Drothiker

A dress was consigned to Syrene’s suite for the ball—she didn’t know whether the queen supposed a skimpy dress would put Syrene at unease, but the dress was more of a thin cloth than a dress.

It was black silk, sleeveless gown, forming a vee at chest down to her stomach, baring her midriff and the rims of her breasts. A side of its skirt was cut, veiling and unveiling Syrene’s leg as she moved. Thankfully, the back was not so revealing—her whip scars were left concealed. Had the queen known them …

Syrene didn’t finish that thought.

A maid, Xagda, was sent, too, to do Syrene’s makeup. And whatever mejest the woman had held, she’d erased Syrene’s dark circles, including the scars at her neck and arms. When panic had ripped into Syrene, Xagda had said they would reoccur in a few hours.

Syrene had released a long breath and thanked her.

She supposed Felset didn’t wish the world to know this year’s contestant had once been Jegvr’s convict, didn’t wish to lend them a hint that a slave was being offered freedom by the Enchanted Queen.

The maid had painted Syrene’s lips crimson, Syrene had cringed at the cosmetics—she’d never worn any before—they felt as if she was wearing a second skin. But in the end, Syrene had admired herself in the mirror for minutes, not recognizing the woman in the reflection. Xagda had laughed.

She’d handed Syrene a black mask—cautioning her to not take it off the whole night. It obscured her human scent, would keep her from the predators who deemed Grestel weak and might choose to prey.

Ferouzeh had been her escort today, and the healer had blinked when she’d sighted Syrene. At the smooth skin of her arms and neck.

“Had your death not seemed so near,” Ferouzeh had said, “I might have asked you to have dinner with me sometime.”

Syrene had laughed, completely flouting the churning in her gut. Duel was tomorrow—it would all end tomorrow—

On their way, Ferouzeh asked, “Has the sorceress awoken?”

Syrene shook her head, and sighed.

“Otsatyas, what did Azryle do to her?”

Syrene kept herself stolid. She hadn’t used her mejest in years and years, wasn’t entirely confident whether Deisn would stir at all. Wielding lightning was a wholly different challenge—always had been, but the bolts she’d sent down Deisn’s spine hadn’t been that lethal. At least she hoped so.

The healer led Syrene to an empty courtyard; waltz music was boisterous and blaring here. Cool wind caressed her skin, her midriff, seeped in her hair … Syrene shuddered inwardly, shaking off that indescribable unease groping her. She was confused for only a moment before Azryle’s words retraced to her ears and she looked up.

There.

People were dancing on the vast invisible floor Ryle had formed in the sky—so vast that the crowd stretched and stretched until it disappeared into the dark horizon. Light flashed with their steps, wherever they pressed, looking like swelling bright stars.

From here, she could make out no one’s face … definitely not Maycusen’s beautiful one. Please me fine, Starflame, Syrene pleaded quietly.

As they made for the other end of the courtyard, Syrene could make out something very bright—like small moons, or oversized witchglows—pacing up and down and back again diagonally, as swift as the falling stars.

Syrene must have had her confusion on show, because Ferouzeh giggled. “That’s your ride to the party.”

That did not ease her puzzlement. Yet Syrene sighed. “You mean my ride to Her Almighty Majesty’s gracious, ever-so-famous torments.”

Ferouzeh chuckled, her hazel eyes dancing. “Cruel she might be, but Her Majesty knows just how to throw a party.”

“Really?” drawled Syrene. “You and I have very different definitions of parties.” She threw the healer a sidelong glance. “Tell me, is it safe to dance tonight?”

Syrene had ever only been to two parties—both of which she’d danced until her feet were sore and swollen. But damn these royals, even dancing was cursed tonight.

Ferouzeh and Syrene neared the roving, glowing rides. These weren’t so small as they’d seemed.

They were baskets of bright light, zooming along the invisible railing of stairs to the floor atop. “Starides,” Ferouzeh whispered. “Created by Her Majesty’s own crafters. All the guests’ identities are recorded in them, whoever is invited—the vehicle doesn’t transport when unsought guests climb in it. That’s solid light,” she added with a smirk, “don’t be too afraid.”

Syrene mimicked her words.

A few ahead who’d been lying in wait for their rides turned to Syrene and Ferouzeh—all their gazes dropped on Syrene like a weight of a boulder. To her dress.

She was eerily, anxiously reminded of all the times she had been naked and whipped in front all the sentries in the hallway stretching before her cell in the Voiceless Pits.

Both starides had paused roving, in wait for someone to climb.

A man in green—no doubt expensive—tunic stepped forward. His grey mask gleamed in the moonlight like Azryle’s eyes did, only dimmer. He had a smirk on his face, ghastly thirst in eyes—again, disturbingly alike to the kind those sentries had had. He stretched his hand. “I don’t suppose we’ve met?”

Syrene smiled sweetly. “No, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

Ferouzeh pinched Syrene’s back—she stifled her hiss. “Apologies, my Lord.” The healer bowed deeply. “My friend here is new to Cleystein, she doesn’t identify the court.”

Syrene’s teeth gritted, her tongue itching to shout at all these men leering at her. But she simply bowed, signaled by the shove Ferouzeh gave her. “I’m sorry, my Lord,” she forced out.

The man laughed, irritation simmering in his dark eyes, not withdrawing his stretched hand. “You will ride with me.”

Hairs on Syrene’s neck arose as she straightened. She almost nodded, but another man from the crowd stepped forward. “She clearly doesn’t want to, Lord Crevim.” His green eyes had no different gleam than Lord Crevim’s. He turned to Syrene and stuck out his arm. “Come.” A pure command.

“I’ll go with my friend, thank you,” she said, unease gnawing at her gut. Had her head not been on line with these royals, Syrene might have reminded them she was not an object to be claimed. Painfully.

Their gazes slid to the healer, who was doing her utmost to remain neutral. “Her Majesty’s orders.”

Lord Crevim sneered. “I will see to that.”

Syrene didn’t even want to near any of these men—otsatyas knew where their hands would drive, should she venture in the same staride as them. She shuddered at the thought, her skin crawling, mostly because she had no weapon with herself, and using mejest … Deisn’s oblivion was indication enough that she could keep her lightning in check.

The other man was losing his patience. “You will come right away.”

“She has no reason to,” stated a cool, deep voice from behind and silence fell.

The two men, along with the crowd behind, went rigid. The crowd bowed, then stirred, and people began climbing the starides—hastening away.

Syrene and Ferouzeh turned as one at Azryle’s voice.

Syrene’s breath caught.

He wasn’t in his usual black, assassin attire, there were no weapons except Silencer at his side.

No, Azryle was in his princely uniform.

The dark blue of his tunic echoed the shade of his hair when caught in moonlight; the silver embroidery of it mirrored the color of his usual cloak. The black boots—also embroidered with silver around the rim of the gap—were knee-high.

Ferouzeh snorted, only biting the inside of her cheek kept Syrene from echoing it. But the healer seemed to have caught herself too, vigilant of the cluster behind them, and bowed deeply. Syrene pattered herself after Ferouzeh. She straightened in time to catch Azryle narrowing his eyes behind that silver mask matching the color of them.

Still no smile, no humor in sight.

He stepped towards Syrene and stuck out his arm. “Ride with me?” An offer—not a command.

No one protested from behind her, Syrene tried not to sag in relief. Though she could feel their gazes nipping at her neck, knew they were watching, silently daring her to loop her arm with Azryle’s.

But they didn’t dare the prince.

She sometimes forgot the power Azryle held, forgot why these men trembled before him, why he was called the Pall Moira. He could rip their minds, creep in there and have them on their knees for eternity if only he wished, all the while not laying a finger on them.

Syrene was surprised to find no fear in herself—from the man who was to very well rip her mind tomorrow—no balkiness from the monster she’d thought him be as she twined her arm with his. “Of course, Your Highness.”

Crowd flanked open a way as Azryle led, Ferouzeh trailing behind.

“Couldn’t find a fancier clown outfit?” Syrene muttered, not mentioning just how absurdly pretty he looked.

He threw her a sidelong glance. “You couldn’t find a darker lip paint?”

“Actually, no,” Syrene drawled in hushed tones, smirking.

They loomed before a staride, and Syrene waited for Azryle or Ferouzeh to step in, because she certainly did not know how to. The basket had no gate, only solid blinding light.

Azryle must have sensed her uncertainty, because a teasing smile played at his sensuous lips, humor sluggishly rallying in those eyes. Then he uncoiled his arm from hers and his broad hand slid down to hers, laced their fingers. “Wouldn’t want you fooling yourself, cub.” Then—

It was like being pulled by a magnet—as if her skin would peel off if she fought his slaughtering force—

Syrene was inside the staride the next moment, her heart in her throat. She calmed herself, schooled her features into neutrality as she turned. “That was not as delightful as it had seemed.”

Ferouzeh was engaged in a conversation with a very beautiful woman outside as the staride began ascending … slowly, definitely not as the other one was whizzing up and down and back again. People were watching as their vehicle rose above them—

A hand seized Syrene’s arm and whirled her.

Humor had again vanished from his eyes, his face. “Do not engage with anyone tonight, do not dance, do not—”

“For an enemy,” Syrene said softly, “you’re way too protective of me, Prince.” She made a moue. “What if I want to dance all night?”

He arched a brow. “Then go ahead,” he muttered. “You’re surely going to have many proposals tonight.”

She blinked twice as she abruptly realized his gaze had remained only on her face, roving nowhere else—the way those men’s had.

As if very mindful of where those eyes might wander.

Syrene was thankful for the mask to conceal the color that must have saturated her cheeks—and the scent it secreted. As she spoke, her voice held a slight tremor—so slight that she was almost sure Azryle didn’t notice it. “Was that a compliment, Your Spectacular Highness?” she teased.

“Compliments are flattery,” he said, amusement returning like a wave in his eyes. “I needn’t flatter you.”

Suddenly, he stepped forward, and Syrene straightened, recoiling on an instinct; her heart slowing down, bracing itself.

Azryle advanced another stride. This time, she held her ground—she wouldn’t cower from him, wouldn’t be preyed on.

He was close enough that his warmth stretched and swathed her bare skin. Her heart wavered when his gaze sunk to her lips, and she was reminded of each bolt his kiss had struck her blood, how badly her body had burned when those lips had touched hers.

And how bad this yearning for more of him was.

Azryle’s head lowered, neared to hers. Her each instinct narrowed to that feel of his fresh warm breath on her face. And came alive as his arm slid to her lower back and pressed her against himself, her midriff brushed against the jacquard tunic.

No, she reminded herself. She couldn’t get distracted—this close to Queen Felset, Azryle could be commanded to—

She didn’t let herself finish that thought. He’d warned her about this.

Syrene pressed her hand to his chest, to shove him, but his hand reached to grip hers, and his other arm around her tightened its brace.

The grip on her hand was tense, his heart beneath her touch was steady as a rock.

Slight panic looped around her, and she made to fight him.

His arm only squeezed her.

“Azryle,” Syrene grunted.

This is why the ride was slow—he’d slowed it—why Ferouzeh didn’t climb in with them. Syrene only slightly bent her knee to kick him in his groin when—

She felt the coldness of the metal on her skin before she saw the necklace he allowed her to perceive in his hand atop hers. It was then she grasped the warning in his silver eyes—to remain calm. But her throat had tightened to the point of pain, her heart frantic, frightened of what was only a few moments away.

A shudder went through her as his cheek grazed hers, and his lips touched her ear as he whispered, “Wear this. Do not take it off, at any cost. Wear it during the duel, too.” She realized she had gone utterly numb when there was a beat of silence and Azryle added, “Trust me this once, Syrene.”

Something in her uncoiled, eased. And this time, as she moved her hand to procure the necklace, he let her. But this could as well be another command—“What is this?” She couldn’t afford to trust him, not with the leash and the duel gawking from the horizon.

He didn’t release her. “Just take it. It’ll protect you.”

Syrene hesitated.

Azryle stiffened, sensing her doubts, then he brought his face before hers. He held her gaze unswervingly, removed the mask that always limned his eyes, his soul. Syrene saw it then—a whisper of the man who had offered her a part of himself when he’d told her about how much he loathed being a ripper, how much he loathed his queen. The man who had spared Vozas, who’d asked Syrene to hate him because he didn’t wish to be the one to break her.

Only a whisper, but it was enough for Syrene to seize the necklace. “Why?” she whispered. “I’m your enemy.” The disbelief in her voice was too palpable.

His lips curled in a smirk. “I’ve rather grown fond of you, Alpenstride.”

Before she even had a chance to react, Azryle’s eyes widened, his grip around her fell and he staggered a step back—Azryle Wintershade staggered a step back. A hand went for his neck, as his whole face, neck, grew crimson.

“Azryle?”

He brutally slammed to his knees, and was choking.

Syrene’s throat closed as she surveyed the floor atop, all the people—

There.

The Enchanted Queen stood in the corner, her gaze was jammed at their staride, her head tilted. Death on her face. She will do it—she will damn the duel and kill him right here.

Syrene had a good sense to hide the necklace. Her jaw clenched as fury rose to her, lightning boomed in her.

She stepped towards the choking Azryle, and knelt before him.

“Azryle.” Syrene took his face in her hands—it was burning—his eyes were red-rimmed and wet. “Remember what I’d said about your heart?” His eyes met hers. Use it to fight. It is yours.

This was stupid—so unwise. Felset will suspect Syrene’s heritage if glimpsed what she was about to do but—

She will be dead tomorrow anyway.

Syrene called for her mejest and kissed Azryle.

Glow of staride shuttered as lightning thundered in her, thrummed her mejest. Syrene sent another call down in the sea within her, burrowed deep, deep, deep.

There it was. Her skin seemed to separate from her body, her bones seemed to shiver as she sent the call of her mejest down in Azryle through the touch of their lips.

Azryle shuddered beneath her touch, but the kiss deepened as Saqa as her mejest offered its aid, waiting for an answer from the enemy—

Something deadly went through her. And then, for a moment, for an eternity; somewhere between a second and a millennium; Syrene glimpsed Azryle.

She glimpsed the abyss of his mejest—cunning and unending and powerful like nothing else she’d ever seen. It was death and chaos and annihilation within him. It was cobwebs and bright butterflies, it was dark and light.

It was vulnerable—he was vulnerable, having no control over all this inside him. She could feel it, and almost dropped the bond at the unbearable pain that struck her like a dozen boulders of interwove emotions. An indescribable agony he’d been living with.

Accept it, Azryle, she pleaded silently in that abyss.

He answered.

His mejest roused, mounted the eternal, destructible void to meet her separate from the world.

And Syrene thought she might die from the power that bellowed in her, whizzed past her cracking veins. She thought she might turn to ashes.

She was life and death. She was air and sound. There was no end, no beginning except her.

She was only this force, this unforgiving pain lancing through her.

It took every ounce of her training, her restraint, to remain in her human body, and not shift as Azryle’s mejest coiled with hers, as their tongues brushed again.

She was undone.

Syrene mustered her control, her will, and wielded this wicked, feral, lethal force.

Her mejest looped around his throat, released all of it in him.

He shuddered again. It was then she realized he’d stopped choking, he was breathing and unrestraint from the queen.

Azryle was free with Syrene’s mejest coursing through him.

Syrene withdrew from him, breathing hard, lending him that ounce of her power. Only a hint, but it should be enough for him to gain his control if only for a while.

She opened her eyes, only to find him staring at her. She felt it then—as the wind brushed her face, she felt the dampness of tears on her cheeks, the itch in her eyes due to the tears. The pain silently shrieking in Azryle’s eyes had her losing her hold on her legs and she collapsed to the still-shuttering staride.

Syrene dared gazing skyward.

Felset’s face was still, but there was no mistaking the burning wrath in her eyes, the intent of obliteration she would cause Syrene.

The queen’s precious property, a valuable, priceless asset—that’s was Azryle was, and Syrene had just stolen a sliver of it.

Though the stillness in Syrene was not due to the queen at all, but at who stood flanking her.

On her left, towered Maycusen, smirking.

And on her right, stood Raocete, stone-faced.