Drothiker

Azryle moved.

His insides healed rather quicker than he’d predicted. He gripped Silencer and ripped the baeselk on his way to Alpenstride—who was chucked to other corner of the cave by these beasts—one after another fell to his feet, as Azryle whirled and slashed.

The cave crammed with shrieks and cries, pierced in his ears like thinnest needles. He’d never dealt with so many at once—five altogether at most. These, though, they were more than twenty.

Azryle’s arm was bleeding, which just made them even more hysterical. Ripper, ripper, ripper, they hissed and lunged for him from everywhere, each one enormous enough that it he could feel them towering over him. Each one profane and powerful enough that there was belligerent itching in his skin.

His bare torso was marred with green, gluey liquid, just as his arms and Silencer—the whole cave stank of it.

If only he could reach Alpenstride, and his greone in his pocket’s shirt, it wouldn’t take long for Vendrik to locate them and reach here—greone could send Azryle’s location. Vendrik could burn them all with his fire, it would take mere minutes. But alone …

Alpenstride was dying, he could feel it in himself—in his mind. When he’d gone into her nightmares and snapped her to life, twice, his mejest seemed to have linked their minds—he could feel her dying as if it were his life being sucked out.

Thunder clapped outside the cave—strange, he hadn’t scented any alteration in weather.

But then again, he could scent nothing over the stench, could hear nothing over the insufferable hisses and shrieks and snarls. Only the thunder outside, which sounded too hazardous and loud.

And Azryle also tried to not think about Syrene’s heritage.

The Duce of Tribes had been harboring with him—the one he was to duel with to death. The Last Starblood. Daughter of Hexet Evreyan. His mind was swarmed with these thoughts, and there was another piece that did not sit well with him.

Azryle shoved his thoughts away—now was not the time or the place.

The cave soon silenced, as the baeselk fell.

This last one came from behind him. He felt it dashing for him before Azryle whirled and sliced. Something tumbled to the ground before the sounds wholly deceased.

He turned back to Alpenstride, and strolled into the stygian dark, he could see nothing inside—could not hear her breathing or beating of heart. But she was alive, he could feel it.

His instincts were still on alert when darkness swallowed him wholly—it was like being blindfolded, reminded him of the day he’d gone to lift her curse five years ago. This darkness was poles apart from that tower, this was like any other dark. But that darkness … that had been alive and seeing, that had been stretching and rippling as if it’d swallow him, would take hold of him.

Azryle came to a halt.

He could sight nothing—but since the beasts had ended here, she couldn’t be deeper into the cave.

Azryle moved his feet, sprawled his mejest, trying to feel her.

But she wasn’t there.

This was why he couldn’t scent or feel her—they’d towed her out.

Bring her alive to me, Deisn Rainfang has commanded the baeselk—he tried not to brood over that either.

Azryle swore and dashed out of the cave.

He could scent her outside—gardenia and rain—it was so faint, arduous to trail, but not much if he exerted himself on it and didn’t allow himself to get distracted.

Dawn was near—meaning Felset’s hold will tighten soon. He shoved that thought away, too.

He found them.

Azryle skulked behind one of the trees encompassing the clear area, before the three baeselk keeping a watch could catch a sight of him. His arm was a swelling agony, the blood seeping from it would attract the beasts; Azryle swore inwardly.

Indeed, he felt the baeselk stirring, their snarls grew louder and louder.

“Silence,” Deisn Rainfang snapped. Her tone suggested she was focusing on something—her mejest, most likely. Utilizing it on Alpenstride.

Those baeselk indeed went silent, but their hunger refused to let them get sidetracked.

Azryle felt their attention on the trees around him.

Keeping a track of his stealth, he crouched and gripped a rock—just in case—the other hand slid out a dagger from his boot.

Slowly, he made three cuts on his palm, that had the blood seeping out like a river.

Before they could scent it, with his preternatural pace, Azryle darted everywhere around the forest, circling the trees bordering the clear area, had his blood trickling as he went.

He counted to five, and Azryle had retraced to the first tree.

It took him half-a-minute to climb the tree. He perched on it and monitored the beasts.

The three baeselk dispersed to different routes, smelling his blood from everywhere. Monstrous waves from two baeselk lessened as they stalked to somewhere far from him.

But the third’s only grew as it neared.

Nearer, nearer, nearer, it advanced. For moments Azryle could not see it.

Until it stepped on the twigs, until he could hear its hisses right beneath the tree he’d parked himself atop.

Two daggers from him went whizzing for the beast, stabbing it.

It barely had time to shriek before a hideous body of misplaced bones toppled to the ground while revealing itself in this world, green liquid spilled on the twigs.

Azryle turned to the clear area.

Rainfang was done with filling the tiny glass vial with Syrene’s blood. She stashed it somewhere in her purple gown, was grinning like a fiend. She stretched a hand towards Alpenstride lying unconscious on the ground, lilac fog looped around it.

Azryle shot off the tree, landing on his feet behind the sorceress.

She whirled, eyes wide.

He said softly, “You might want to rethink that.”

Her gaze fell to his torso, caked in green liquid, then to his sword—same condition. “Took you long enough.”

Azryle felt something vile creeping onto his skin, convoluting around his legs.

“Stand down.” The pure command in her voice had Azryle blinking.

But shock went through him when his legs bent and he was on his knees.

Azryle urged himself to move—to fight the hold. But fighting it only had his throat closing, choking. He recognized this hold too well, the manner of it had been driving him for three centuries now.

Rainfang smirked, advancing towards him. “Felset well-versed me on the troubles her ripper causes.”

Something ancient and foreign oiled his gut, ached his throat. “What did she do?”

She grinned at him as her lilac fog raided his face. Azryle contained his grimace, braced himself for the pain, but it seemed to be nipping at the blood on his face. It itched. “Your queen might or might not have lent me your hold for a few hours.” She towered him now. “You can hardly blame her for not trusting you much.”

Azryle’s each breath was being used in fighting the hold, these unseen chains fastening him to ground.

Until her hand came for his chin and lifted it.

She lowered her head. “Oh, how I’ve heard about you, Azryle Wintershade,” she breathed onto his face—Azryle struggled to jerk away, but could not move a hair. “How I’ve been thinking about this since the day you came to lift Syrene’s curse with your haughtiness.”

Her lips landed atop his, reminding him of all the times Felset had used him for her pleasure.

Disgust wrenched his gut. His muscles strained, fighting the restrain, agony began in each inch of his body, his muscles. His throat.

“How clever of you to send those beasts wandering without my notice,” she murmured onto his lips. Her voice steeled, then, and commanded him, “Kiss me.”

No amount of struggle helped him.

Azryle kissed Rainfang. His gut churned.

She withdrew and straightened; a brow lifted at him. Then, “That’s not how I saw you kissing Syrene—”

Her words halted.

Rainfang began quivering, her mouth still open with unfinished sentence. It was then he heard the crackling, past the roaring in himself—like electricity.

The skin beneath Rainfang’s eyes darkened.

She fell to her knees, uncovering Alpenstride behind her. “Unfortunately for you, you’re not me.”

Azryle did not know what to take in first—the sight of her knocked the breath out of him, paused his heart.

The sight of the lightning crackling in her hand, whirring in her eyes like bright threads in motion.

Of the tattoos coating her naked hands wholly, rose to the soft crooks at the either side of her neck, linked by concealed arms no doubt. No—not tattoos.

Zegruks.

A hemvae.

No—not only a hemvae. Syrene Alpenstride was a hemvae shifter.