked breathing too loud near her. How Deisn had stretched her arms to the queen and became friends, Syrene didn’t suppose she cared to know, or ever wanted to know at all.

She sighed. Whatever was to come with this ball, whatever the queen had schemed for Syrene … all Syrene’s assumptions churned her gut. Windsong was still with the queen; all she did to keep the Sword from wrong hands … how fruitless all her efforts and suffering had proved. In the end, Windsong landed in the worst hands imaginable.

Syrene had overheard the firebreather and the ripper conversing some ruinations earlier—that they were all happening around the world, and the fortress in Nofstin will not uphold for much longer, all the slaves needed to be escorted out soon. Vendrik had mentioned Drothiker, worry and fear on his face too palpable. He hauled a leather-bound book with himself—named Ianov’s Depriving Destiny, Syrene had stolen a glimpse of the title, had cost her only a few moments to make out the words. All the philosophies and facts about the forbidden device no doubt.

As a couple days wafted by travelling, whenever they stopped to camp for nights, Syrene caught Vendrik reading the book, and noting down whatever he deemed helpful. Heat oozed from him the entire time, brutal enough that anyone who neared him drenched in sweat in an instant—still, during nights, Azryle sat with his friend after the training sessions with Syrene, when no one else dared nearing the heat. Ferouzeh said some witch had limited the Second’s fire with spells, but it still seemed to be agitated inwardly.

Brother Adlae hadn’t had such hurdles with his own fire—sometimes, yes, but still not nearly as deadly as Vendrik’s.

Vendrik Evenflame’s fire was raw and untamed, capable of melting someone’s insides without a touch.

They had entered Olkfield today—would reach the Glass Palace tomorrow by evening, Ferouzeh informed Syrene when the healer entered her tent, clothes in hand. “Lake is free to use, Ryle just cleaned it. You should go bathe.”

Syrene grabbed the clothes from Ferouzeh as she caught Maeren behind the healer, through the tent flaps, leaning against a tree and honing her weapons. Her gaze was trained on Syrene, hatred simmering in her pine eyes. The wraith hadn’t spoken much during the whole trek, not even to Ferouzeh, though Syrene had caught her gazing towards Azryle every so often. Her eyes had gone wide when she’d perceived the ripper’s short hair the other day, she’d concealed her red face before Azryle could see it.

Though Syrene was fairly certain he had scented whatever had bloomed in Maeren, and had opted to pretend otherwise.

Ferouzeh followed Syrene’s gaze and turned, but the wraith had already averted her gaze. “I don’t even want to know whatever arose between you two,” muttered Ferouzeh, turning back to Syrene. “But I’d advise you see to it. World already has enough problems with women, we needn’t bring them between one another.”

“Why bother?” contemned Syrene bitterly. “We’re not even certain whether I’ll be alive after a week.”

That earned her a smack on her arm from the healer. “Each moment counts, foolish girl.” She gave Syrene a disdainful scowl and stalked out.

Syrene sighed and glanced in Maeren’s direction. But the wraith wasn’t there. She heaved out another breath and headed for the lake.

Each moment counts.

➣

Azryle returned to campsite after scouting and hunting dinner, the doe Vendrik was now cooking with his fire while Azryle was reclined against a tree nearby, reading all these Drothiker theories in Ianov’s Depriving Destiny.

During the Jagged Battle, the hundred hemvae had merged their powers and had summoned all five otsatyas: Otsatya of Flames, Otsatya of Skies, Otsatya of Waters, Otsatya of Land, Otsatya of Winds.

They all had agreed to forge the device, but at a price: Elite Kaerions. They had bargained that they would give their power to shape the device, but their power must be repaid in future with double quantity. Each power shall be born on Ianov and must be used to destroy the device, and as the Kaerions will die, their power will return to the otsatyas.

Whoever shall wield the device, shall meet their end. The King of Hemvae had sacrificed himself, and sealed the portal … almost, since the Crack still remained in the world, and the Gates were unbarred. Drothiker was handed to his wife after his death, to guard the device until the Kaerions were born.

There was a picture of the famous device: a shiny oval diamond, about the size of an egg. Smaller.

As time lapsed, Drothiker was put to myriad experiments by hemvae, and the most efficacious one had been: the Baeselk Hunters.

Rippers.

There was another piece of information that did not sit well with Azryle—a theory by someone named Harrowld Petsov.

Since it had been the King of Hemvae’s mejest that was put the most in forging Drothiker, the device could someway be coursed in his veins. Its power belonged to him, as much as it did to all the otsatyas mustered. And if someone from his bloodline was born with nearly as much power as the King of Hemvae himself had borne, the descendent could run Drothiker in his veins and wield any mejest he coveted.

Azryle sighed. Thankfully, his bloodline had concluded long ago. Not very thankfully, the device was buried somewhere on the planet and had commenced Ianov’s destruction. Worse, Kaerions were nowhere to be found. There were fatal disasters happening far and wide—five cities had fallen only in this continent, Sluwine.

“You believe this bullshit?” Ferouzeh was scowling beside Azryle, peering down in the book.

He muttered, “I’m not sure what to believe. Only that if it’s true, we ought to be prepared. Unheeding it would do more harm than good.”

Vendrik grumbled from where he was cooking the meat, “It’s not bullshit.”

Ferouzeh lifted a brow. And countered, if only to provoke the firebreather, “And you’re so certain?”

“I’m not …”

Azryle stopped listening as they began arguing as per usual—Ferouzeh, though, was only teasing Vendrik—but …

Azryle bolted to his feet as a very familiar wave prickled at his skin.

Baeselk.

He fixated his hearing on the surroundings—rustling of trees and chatting of insects and growls of earthly animals answered. But—

Azryle did not catch her scent.

“Where’s Alpenstride?” he asked Ferouzeh.

The healer’s hazel eyes were soon swallowed by worry. “She went to bathe,” she said. “What’s wrong?”

But Azryle was already dashing into the woods.

His mejest rose to his skin, each instinct in him began roaring a bleeding song. Faster, faster, faster—

The trees at the corner of his eyes grew blurry as Azryle cleaved past the wind.

He came to a halt before the last row of trees cleared.

He sighed.

She was there—chest-deep into the lake, scrubbing at her arms, her back to him, fog around her almost concealing her.

The baeselk … the currents of it were too strong here.

Azryle scanned the trees around himself, even the mountains towering the other end of the lake, hearing for rustle in the air, seeking any movement.

Alpenstride dipped in the water.

Azryle stepped forward—

But she emerged soon, brushing her honey hair from her face.

Azryle didn’t see it until she motioned and stretched a hand to a butterfly that revealed itself from her front and soared to her shoulder; its ablaze pink and blue wings mirrored in the water, looking like twin gems.

Alpenstride giggled when the butterfly slumped down on her shoulder.

Giggled.

A small, beautiful sound, like a rare song treasured by very few. Even the trees seemed to have halted to listen to it, and appreciate it. The smile on her face … the real smile on her face—no mocking, no pain—threatened to buckle his legs.

Alpenstride was beautiful, Azryle noticed. Unnervingly beautiful, the kind of beauty the more you looked at, it only grew. Even from here, he could perceive her freckles darkened on her slightly flushed cheeks, on the reddened nose’s bridge.

But Azryle’s attention snipped when he glimpsed her back as it caught in the moonlight. The ridges in it shadowing.

His arm involuntarily lifted to his shoulder—his own back, as he felt the ghostly burning of whips, as memories from dungeons began coiling his mind, his gut.

Syrene was whipped.

An unexpected rush of rage went through him, and Azryle’s jaw clenched, but it proved short-lived when he heard the sighing of twigs.

Alpenstride whirled, her eyes going wide with alarm.

Azryle moved.

➣

One moment, some invisible force was ripping through the wind for her.

The next, a flash of light swelled as something crashed into an invisible barrier around her, having Syrene shut her eyes at the sudden brightness. Her heart began hammering when she realized what was happening.

She opened her eyes to Azryle sauntering out of the woods with a careless calm on face, death in eyes, no weapons drawn. Silencer was sheathed across his back, its ruby gleaming like blood in moonlight. But the ripper hadn’t drawn it.

A horrific shriek sounded from somewhere too near Syrene, recognition conveyed in it.

Azryle crossed his arms. “I have grown bored of these cowardly attacks.”

He gazed directly at Syrene—no, at the invisible beast before her—yet she found herself at unease and dipped neck-deep into the water. Her clothes were at the bank many steps from her, with all the weapons.

Except the dagger she’d fetched with herself in water.

“Ripper,” the baeselk hissed, voice like teeming screeches. “I was hoping to be acquainted with you someday.”

Azryle angled his head. “I didn’t know baeselk hoped for death?”

The beast was not moving—not hurling for the ripper, as if sent precisely to hunt Syrene and no one else. Not even its enemy.

Syrene met Azryle’s gaze, and conveyed the message.

Warning rushed in his eyes when he comprehended what she was asking. And almost refused. But then, he gave a smirk that said, It’s all yours.

Azryle idly leaned against the tree, triumph in eyes—and she could have sworn something like pride flickered—and that was Syrene’s cue.

➣

The instant Azryle took down the barrier, Alpenstride took a hold of the beast.

Its shriek rustled even the trees when she tugged and pinned it into the water, almost as if she could see it.

The baeselk began thrashing in the water, splashing everywhere, but the cub held tight. The savage gleam in her eyes was unmistakable as she drove her dagger through the beast.

Over and over and over, Alpenstride stabbed.

Azryle could have sworn she was grinning, as if those painful, horrid screeches were a song to her ears.

The water soon ceased splashing, quiet fell, another baeselk slain and returned to its world.

The cub heaved a deep sigh and peeled her soaked hair from her face. The satisfaction on her face threatened to undo him. “Feel better?”

Azure eyes—sapphire in moonlight—slid to him, and she lifted an amused brow. As if to say, You’re still here because …? Then, “Pervert.”

Azryle snapped to attention and turned to leave, give her privacy, but—

His feet balked.

This monstrous ripple was strong enough to unbalance him, Azryle’s each instinct took an edge. His skin felt as if it would peel off. He sprawled his mejest around the place like a cloth, listening to each insect, each movement.

He heard a few, felt the others.

There was a whole cluster of baeselk headed this way. Each one of them powerful.