Drothiker

She was there, but she was not.

She was the mist around her, but she had her own body.

She peered down at herself, only to find herself concealed beneath the cloud of mist. Too-bright sunbeams stabbed in her eyes, yet the coldness of this place had her shivering, and clattering her teeth.

There was dirt and grass beneath her bare feet, and she could move. Curling and uncurling her fingers told her just how weak she was.

But where was she?

This was no memory, didn’t feel like a nightmare.

Before her, the mist flanked open a way, beckoning her. Follow, it seemed to say. She flinched.

But didn’t contemplate and acceded.

Her legs buckled as she walked, threatened to bend.

She could feel the mist urging her to move faster, felt life from her diminishing. Death—she was too near to death.

And this once, she did not want it.

As she continued marching, the mountains towering all around her soon hove into view.

And then, as if birthed from the mist, a shadowy figure emerged.

She stilled, her whole body went numb when the shadow revealed itself.

A sob broke out from somewhere deep in her chest as she took in the man’s golden-cored blue eyes with amber specks, honey-brown hair. Zegruks on his hands tattling about his heritage as full-hemvae. “Brother Adlae.”

A bead of tear skittered down his face, and his grin revealed those sharp teeth. “Flarespirit.”

He threw his arms around her, and she sobbed again, sucking on his scent of summer—scent of home—still marked in her memories.

“This needs to be quick, Syrene,” he said, and she withdrew.

She gazed up at her brother, the urgency on his face was unmistakable. It shook her to reality. “What—what’s happening?” She wiped her tears. “What is this place?”

Adlae turned around, eyeing the place. “It’s mother’s creation. It’s a memory, but it’s not. I am a memory, but I’m also not. But … this is a creation in your mind. It’s witchcraft—you don’t remember, of course, you were only three when it was entrenched in your mind.”

“What.” She shook her head. “And why am I here?”

Any joy from his face vanished. “It’s time they know the truth.”

She fell a step back, flinching. “What do you mean?”

Brother rubbed at his jaw, the way he always did when something troubled him. “You’re dying, Syrene, you know there is only one way to survive. Do it, you can’t die now. You still have lots to do. And soon.” Now.

Her throat closed. “It’s close?”

He nodded.

She ignored the pain in her chest. “When?”

“The approaching duel, you must do it.” Even as she knew this day would come, knew someday she will have this purpose, dread still washed over her as he said, “Use Windsong. Let it be done.”

Everything in her felt defeated and lost. All this fighting, to what end? This. Her Destiny—her very soul was the price.

“You need to survive now, to be able to do what must be done. You need to take Windsong, you must—” He broke off. His throat bobbed. “You must pay the debt.”

She shuddered. How could she have thought she could slip past this? How had she let herself get distracted, let herself heal—

“Right now, you need to survive, Flarespirit. It doesn’t matter if they know—”

“They will hate me. There are chances they might even kill me before I—” She swallowed. “Before the duel.”

“There is no other way for you to survive right now.” Brother Adlae must have read it on her face, must have gathered the coward she was. “You can’t hope to run from it, Syrene.” A shadow gripped his eyes. “Though I wish you could.” He shook his head. “You’ve been trained for this your whole life, been told your Destiny over and over. Didn’t—didn’t Mother prepare you?”

“Oh, she did that just fine,” she seethed. “Told me my Destiny so many times that I actually went to a cliff to fulfill it sooner!”

She was shaking, she was—this was absurd. Brother was right, she had been hardened for this, she had been told over and over. Why this reaction, then, why was she fighting?

Adlae’s shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry.” He touched her cheek, brushed away her tears—a phantom touch, but it was all the family she had. “I’m sorry you have to do this.”

She shook her head, only more tears seeped from her eyes, reached her chin and neck. But then she nodded, stifling her sob. “I can do this.” Her voice was shaking, broken. “Of course I can do this.” There had only ever been one goal, one end.

“You’ve been wandering too long.” He gave her a broken smile. “Come home, end this suffering. Survive now, Syrene.”

I want you to go live. Not just survive and breathe as you have been; live, Syrene, another voice whispered in her ears.

But she nodded all the same, her lips wobbling.

She will do what she had to do.