Drothiker

She was shaking head-to-toe.

The feeling of having that spider in her mind, each inch of her being stringed to its legs, being operated as a puppet …

The lord’s fingers on her scars, his blood on her hands … how her knife had torn the flesh and muscles of his neck—she had never grown adapted to it, the killing. Ripping families.

It felt as if she’d been robbed of half her breath, her spirit.

She’d rushed to the bathroom as soon as she’d reached her suite, vomited, scratched off the blood from her hand …

But it was still there. She could see it, feel its thickness, its sluggishness.

For hours now, Syrene had been sitting in this enormous royal bed, swathed in another silk nightdress; legs folded to her chest, her chin propped atop her knees. She hadn’t been able to think without shrinking at the ghostly feeling of that touch in her mind, her back.

Vaguely, she heard the knock at door.

Syrene couldn’t muster a voice to answer.

There was another knock. Then, “Syrene.”

At Azryle’s voice, Syrene peered down at the necklace he’d handed her, then at her burned palm—still healing. Will leave a hideous scar.

Azryle knocked again. “I can hear your heart all the way over here,” he said. “I know you’re awake, I’m coming in.”

Syrene didn’t reply. Maybe a part of her wanted him to come in, to share this … this ruination in her. He’d be the one to understand, of all the people.

There was a satisfied click, then the sound of the door opening and closing.

Azryle stood at the threshold across from the bed the next moment. Gone were the fine princely clothes, the death from his face. He inclined against the doorframe. “You want to talk about it?” he offered.

Syrene gave the barest shrug, a tear beaded down her cheek—she knew Azryle thought them weak, but she didn’t really care. “You already know.” Her voice was gravelly, dead.

“It’s not same for everyone.” He angled his head, lazily leaning it against the doorframe. “What did it feel like?”

“Like being touched and harmed everywhere.” She shuddered. Another tear skittered down her face.

There was silence for long moments.

Then, Azryle stepped inside the bedroom and took off his shirt in one swift motion. He tossed it on her bed, so near her feet, and slumped beside it, his back to her.

Syrene’s breath caught. Horror sliced her gut open.

The whip scars on his back were like cracks in the ground—not a single inch of skin was left unmarked. Not allowed to use mejest, meaning not permitted to heal them.

Her hand reached for her mouth to trap the sob. “Azryle.” Her voice came out broken and shaky.

He folded his legs to his chest, looking no more than a scared boy. The eleven-year-old boy who was snatched from his mother to live his life as a monster. “I promised you if you offer a part of yourself, I’ll offer you mine.” Syrene could have sworn there was the slightest tremor in his voice. “I saw your back the other day in that lake.”

This time she did sob.

Azryle wheeled on his ass to face her. His gaze fell to the locket dangling from her neck, and scowled. “Why didn’t you wear it?”

She rubbed at the tears. “I didn’t have time.”

“All the way from the staride to Felset, you didn’t have time?”

He was distracting her, she knew, annoying her so she wouldn’t mentally drown herself. But she couldn’t—couldn’t let herself disremember this for even a second. “Azryle, I’m tired,” she admitted, and her heart scrunched at the truth in her words. “I’m so tired of everything.”

He only stared at her, listening.

“I don’t want to die tomorrow, I don’t want to duel you. I just … I want to breathe. Only once, I want to take in free air without feeling my lungs heavying with poison.” She sobbed. “I want to feel safe for once. To know there’s a better life with less suffering.” And added, “I want that for both of us.”

Long silence followed as the prince visibly struggled to find words to comfort her.

Then, “If it makes you feel any better,” he proffered, “Ianov will be no more in a week or so anyway. Everyone is dying.”

Syrene blinked, letting the tears slide.

“Drothiker is real, cities have fallen.”

She swallowed. “Any news about the Kaerions?”

He shook his head.

“Cook is raconteur,” Syrene mused. “Why not ask him, you’re a prince after all.”

“Cook’s powers are limited. And even those are pressed by Felset.”

Rage rose to Syrene’s blood at the queen’s name, but she contained herself from clenching her fists—the wound was burning like Saqa.

Azryle caught the slight movement in her fingers though, those quicksilver eyes missed nothing. His gaze fell to her hand. “Why haven’t you healed it?” By shifting, he meant.

It felt strange—utterly strange—to have someone know what she was, how she’d made the Plunge, excluding Hexet and Raocete. It was even stranger that Azryle held that information. “I have to shift for that.”

He just stared, waiting.

Syrene clenched her jaw, but made herself say the words. “I’m not fond of that form. It has all these … ferocious instincts, an urge to kill, a crave for violence.” She inwardly shook herself. “My mejest is difficult to control in it, it’s very … lively. When I return to human form, the reverberations of it remain for a long while.”

For moments, he said nothing. Then, “So this whole time you have been trying to bury and forget the hemvae part of yourself?” Upon her silence, he shook his head, baffled. “You can’t choose to accept only certain shards of yourself.”

“I certainly can’t accept whole of myself.”

“Says who?”

Syrene only shook her head, then she clutched the bronze locket at her chest. “What is it?”

He sighed, letting the topic drop. Syrene was thankful for it. “Quemcet. It’s an ancient locket, I had it made for Maeren before the dungeons, never got an opportunity to hand it to her. It’ll keep anyone capable from spearing into your mind.”

“Why not give it to Maeren after you got out of …” Syrene trailed off.

He shrugged. “Pettiness. Maeren told Felset she hadn’t the faintest idea about my influence on her mind to keep Felset from harming her. Felset added extra two years to my punishment in the dungeons because of that.”

Syrene stilled.

“With time, my rage towards her faded, until I didn’t want anything with her.”

“Why haven’t you worn it—or given it to Vendrik?”

“I can already keep her out of my mind; if I gave it to Vendrik, she would kill him.” He changed the subject, then. “What did you do?” Azryle rubbed at his neck. “Earlier in the staride—”

“I …” Syrene heaved out a long breath and slid closer to where he sat beside the bed. She extended her hand.

For a moment, Azryle seemed to consider, but eventually his slender fingers wrapped around hers, calluses rasped with hers. His warmth coated her skin, and she had to restrain herself from finding comfort in this gentle touch, not allowing herself to muse over just how many he’d proceeded with such tenderness.

“Hemvae can share their power.” Syrene felt the jolt that had Azryle flinching, as bright light washed where their skin came in contact. “Rippers are part hemvae—that part of you accepted my call. And …” She bit her lip.

Azryle angled his head in a bird-like way.

“I glimpsed it …” She pinched the bridge of her nose with her burned hand, feeling the ache as it bent. “Your mejest … you—I …” She released a sharp breath. “I was you,” she got out. “For only half-a-moment—”

“You felt my power, saw the sea I’d once swam in to gain immortality. You felt all these things Felset has crammed in me.” Emotions.

Syrene blinked, letting the burning in her eyes soothe. She tried not to think about how it had felt—how that eternal power had coursed through her like a barbarous sea in a storm, as if she could tear the ground in two with only a stomp of foot, or take down a building with a punch. She wondered how he handled that power worse than any deadly tornado.

Azryle rubbed at his face—exhaustion laying heavy on him. And his words were like a jab to her fear to rouse it. “The Lady of Wolves is under Felset’s influence.” Syrene stilled. “Felset has summoned you and I in the throne room, she might use your predecessor to lure you into accepting the bargain.”

Syrene withdrew her hand from his, killing the light, and rubbed at her eyes. “No—no, this can’t be—” She shook her head. “She will confine Raocete as she has Vendrik and Maeren—” Her heart began thudding against her ribs, fear looping her throat. Raocete and Starflame—

“Syrene.”

She opened her eyes, as Azryle seized the wounded hand. Those silver eyes were fixed at the burn.

“You know when I was taken by Felset, when I could feel fear …” His other hand’s finger came to gently brush the wound. Syrene hissed at the unbearable itching that began gnawing at the burn as his mejest flowed in her skin. “The whole year before I was commanded to hunt Vozas, I was a terrified kid. I would watch the others, and wish to be … well, normal. To be anything but a ripper.” She felt her mejest stirring, eager to taste his again. “I even tried to drive a dagger through my heart, hoping I would be born normal in the next life.”

Syrene stilled. Even her mejest seemed to have died out as she stopped feeling the itching. Eleven-year-old—“How did you survive?” Her voice came out a whisper. She tried to catch his gaze, but even as his eyes remained monitoring the wound, they seemed vacant.

“When the dagger was over my chest, I thought what’s the point? This life or another, this fear and all these torturing feelings will be there. It’s not like some other kind is immune to these. Every other kind has different struggles; better be a powerful ripper than a weak animal.” He sighed, breath grazing the wound. “It’s foolish—utterly foolish … but after that day, whenever fear got a hold of me, I told myself: Fear is another beast, and I will not be its puppet.”

Syrene snorted through the rawness in her throat. “You were a weird kid.”

Azryle met her gaze then. “Then you’d be very amused to know I still tell myself that.”

She pursed her lips to keep them from wobbling. “Why?”

“Because even as I can’t feel it, I like to think I don’t wholly belong to her.” He’d stopped at the wound. “I am afraid of her, as you’d said—she hasn’t been able to take that. Or hasn’t wanted to.” The strong column of his throat bobbed. “Don’t show her your fear, Syrene. No matter what she offers, or does, do not show your fear. She will abuse it in ways you can only imagine.”

Azryle lifted to his feet. Something in her hand stirred, and the itching returned. Syrene clenched her teeth against it. “It’ll speed the healing process,” Azryle said. Then jerked his head to his side. “I’ll wait outside. Come when you’re ready.”

➣

They walked to throne room in quiet. Syrene hadn’t bothered changing, she was still in the golden silk nightdress stretching to her thighs, feet donned in slippers. Lucran’s wolf bite scar behind her ankles wholly on display.

And, to Syrene’s surprise, she didn’t really care. Not about that scar anyway.

People gawked at her bare legs and arms as they went, but she didn’t fail to notice how they went white as death when they noticed Azryle at her side and averted their eyes.

Oh, please, Syrene thought, and just rolled her eyes.

When they reached the throne room, though, Syrene’s blood went cold.

The Enchanted Queen lounged in her throne as usual, the wraith at her right, and the firebreather her left. The Lady of Wolves sat at the queen’s feet with bruised arms, empty eyes. On the right serpent arm of the throne sat Maycusen, smirking, Starflame slumbering at his shoulder, her wings winking in and out.

And Deisn stood towering Raocete, lilac looping the latter’s throat.