Drothiker

Azryle looked as if Syrene had electrocuted him.

He hadn’t moved an inch from where he was kneeling, even as Deisn tumbled to ground—which should have had her losing her hold on him.

Hazily, she heard the steps approaching, and shifted back to her frail human form—glad for that human form. It was a reminder that she was still human, this body was the only tether she had to humanity. And as she shifted, zegruks vanished from her skin like water drying, leaving slight itching in their wake.

“Can you move?” she asked Azryle.

He recovered soon—or sheathed everything too well—and lifted to his full height. A wave of hand from him had Deisn’s collapsed body glamoured under his mejest. Not saying a word. Of course, being the Duce of Tribes made Syrene one of the most powerful beings on Ianov, made her slightly more than a queen, equally influential to Queen Felset.

But … she hadn’t expected Azryle to get all respectful, or conduct himself differently towards her at all—or even care, for that matter. This changed nothing for the duel they were to have, after all, didn’t make him any less of an enemy. Disappointment washed over her, but Syrene masked it before it could stretch to even her scent. If he was to get all formal, that was on him.

She will not stop him.

Vendrik, Maeren and Ferouzeh emerged from the trees, looking for all the world as though they might swipe to their knees. Breathing hard.

“Where in Saqa have you—” Maeren began.

But then her eyes went wide—all three’s eyes went wide as they scanned Azryle and Syrene.

“Oh,” muttered the wraith.

When Syrene followed their gazes and spied down at herself, she understood what they’d seen.

Azryle was coated in sweat, his torso bare—clean, thanks to Deisn.

Syrene’s hair was tousled, was wearing nothing but the ripper’s shirt.

Oh no, no, no—

Vendrik stammered, “We’ll give you two privacy.”

Ferouzeh grinned. “When you’d said these were your last days,” she said to Syrene, “I didn’t think you’d go wholly wild, girl. But good job.” She winked.

Syrene’s face burned. “I—”

“You could have informed.” Bitterness in Maeren’s voice was too apparent. “We were concerned,” she snapped.

Guilt oiled Syrene’s gut—for that kiss earlier. She opened her mouth, not sure what words were to pour from her mouth, but she was spared by Azryle’s interruption.

He shot back, “You know exactly where we were.”

Maeren blinked. But then she grumbled, gazing down at his half-nakedness, “It’s pretty obvious, Azryle.”

“Don’t you try to lie to me,” he ground out, stepping towards Maeren, nothing but fury on his face—that look, Syrene had no doubt, must have had his enemies running. Because she certainly felt like it. That tattoo—the zegruks—on his face seemed to be there only to urge people to bolt.

Ferouzeh quickly stepped between Azryle and Maeren—who had fear in her scent. “What is happening?” the healer asked.

Azryle’s silver eyes were pinned on the wraith. “Are you going to speak or am I going to have to make you?”

From the corner of her eye, Syrene caught dawn breaking out, oranges and blues and reds tainting the sky in their darkest shades.

Ah. That explained his abrupt harshness.

Maeren disclosed no fear that limned her eyes, her shoulders were held straight, chin high. “I do not know what you’re talking about.” Even her voice was unfaltering. For the first time, Syrene saw the warrior in the wraith.

Vendrik stepped forward and touched Azryle’s shoulder. “Calm down.”

A muscle at Azryle’s jaw swelled, and Syrene thought he might shrug off his friend’s hand. But he did no such thing. “When Vendrik and I returned from the hunt,” gaze still on Maeren, Azryle jabbed a finger in Syrene’s direction, “I could not scent her. You know who else was absent from the campsite?”

Ferouzeh flinched. “Where are you going with this? What happened here?”

“Where do you think I’m going with this?” Azryle snapped. Any humor from him had dispelled that quickly. “Ask her why Felset sent her here, why all the secrecy with her task?”

“I’m commanded to not divulge.” Maeren’s voice was flat.

“Fret not, I’ll divulge it for you,” Azryle said, making no effort to conceal the cold mockery in his tone. “You murdered Kessian Wensel.”

Syrene stilled wholly.

“You followed Syrene and I when we traveled to Nofstin. You were there when Wensel came to us in the woods, and confronted her. You traveled in walls and left Wensel’s body in Syrene’s chamber, had your witch friend confine him in spells, so the body exploded when we tried to move him. Ever since you’ve been living with Vendrik, there have been two baeselk attacks—both targeting her.” His finger prodded in Syrene’s direction again as he said the last sentence. His voice went dangerously calm when he said, “You gave Deisn Rainfang our location.” A maneuver from his hand had Deisn’s glamour sinking, revealing her comatose before Syrene’s feet.

Ferouzeh’s hazel eyes widened slightly.

It was all Syrene could do to keep the lightning freshly whizzing in her veins to remain inside and not strike the wraith as confusion and realization and rage—oh that sweet, poisonous rage—rushed to her.

Vendrik’s face had grown grim—for once looking every bit the slayer he was. Flames blazed in his fire eyes. “You’re commanded to divulge nothing,” he murmured to Maeren, “you’re certainly not commanded to deny anything.”

Maeren’s chin lifted, but she said nothing. Denied nothing.

Ferouzeh looked over her shoulder at the wraith. “If anything had happened to the human, you would have been killing Azryle.”

“Don’t you think I’m aware of that?” snapped Maeren. “You’re out of her clutches, Ferouzeh, you can’t possibly imagine how impossible it is to fight her commands. How deadly it is.”

The healer ground her teeth, but before she could say anything, Azryle cut her off.

“Forty-one years ago, two assassins were sent to the Fallen Duce Hexet’s house.” Syrene stilled further, her heart paused dead. “Were you one of them?”

Maeren’s pine eyes grew wide, her silence built a lump in Syrene’s throat. Lightning boomed in her blood. Kill her, kill her, kill her—

Syrene’s fingers curled into fists. When she spoke, her voice was soft—anything but gentle. “Were you, or were you not one of them?”

Maeren’s chin stubbornly lifted again. “I don’t see why that matters.”

Syrene moved—this burning wrath inside her gripping her strings.

But Azryle towered before her the next heartbeat, before she could even take a complete step, warning in eyes. She was commanded, he seemed to say. Though there was nothing human in those silver eyes, nothing merciful.

I don’t give a shit, she shot back and made to step around him.

He gripped her arm tightly, and crouched before Deisn, tugging her down with himself. “What are we to do with her?” he asked out loud, from the three behind them. Then he whispered ever so slightly to Syrene, “Unless you want your heritage revealed, cub, continue feigning the uncaring, broken Grestel.”

Syrene snarled low—she could see nothing over the red in her sight, could hear nothing over the wrath in her blood. There were only these edged hemvae instincts suddenly excruciating to fight.

Her brother’s murderer stood behind her—weaker than her, powerless despite having friends around—yet she was supposed to glue her feet to ground and remain still. Tears of rage welled in her eyes, it took fighting each beat of her heart to remain crouching, feign weakness.

They couldn’t know, she reminded herself. They could not be lent even the slightest hint that Duce Hexet had had any relation to her—could not grow qualms about why hearing of that night had Syrene’s very pulses bellowing.

Azryle squeezed her arm. “Take deep breaths.” Then released it.

She did and remembered her name, endeavored to think past her fury. Shuddering breaths released from her; she pursed her wobbling lips as Ferouzeh stepped to Syrene’s side, and Vendrik stepped to Azryle’s.

Ferouzeh scowled, observing Deisn’s condition. Skin dark beneath eyes, the sorceress seemed to grow thinner every passing heartbeat. “What in Saqa happened to her?” inquired Ferouzeh.

Syrene didn’t trust herself with words, let Azryle answer.

“Whatever happens to those who foolishly think they can control baeselk.”

The healer’s scowl only deepened. “Looks like she’d been struck by lightning.”

Syrene changed the subject. “Kill her,” she whispered to Azryle.

He didn’t even blink. But Vendrik countered, “Her Majesty would want answers.”

“Don’t kill her.” Maeren’s voice set Syrene’s teeth gritting. “She’s the Duce of Tribes, killing her will have consequences.”

“She’s not wrong,” Ferouzeh cautioned. “Losing two duces within a century would have the tribes rioting. Given the fragile relations between them, even a war might break loose.”

“Kill her,” Syrene repeated to Azryle, heard nothing merciful in her own voice. “You said Queen Felset’s command to you will permit you to do what pleases me. I want you to end her right now.” Nothing else would please her more.

Ferouzeh stiffened but said nothing further.

Azryle nodded and lifted Silencer.

“She knows the names of Elite Kaerions,” Maeren declared suddenly.

The ripper paused—they all did.

Vendrik turned. “What.”

“Why do you think Her Majesty tolerates her? Deisn has hunted Kaerions, knows their names and whereabouts. The Kaerions bear mejest from otsatyas themselves, imagine how much power Felset would own if she gripped their minds, too. Deisn and Felset have made a bargain—Deisn’s information in exchange for Felset’s help to hunt someone Deisn seeks.”

Daughter of Hexet Evreyan—the sorceress had been hunting for Syrene, with the queen’s help. “All the more reasons to kill her,” Syrene ground out. “If your queen gets a hold of the Kaerions, there will be no stopping her ever.”

“If you kill her,” Maeren went on, “Her Majesty will slay each one of you. And make you watch it, Azryle, might even throw you in dungeons again.”

Syrene’s blood went cold at the last sentence—but since it was dawn, and Felset’s leash was taut again, Azryle didn’t seem to care. His eyes were on Deisn, waiting for Syrene’s last validation to kill the sorceress.

“Fine,” Syrene said. “We wait for her to rouse, Azryle can gawk into her mind and get the information. Then we kill her. Besides,” she added, “my dearest friend Deisn here was planning to deceit your queen.”

“That’s not possible.”

Vendrik rubbed at his face. “Whatever she said to you could be a lie—”

“I don’t care,” Syrene snapped. “If Azryle doesn’t kill her, I will. She’s my captive, and none of you are commanded to protect her.”

No one uttered a word.

Good.

➣

They reached the Glass Palace the next night, not taking any break for lunch. Syrene’s lips again parched at the sight of the two manticores circling the palace’s peak piercing the sky.

Deisn hadn’t roused.

Syrene had asked Azryle to glamour the sorceress strapped to her mare—Braveheart—with Syrene. He’d complied, warning that his queen would almost certainly sense Deisn and that he was to meet with Felset as soon as they entered the palace, with Syrene.

Not letting the fear an inch of space in herself, Syrene had asked the ripper that she be escorted to her room first. Azryle had given her a look—another warning to not play much clever with this loophole he’d grasped in this command to mend her, that had him obliging Syrene so long as it satisfied her.

She’d added a small please that had had him narrowing his eyes, but then had begun ushering her. Syrene towed the unconscious Deisn to the chamber, still glamoured.

Not a chamber. An Abyss-damned suite.

All the more space to hide Deisn.

She’d asked Azryle for xist—he’d stiffened, but didn’t deny her it.

“I’ll return in ten minutes” was all Azryle said before parting. He had returned to being formal; no smile, no humor on face. This close to Queen Felset, Azryle was a stranger.

An enemy who owned a too-valuable secret.

She used those ten minutes to rip a few dresses from the closet, constrained Deisn’s hands and feet, gagged her—in a way Prime Raocete had taught her long ago. Deisn wouldn’t be able to break past, not without her mejest—which was frozen in her veins thanks to the xist.

Azryle returned exactly after ten minutes, knocked at her door.

Syrene locked the closet and rushed to the door.

Her heart paused dead when she opened it, lips went dry. All her thoughts vanished.

There was blood smeared on Azryle’s neck—redness on cheek suggested he’d wiped it from there, hairline atop his temple was tainted red, hair still damp with it. She’d harmed him. His shirt was unbuttoned down to his chest, bruises of nails were on show, lips swollen and red. She’d kissed him.

World of fury and hatred rumbled in his eyes.

Syrene’s heart strained. “Azryle—”

He jerked his head. “Her Majesty wants to see you.” Her Majesty. Syrene had never heard that referent from him before.

She ignored the ache in her throat and nodded.

Silence—there was such silence between them as he escorted her to the throne room. What Syrene scented from him was anything but earthly—such venomous wrath and abhorrence.

Whatever she’d scented vanished—vanished—as the enormous white and gold doors gapped to the throne room. He could control his scent—

The Enchanted Queen perched on her throne, clad in all gold—as if her uniform. A smirk on her dark-painted full lips. The circlet crown on her forehead was near-gleaming in the moonlight stretching from the windows behind her, her tanned-bronze skin and tawny hair bathed in it; the manticores hovered outside those windows.

“Syrene Alpenstride,” the queen drawled the name as if sizing up her prey as the enormous gates behind them shut, and Azryle stepped beside Syrene.

That was what she was, Syrene supposed, the Enchanted Queen’s prey.

Vendrik and Maeren stood on either side of the throne, both their faces grim—no wounds. Only Azryle, then. Only he who was harmed.

An unanticipated rush of bitterness and fury gushed through her.

Felset sucked on the air—her scent. Then cooed, “You look so much better than the last I’d seen of you.”

Syrene smiled. “So I’ve been told.”

“I heard about your friend’s death,” Queen Felset empathized. “My condolences.”

Murder, Syrene wanted to scream, you murdered him! But she only shrugged. “Good riddance.” The words tasted like poison gnawing at her tongue.

“Is that so?” The queen arched an amused brow.

Syrene scowled. “He said some nasty shit before his death.” Let the queen think her a fool who still brooded over the words said by a man long dead, rather than focusing on more significant matters in her life. “Whoever killed him, did me a favor more so than anything.”

Maeren remained unyielding. Good. Otherwise Syrene might have gutted the wraith right here. Murderer of Kessian. Murderer of Brother Adlae. Syrene repressed her thoughts about Maeren before her rage could climb tugging on them.

“So.” The queen sat forward. “You’ve been given enough time to muse over the little bargain I’d suggested.”

Syrene lifted a brow. “Am I not going to this duel?”

Azryle stiffened beside Syrene. But the queen chuckled. “There were two parts of the bargain, Syrene Alpenstride.”

Freedom. In exchange for how she’d made the Plunge. No way in Saqa was she revealing she was a full hemvae—that she was the Fallen Duce’s daughter. Though Syrene supposed one command to Azryle, and all truths will lay bare.

Syrene said, “I’m sorry, I tend to not hear pointless horseshit.” She examined her nails. “And when I do, I tend to let it slip my mind.”

Azryle snarled low in a warning. Right, she’d forgotten about his forced respect towards the queen.

Felset drummed her finger at the serpent arm of her throne. “You’re telling me you didn’t heed the first part of the bargain, but you’ve come here, all equipped, for the second part?”

“I’m saying I’ll fight this duel, take my sword, and remain a slave.”

Felset countered, “Slaves don’t keep weapons, Syrene.”

“That you should have considered before proposing the bargain.”

Syrene caught the irritation in the queen’s bronze eyes, and thought today might be her last day. But then Felset said, “You have a brave heart, Heir of Raocete, I’ll give you that.”

Syrene grinned. “You’ll be surprised to know the mare I rode on is named Braveheart.” She lifted her brows. “Coincidence?”

Maeren was gaping slightly at Syrene’s foolish bravery, little did the wraith know her heart was hammering in her chest.

Beneath all this bravado, lain a girl terrified of the world. Of the Destiny she was to face soon. Of the queen before her. One command from Felset will have Syrene lying in pieces in this very throne room, and the world wouldn’t have the faintest idea.

“Well then, Syrene Alpenstride,” Felset leaned back in her throne, “I hope you’re ready for the duel, which is the day after the Masquerade Ball tomorrow.”

Syrene’s heart paused dead. Even Azryle beside her went utterly still.

To Syrene’s surprise, he spoke. “Pensnial Duel is a week later.”

“Not anymore.” Felset lifted a brow. “Is there a problem, Prince?”

For a moment, Syrene thought he would step back and say nothing. But he was Azryle still. He never not fought—it mattered not whether the adversary was his queen or his enemy.

“She was promised three weeks of training.”

Irritation in the queen’s eyes only grew. “As I recall, she was promised training until the duel. And the duel is day after tomorrow.” Her voice steeled. “Do you two dare defy me?”

Azryle opened his mouth, but Syrene cut him off before he could earn himself more beating. “Of course not, Your Majesty,” she stammered. “We will fight the duel tomorrow, if you wish.”

Felset arched a brow. “We?” She sat forward again, amusement and curiosity simmering in her eyes as she keenly examined them both. “There’s a we?”

“His Highness and I,” Syrene corrected.

The look on the queen’s face suggested she’d done her calculations, despite whatever Syrene might speak. But she said, “You have until tomorrow to think over the first part of our bargain, Syrene Alpenstride.” Syrene opened her mouth but the queen went on. “The Lady of Wolves will be attending tomorrow. I have no intentions of harming the woman, or her pack.” She gave a serpentine smile and added, “Yet.”

Syrene chuckled. “One does not dream of hurting the Lady of Wolves. But when they do, it remains a dream.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“It’s a fact.”

“I’m fairly certain her pack will be scattered across the floor, Syrene. And I doubt all of them are as capable as her.”

The queen will be declaring a war, should Raocete’s pack be found harmed, surely Felset realized that.

“So you will think of our bargain, or I might have to find other ways.” Her fingers still grazed the head of the serpent of the arm of her throne, that smirk had fear gripping Syrene’s throat. Even Azryle seemed to have stiffened.

The queen was implying going through Syrene’s mind. She didn’t realize she will certainly be finding more than she anticipated—more than she sought. Syrene only said, “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Felset waved a hand in a way Syrene supposed was dismissal—she tried to not sag. But as Azryle and Syrene turned to leave, the queen spoke. “Come see me in my chambers after escorting her, Prince.”

Azryle didn’t even tense. “Yes.”

Syrene’s chest tightened to the point of pain. Three centuries—he’d been living like this for three Abyss-damned centuries.

But she said nothing as they walked to her suite; Azryle remained silent the whole time. People around him bowed as they drifted by, a few even paused to admire the warrior-prince in his short hair, shirt unbuttoned to chest. They disregarded the blood on his neck, on his temple, as if he was in this state often—as if that blood played a part in his ridiculously beautiful looks.

If they found this posture of Azryle the most beautiful, they hadn’t the slightest idea how striking he was. Syrene had seen it—the pain so well hidden in his eyes, that deep yen for free will.

They didn’t know just how beautiful Azryle Wintershade was beneath the veil of brutality and savagery. Beneath the veil of the Pall Moira. He was the man who had spared Vozas—a baeselk—for kindness, had been keeping it hidden for three centuries from the queen.

When they reached her suite, Azryle didn’t even spare Syrene a second glace before stalking off to his queen’s chambers.

Syrene sighed, shut all the doors before heading for the closet.

Deisn was still unconscious.