Drothiker

Mask or no, only a fool wouldn’t place the Lady of Wolves when she willed herself to be seen.

Despite being seven hundred years old, Raocete’s shoulders remained standing, back straight, chin high—looking every bit the deadly warrior she’d made herself known for, even in that golden sheath gown she was clad in.

Her brown skin seemed to be glinting gold against the light that flashed and rippled all around her as these Vegreka moved on Azryle’s floor, as did her elegantly pulled back black-brown hair braided in countless thick coils. Her green eyes with golden core were as violent and deadly as Syrene remembered, but there still remained that gleam Syrene could never gather the cause of. She caught the well-hidden relief there, at the sight of Syrene.

There was no smile on Raocete’s burgundy-painted round lips as Syrene shouldered her way to the two very intimidating, near-otsatya women. Azryle had disappeared in the crowd. He was still somewhere near though, her mejest could feel it.

She didn’t know whether the queen had gleaned what had taken place and …

Syrene was surprised to find she didn’t care. It was certainly difficult to care about anything when death breathed down her neck, waiting till dawn to strike her.

Her purpose will be done tomorrow, this burden will be far gone. That was what she’d been wanting, wasn’t it?

Death. End. Release.

Then why this burden on her heart, why this resistance, this tightness in her throat?

She ignored it all when she stood before Raocete. Syrene touched her brow with two fingers and bowed her head. A gesture for duces—but as far as these people were concerned, Raocete was Syrene’s only mentor, her duce. “Czar.” Leader. She wasn’t entirely certain whether she was allowed to call the prime that anymore—whether she was a member of the pack at all.

A river of relief crashed into her as Raocete said, “Sprog.”

Syrene bristled. Young trainee. Raocete had never referred to Syrene by her name. Initially, it had gotten under Syrene’s skin, but now … Now, her eyes burned—she hadn’t realized how much she’d missed that referent.

It was the only motherly touch she was left with. “You look well than I’d anticipated,” Prime Raocete said, her voice booming in clouds around them.

“That’s all thanks to the Prince of Cleystein, Czar.” Syrene moved her gaze to Felset. “And Her Majesty, of course.”

Behind the queen, Maycusen sneered, but wisely remained quiet. Where was Starflame—

Felset angled her head, a movement more animal than anything. “You’d think there would be some restrictions between enemies.” Her face was so unnervingly calm.

Syrene batted her lashes. “Not when your enemy is as pretty as His Highness.”

She could have sworn a smile played at Raocete’s lips, but the queen laughed and said, “Indeed.”

A wave of panic went through Syrene as the queen’s smooth, scar-less hand touched her arm. “Let’s acquaint you with our lords and ladies.” Felset gazed towards Raocete, and Syrene could have sworn the world paused to watch them, braced itself. “Then we shall discuss the second part of our bargain.”

Maycusen was now grinning, and Syrene found her hand tightening around the locket of the necklace Azryle had dealt her. Her chin stubbornly lifted. “I want to speak with my prime alone first.”

The Enchanted Queen simply said, “No.”

Syrene needed to impart Raocete with what was to be done tomorrow, what Brother Adlae had said. “Only a few minutes.”

“Do you want this to be done forcibly, Syrene?” Then—

An invisible force thrust Syrene, and she fell a step back. Before she had a chance to brace herself, or even glean what was happening, she felt something stirring in her mind like an electrocuted spider.

She felt it veering in different zones, felt it gaining control.

It grew and grew and grew, seizing the space in her mind.

And then something reeled in her, like provoking her mejest, bugging it. She was vaguely aware of the burning in the locket in her hand—could not hear what Raocete said to the queen with death on her face.

Her sight blurred, and darkened soon as the spider seized her mind like an eclipse on sun. But there was this one zone it could not conquer—one zone from where she viewed all of it, that was still owned by her; the one zone that the beast in that unearthly form had longed, had willed her to surrender. The stygian spider attempted to venture here, but was blocked by a ripple of light.

Maycusen had his head tilted, a gleam in eyes. He was watching, assessing. Felset was just smiling. Then—

“Step forward, Syrene,” commanded a cringing voice in her head.

Syrene felt the control giving in. It was as if the spider towered her, and its strings lashed to each muscle, each bone in her body. Her heart was calm, steady, and her mind was … Her mind was the spider.

She stepped forward.

The spider smiled cruelly—no, the queen smiled.

“Come with me.”

As Felset walked, Syrene found herself following. And as she went, she caught the Lady of Wolves’ lips thinning, fury in her eyes.

But she did nothing.

The locket was now burning, her skin throbbing—pain was Syrene’s tether to reality, sanity. To this unrestraint zone of her mind that held her seeing. Not wholly lost.

The queen ushered her to the dance floor amid the never-ending sky, couples cleared the way without breaking their dances. They were soon swallowed by the crowd that gathered and surrounded them—music’s volume dropped, murmurs now grabbed the sky.

The Enchanted Queen said nothing for moments and moments, but her power discharged around her—Vegreka everywhere went silent in a few heartbeats. They all had stilled in her presence.

In her mind, Syrene fought with that shard of it left to herself, but she was not strong enough.

She was she … but she wasn’t.

She belonged to this … this spider … her puppeteer …

“As it has already been announced,” the queen spoke, her voice amplified by mejest, booming in the clouds, “this year’s Pensnial Duel will be held a week earlier.”

At the cue, three men and a woman dispersed from the crowd and stepped forward—well-dressed, and adorned in gems. No kindness on faces.

She recognized one of them: Lord Crevim. He had the same sickening thirst in his eyes as he leered at Syrene with his brown eyes.

The queen continued speaking, praising the sick duels, and as she did, Syrene willed herself to move—to punch Lord Crevim’s face, but the spider leashed her like a puppet. There was distant panic in her, a sense of it, but her heart remained calm as the clouds around them.

“Let me introduce you to Syrene Alpenstride,” the queen announced. “The Heir of Wolf Tribe, protégé of the Lady of Wolves herself.” Some remained impassive, but many began craning their necks to catch Syrene’s sight, to behold the next Prime of Wolves. “And this year’s contestant.”

The lords’ and the lady’s eyes widened slightly.

It was the delicate woman who stepped forward first, her blue eyes glinting as she towered Syrene. “And what mejest do you hold?” she asked in a raspy voice.

Syrene willed all her thoughts to dwindle at that question—the spider couldn’t know.

“None,” the queen answered.

The lady seemed to want to ask more questions, but didn’t dare to voice them since it was the queen answering.

She stepped back.

“Any more questions?” Felset asked—more like dared.

“None,” answered Lord Crevim, a beam in eyes that had Syrene growing frantic behind this eclipse, silently screaming.

It was like being in an unbreakable box with two peepholes. Like being in a grotesque body of a monster, and rotting away slowly in darkness.

She remained unruffled on the outside, though, even as there was a destruction within her.

Felset smirked. “Then you know what comes next.”

Whatever was next, was interrupted by someone from the crowd. “What of the other contestant?”

The murmurs began again.

I heard it was someone interesting, someone said.

I heard it was the ripper, others muttered.

A tendril of lethal power from Felset went through the sky and everyone fell silent after gasping and wincing. Only the hold on her body spared Syrene from being thrusted a step back.

“The other contestant will remain unknown until the duel.”

No one dared to speak now, though unasked questions sparked like invisible fire.

The queen turned back to the lords and the lady. “She’s all yours for the night.”

And then she merged into the horde.

The hold on Syrene’s mind only tightened and she could do nothing but stay still as Lord Crevim stepped forward, grinning.

“Do as they say,” the spider commanded. That whisper of panic in Syrene grew like a storm. But only for a moment before it was clamped down.

The mass of people seemed to be closing in on her like towering walls of a room. Lord Crevim stepped around her, his arm brushing hers. “Your behavior from earlier shall not go unpunished, little wolf.”

Her throat closed as the lord’s body pressed against her back, his lips brushed her ear. Syrene began thrashing against each force holding her, fought these strings strangling her.

But her attempts proved fruitless.

Everyone watched. No one moved. Even as a few averted their eyes, they said nothing.

“Syrene Alpenstride,” he purred her name in her ear as his hand came for her waist.

For a moment, she wasn’t there.

She was in a stone cell, her arms shackled up; the overseer’s body pressed to her bleeding, wounded, naked back.

It all came alive as the lord whispered, “Strip.”

No, she shouted silently. NO! she willed her body to listen and obey.

But her hands were moving already.

She slid off her sleeves from her shoulders first, swaying her arms out, the silk skittered down her skin like water, baring her torso wholly. Cool winds grazed her breasts, her navel. The scars on her back.

Cheers rose from the crowd, satisfied, but she felt Lord Crevim bristling behind her. Syrene’s hands went to shake off the dress from her hips, but the lord hissed as she moved, and his hands clutched her shoulders, halting her. She felt his gaze itching at her scars like needles.

The crowd silenced, a few even groaned at the interruption.

But she felt as if her soul was violated as the lord’s finger grazed her scars.

People began craning their necks, pushing against the crowd to catch a glimpse. But then—

She heard his inhuman snarl, felt a brush of wind against her arm, and the warmth of a cloth around herself, concealing her nakedness, before Azryle towered beside her, an arm around her shoulders, death on his face as he scanned the crowd, eyes livid. They all began scrambling back, as if some enormous creature had come to feast.

Azryle took Syrene’s hand and lifted it, then closed it around the cloak at her chest.

Then he released her, stepped before her. His gaze sloped to Syrene’s neck, then to her free hand, tightly clutching the scorching bronze locket.

Azryle lifted that hand, and uncurled her fingers gently to reveal the pink, burned skin. Everyone was gawking. A muscle in Azryle’s jaw ticked.

He took the necklace, and bound it around her neck, his knuckles grazing her nape. Then—

The light of the spared zone in her mind grew and grew, and the spider began shrieking an unpleasant song—she thought her ears might split.

It went on for somewhere between a second and a century, until she felt her weak limbs, her buckling legs—until the force of violation struck her so hard that she thought she might cleave apart. Her mind did not feel hers, her soul did not feel hers. It felt as if a clean white cloth was marred with a clot of ink.

Syrene’s legs bent slightly, but Azryle’s mejest was already there. It gripped her whole body … not the way that spider had. This was support, not control. Comfort, not command.

Yet she felt anything but comfortable, Syrene felt as if she had leapt out of her skin.

Azryle stretched his hand—a dagger in it.

She met his eyes, that tattooed jaw working. Show them.

Wrath returned to Syrene in an outrageous wave.

➣

He watched as the trembling in her ceased, as fear and agony and hollowness ebbed, and that unearthly wrath captured her eyes, her scent. It wasn’t directed at him today, and was deadlier than he’d ever encountered.

Whoever could scent it either flinched or feared. A few began retreating.

One hand tightly clutching the cloak at her chest, Syrene clutched the dagger in her burned hand and whirled.

Lord Crevim, already white-faced at her rear, did not have sufficient time to brace himself as the blade pierced the side of his neck.

His eyes went wide as he choked, a hand reaching to the gateway of blood flowing down his neck, marred his fine clothes, and he fell a step back.

Azryle held his hands back as the screams now boomed in the sky. Syrene’s mejest in his blood was boisterous, rowdy.

Lord Crevim’s eyes rolled back and he fell backward.

“I am not your property,” Syrene yelled, her voice steady. Silence fell, even the clouds seemed to have paused to listen to the Duce of Tribes. “I am not your asset to be played with! Touch we again without my consent and I promise I will not give you an easy death as such.”

Ferouzeh emerged from the crowd, squeezing between people. Her slender eyes went wide when she found Syrene, hand reached for her mouth.

Syrene’s shoulders remained high, spine straight as she began walking in the starides’ direction, people flanked a way open for her. Ferouzeh trailed behind.

Azryle didn’t.

He felt a tug around his neck, at his soul, as soon as everyone returned to the party. The dancers’ faces were horrified when they returned to the floor, swaying arm in arm. Sentries came to clean up Lord Crevim’s body.

Azryle’s teeth ground at another tug around his neck.

“What in Saqa happened here?”

He turned at Vendrik’s voice. Maeren accompanying him, her green eyes fixed at the body, widened. Lips parted in shock.

“Where were you?” Azryle snapped.

Vendrik blinked. “With Her Majesty.” He added, “She has summoned you and Alpenstride in the throne room. Before dawn.”

Azryle's hand unwillingly rose to his neck. He got that.

“Where is she?” asked Maeren, scanning the floor.

“She’s not in any condition—”

“Condition?” The wraith arched a brow. “Since when do you care about people’s conditions, let alone your enemies’?”

Azryle leveled her a look. “Since I’m being commanded to mend them.”

Vendrik was shaking his head. “We are commanded to bring her to the throne room, Ryle—drag her, if necessary.”

Azryle clenched his jaw. But he said, “I’ll bring her.”

“Before dawn.”

Azryle only nodded.