Drothiker

Azryle’s insides throbbed, bled.

For moments and moments, there was only earsplitting ringing in his ears, agonized pulses at his temple roaring in his flesh, his sight shadowy.

It was like being underwater, and being conscious as some aquakin feasted on his insides. What sort of mejest had the sorceress used—

He invoked all his mejest on the healing.

Through the vague vision, he caught Alpenstride’s tight grip on the daggers he’d dealt her, but her hands were held behind—no baeselk assailed her. Azryle could see them all like a watery shape in the air, lingering in each inch of the cave, could feel their hunger in his skin as they leered at the Grestel.

Slowly, Azryle’s vision grew clearer, and he noticed Alpenstride was guarding him. She knew they wouldn’t harm her—these baeselk. Or the sorceress.

Rainfang clicked her tongue. “How effortlessly he fell,” she drawled. “So the rumors hadn’t spoken true about the Azryle Wintershade.”

Alpenstride remained silent, maintaining her human instincts on the surroundings than talking. There was no fear in her, being amidst the monsters with nothing but two daggers in her hands. And despite the tight grip on the daggers, she feigned calmness impeccably. There was not an ounce of uncertainty on her face.

Greone was in his shirt’s pocket—the one Syrene was wearing, Azryle could do nothing but believe Vendrik would notice their absence and approach to the human’s aid.

Or hope that his insides would begin healing soon.

“You look better than I’d seen you previously,” Rainfang was saying, “the ripper did good work with his task, I have to say.”

Alpenstride batted her lashes. “I’ve always been this beautiful, Deisn, don’t credit a man for it now.”

The sorceress chuckled. “Five years in Jegvr didn’t take away that smugness, I see.” She added, “I always hated it.”

Syrene winked. “All the more reasons never relinquish it.” She made a good show of picking at her nails. “Although, I’ll let you know when I begin giving a care about your opinions.”

Azryle was still processing this new face of Alpenstride when he heard a baeselk dashing for her from behind them.

Alpenstride moved fast.

As if seeing the attack, she ducked first, taking a hold of its arm. When it was behind her, she cruelly elbowed it with her free arm. The baeselk began shrieking and stumbled back—Syrene made the most of it and whirled.

The beast darted for her again, and met face-first with her dagger’s blade. She carved up its skin, Azryle heard the rip as she tore its flesh open.

Green blood on her weapon was what featured first, before the invisible drape fell and a hideous wingless baeselk was divulged. Its insides met the ground prior to its massive figure.

Azryle was stunned enough that he stopped feeling the anguish in himself for a moment. When he looked at Alpenstride, there was panic in her eyes—but she concealed it with mastery and scowled down at the revolting green liquid marring her hand, Azryle was still not used to the stench of it.

“Deisn,” Alpenstride crooned, still gazing down at the blood, “it reeks almost as much as your breath does when you speak.”

It took the sorceress a moment to reply, to register what’d occurred. “Well, at least you said almost.”

Alpenstride grinned. “Yes, your breath is worse.”

Rainfang’s annoyance spread in a wave, Azryle could have sworn even the baeselk recoiled.

And it only grew as the human said, “So let’s speak less, and you tell me why you’re here. Surely, only to give my eyes an ache of perceiving you can’t be it.”

She was stalling—Azryle realized, engaging the sorceress in conversation, waiting for him to heal. Indeed, his mejest roused, stirred and coiled around his bruised insides.

Cruel smile touched Rainfang’s lips. “You’re a skilled liar, I have to say.”

Syrene made an innocent face. “I wasn’t lying about your breath, Deisn.”

The sorceress stepped forward; Alpenstride did not reveal the slight fright it triggered—Azryle could hear her speeding heart, scent the fear. Her face remained impassive. Even as Rainfang said, “All those years in forests, I hadn’t grasped the faintest sketch, never even imagined who you might be. And Abyss damn me, when I did find out, and came to hunt you, you weren’t even yourself, but a feral monster who killed if neared.”

Syrene had drifted closer to where Azryle knelt, enough that her hand touched his shoulder—and he felt her stillness even in that hand.

“When I appointed those assassins to Hexet’s home, they did kill an heir.” She angled her head. “But I never thought that clever woman might have a backup plan.” Her brother—Rainfang had had Alpenstride’s brother killed.

And … the Fallen Duce’s heir. Her brother.

➣

Syrene felt Azryle going utterly still beneath her touch, grasping just who had been living with him all this time, felt his muscles tensing, felt his shock in her skin. But his face was scrawled.

“All I hear is too much chitchat.” Syrene groaned, then proceeded to yawn. “You bore my ears.”

But Deisn went on. “I took your brother’s blood, filled waterskin with it, tracked his sister with it every day, all the while being your dearest friend with not even a hint that you were the person I longed to kill. But either my assassins returned dead, or empty-handed.” She let out a long-suffering sigh. “In the end, I have to do the work.”

Syrene didn’t comprehend why, but she felt a pang in her chest hearing it from Deisn’s own mouth—that the sorceress had never really meant to be Syrene’s friend. Had been there with Syrene in the woods only to remain close to Duce Hexet, to keep an eye on her prey. Syrene ignored the surge of cunning anger in herself—the regret and shame and ache that came with it. Her mother’s death was on no one but herself.

“How foolish of you, Deisn, to throw me in Jegvr,” Syrene sighed. “You should have killed me the day I returned to this body, when I was indeed weak and broken.” Syrene barked out a cold laugh. “Oh, but no, you sent me to mend, and train, and then came to kill me.” The dagger had grown slippery in her sweaty palms. “I’m afraid I might not go down so easily now.”

Deisn made a moue. “You will go down just as easily as your ripper did.” She smiled. “But I’ll take my time with you, fret not.”

No—Deisn wouldn’t kill her, not with Queen Felset waiting for Syrene, not with this duel approaching. Then why in Saqa was she here—

“Oh, don’t you think I wouldn’t kill you,” Deisn pointed out, as of reading her thoughts. “Once you’ll be dealt with, the Crown of Stars will be mine, its power will be mine. Queen Felset will not be a challenging opponent, would she?”

Deisn lifted a hand, lilac fog spiraled up to her elbow. Silent baeselk began snarling all around them, and stepped forward. Syrene’s heart inched up to her throat. “Her soul is yours, but don’t suck wholly. Bring her alive to me,” the sorceress commanded the monsters. Then began stepping back—to the cave mouth, her lilac eyes fixed on Syrene as she mockingly waved a hand and smiled. “I’ll see you in a minute.”

NO! Syrene shouted, but her voice did not come.

She felt life dwindling from her.