Drothiker

Faolin Wisflave was tired. In her bones, soul, blood, she was exhausted despite the personal quarters in the birdship. Twenty-five years in the Voiceless Pits had taken each bit from her. They’d even numbed her mejest somehow, though twenty-five years without it were adequate to make her acquainted to feeling human.

After myriad days in the birdship and the sparkly water they’d had her gulp down, Faolin was vaguely aware they were walking to the fortress of Nofstin, another lush city of Cleystein barring Olkfield. She would have preferred to witness the capital while they were at it, but Destiny was a raging pain in the ass.

She wondered whether her mother would even ever know Faolin was out of Jegvr, whether the woman was even alive. She had been wrinkly when Faolin had last seen of her. Because unlike Faolin, though a better sorceress, her mother had chosen to stomach mortality, never had guts to make the Plunge.

Not that Faolin faulted her. The Plunge was a process of self-sacrifice. Literally. One had to delve deep in the sea of their mejest within themself, find the ground—there, in the unending, deep sea, they had to find a glowing thread, and snap it in two.

The Thread of Mortality.

It felt like being in a real sea, Faolin remembered, cold and cruel and vicious. She shuddered at the memory.

After snapping the Thread of Mortality, they had to return to surface and find land. The moment their skin grazed land, they returned to life.

There were many risks.

One could be too far from land, could be too weak to be able to swim in the sea, or simply just go astray. And if any of that in fact occurred, you risked losing your soul to your own mejest. Lost even from Hereafter.

It all had to be thru in five minutes, depended on how strong one’s will could be. Because the stronger the will, the less barbarous the current of the sea. It was also a test whether one was capable of surviving immortality.

The process varied for each Vegreka. The depth of sea depended on the depth of their mejest. The thickness of the Thread of Mortality depended on the power of their mejest.

For Faolin, the Thread of Mortality had been thicker than the crescent of her hand, had taken her two minutes to only snap it in two with her mejest. But somehow, she’d managed to find land on the very last second, only the tip of her finger had touched the ground.

Of course, making the Plunge and succeeding, then wounding up in the Voiceless Pits was enough indication of how much otsatyas and Destiny loathed Faolin.

Still, she sent up a silent prayer that her mother was alive. And prayed her father was burning in Saqa.

All four slaves brought to Cleystein were immortal, golden core in their eyes revealed that much. What she didn’t comprehend was how in Ablaze Kosas did a human like Syrene Alpenstride make the Plunge.

Humans were near-rare on this planet, lived far from Vegreka. And otherwise.

Though Vegreka were all humans just the same, those with mejest in their veins, but with time, as the number of non-Vegreka—officially called Grestel—lessened, the word human came to be used for those without mejest. For cripples.

Yes, Grestel would be easy to enslave, but they were of no use. Too feeble and powerless for even slavery. So no one fiddled with them. They could go extinct and no one would care. Or even notice, given their tally these days.

Either way, Grestel could not make the Plunge, for they bore no mejest. How the Heir of Raocete attained immortality, it was beyond the bounds of Faolin’s ken. Maybe that was why Syrene was convicted, for some forsaken process to gain immortality.

Vur and Eliver on either side of her were just as exhausted as they climbed and climbed the sloppy hill. She could perceive the peak of the fortress—regular, stoned building—from here. Their eternal Saqa.

The red-haired firebreather stayed silent the entire time, and somehow unexhausted. At nights, fire burned in his eyes. Literally. On the birdship a few days ago, Faolin had gone to fetch water, and had shrieked when she'd caught two flaming eyes in the dark.

She had thanked the otsatyas that dresteen had been clanked to her wrists and for all that sparkly liquid that had kept mejest frozen in her veins, otherwise Faolin might as well have attacked the Second of the Enchanted Queen. Or might have simply turned him into some animal, involuntarily if that.

Mercifully, Vendrik Evenflame had not remarked on it and walked out with flames still burning in his eyes. He was literally fire incarnate. Faolin didn’t suppose he could influence the burning flame at nights.

And wondered what it must feel like—to have constant burning in oneself. The thought made her scowl and grimace.

Vur caught that. Because the man said, capturing her glare on the firebreather too, “Weird to think about, isn’t it?” As if he’d just plainly read her thoughts.

Faolin only scowled in her reply.

This time Eliver—the half-hemvae—asked, “What is?”

She sighed. “This unending otsatyas-damned wayfaring.” The worse part was, they might not even be offered a few hours to rest before getting to merciless work. “I haven’t walked much in twenty-five years, my legs ache.”

Once, she had not tired owing to her master’s cruel training. Once, she could walk for a whole day without having her muscles protesting. Jegvr took all her training, only left the scars. Vur understood, because the man bore same warrior scars. His muscles were not only from the unforgiving work in Jegvr.

Eliver’s cell had been across from Faolin’s, he hadn’t had muscles when he was brought in seventeen years ago. Now, he did, if only a hint of them, thanks to the weightlessness. It had taken her a few weeks to grasp that the lavender of his hair was not a dye. A natural color. He had been near-bald when he was implicated, now there was only a hint of hair on his head. Even in cell, the man had fended for his hair more than Faolin ever had her own. But the servants cut his hair every time it grew—to prevent lice. How Vur’s hair stretched to waist, she hadn’t the faintest idea.

“Do you think she will be executed?” Eliver asked. “That human girl. I got the wind that she was not yet ranked to be Chosen.”

Faolin didn’t fail to notice the stiffness in Vur. “Castles are not for executions.” Indeed, if the woman was hauled to the castle at all. Azryle Wintershade had only said let’s go. Nothing more. He’d also declared that slaves were not needed there.

“Queen Felset managed to purchase her before she was ranked,” Faolin mused, “she must have pulled some strings. And to go through all that just to execute her?” She shook her head. “That does not even sound well.”

Eliver shrugged. “You never know these royals. Exclusively when it comes to the Queen of Cleystein.”

A few steps ahead, Faolin caught the tension in Vendrik Evenflame’s shoulders, as if restraining himself from snapping.

The ancient fortress ahead grew like a wall exhuming from the ground as they climbed. It was larger than she had gambled. Soldiers clad in gold and white enclosed the place from each corner. Hundreds were teemed in the watchtowers linked by tall stone walls no doubt.

The soldiers’ eyes gleamed slightly as the firebreather walked by the gates, as if reuniting with an old friend, slaves and sentries following suit.

They offered Vendrik a nod by the way of greeting; the firebreather returned it with a respectful nod of his own and a smile that had a crescent moon sketching at the corner of his lips. Faolin felt their glances as they flowed by, as she surveyed for possible weak points, other entrances and exits, as they entered a vast courtyard and gates shut behind them. Found none.

A military stronghold. Meaning, no chances to flee even if she managed to get the sparkly liquid out of her system. With this high security, there could be nothing done until she drew her last breath.

Rest of her life stood before her, will be drained here. Immortal life. Faolin felt the urge to swallow, and wondered how was this any better than Jegvr, the Voiceless Pits.

Untold years to be spent without mejest in her veins simply because she had let her wits relax for a moment and had failed to see the strike in that forest.

Destiny loathed Faolin and there was no other alternative.