Drothiker

Prince of Cleystein did not speak, did not bother unless dire need be; and Syrene decided that made him the perfect companion. Because she was exhausted. Using her tongue, her throat, was an effort, a spending.

Her legs were wobbling, exhausted.

Her lips parched; tongue barely moveable. Exhausted.

Yet she moved, whatever Saqa awaited her, Syrene walked and walked and walked. And suddenly she missed birdship. Missed that enormous, marvelous vehicle.

She had not dared asking the warrior-prince how far was this castle of his … or wherever she was being dragged. Asking meant talking, something neither her tongue nor her throat permitted. Olkfield’s summer seemed to be burning her, her own skin seemed as if it would soon match the golden tan of the ripper’s. Only his was darker, pale only around the scars.

Including the one on his cheek. The starkly pale slit on different side than that of his intimidating tattoo, the inking enough to scare the shit out of somebody. The scar marked by Syrene herself, knew if he peeled off the layers, she’d perceive four akin pale scratches engraved in his arm.

A part of her hoped he did not recognize her, did not know what she had been for three decades. Though she supposed if he did, he wouldn’t have been so unfazed around her—no one rational would be. The monster she had been was a face of teeming nightmares.

Syrene shuddered just thinking of it.

The prince led his black stallion by reins. She could have sworn she’d heeded him chatting with the mount—very low whispers. But judging by the harshness molded on his face round the clock, the promise of violence in eyes, Syrene must have been hallucinating. She wouldn’t be surprised if she had been though, with that sparkly liquid—xist, they called it—coursing through her, dresteen heavy on her skin, and exhaustion nipping at her bones. No, she would not at all be surprised if she had been hallucinating.

Even thinking about it, a groan rolled out from somewhere deep in Syrene’s throat involuntarily. Quickly clamped her lips shut as Price Azryle’s broad shoulders tensed—sole implication he had unveiled during the whole of this trek.

Syrene unheeded it. She was too exhausted to give a care, let alone be embarrassed.

Her gaze lifted to the light azure sky, her shackles squeaking and clanking as her hand swept over to refuge her eyes from the brutish sun. No clouds overhead.

And when she gazed down, the woods cleared, revealing a tall, lean hill. Atop that, Palace of Glass’ peak seemed to be piercing the sky.

Breathing was not an option. Whether at the beauty … or simply at the bright, shimmering castle, she didn’t know. She could foresee it looking like an enormous star glistering in a dark night.

Her lips parched further. And the warrior-prince had to slightly tug at the dresteen chains to keep her moving.

Yet this pause in her was not at that iridescent star, but what hovered around it.

Two manticores. Heads and bodies of lions. Enormous bat-like wings. Venomous, spiked tails. Two—two.

“Ablaze damning Kosas.”

She had known where she was coming—known, yet the sight made breathing a monumental task. So close to the Enchanted Queen, so close to the near-otsatya woman, Syrene heard her veins pouncing in her ears, felt their blasts beneath her skin.

Syrene was not walking, just being hauled by the warrior-prince. She was just glad her legs didn’t give up and twist. Buckling, yet they towered. And managed to take heavy steps.

As they neared the castle, Syrene could perceive the sentries clad in gold and white. They all motioned to them and bowed deeply to the prince-who-looked-like-assassin. Azryle Wintershade lifted his dark hood and dropped it back wholly and disclosed the shoulder-length midnight hair. First time he’d dropped it since the day they’d begun walking.

Was that weeks ago? Years? Centuries?

Feet balked and throat tightened when a manticore landed before the ripper the moment they arrived at the enormous white gates of the Glass Palace, as if to welcome to Haerven.

The beast spoke, “Throne room.” Voice surprisingly like a soft warble. Pleasant to ears.

The Prince of Cleystein only nodded, enough for the manticore to return to its twin hovering round the castle.

He tugged at the chains again as the sentries opened the gates to a vast courtyard. She was vaguely aware of a stable man leading the prince’s stallion away as she took in the huge glass sculptures of women posing in gardens.

Syrene was tugged again as they ascended to the sloppy bridge like solid iridescent sunbeams. Her slippers clinking to the glass, unlike the warrior’s. His were silent as dead, those skills could only be achieved by an immortal.

They ascended until those enormous sculptures were beneath her; Syrene indeed felt like she was walking on sunlight. The glass robust enough to suggest it was carved with mejest—the entire castle was.

She found herself murmuring, “How old is it?”

He knew, obviously, she meant the castle. “Six centuries.”

Holy Saqa. Yet, as the two sentries outside opened the gates and revealed the busy lush world crammed inward, the shiny floor and blinding lighting, she found it challenging to believe that it was older than a mere century at most.

Silence fell. Many motioned towards the prince as they entered, many bowed. She did not fail to notice the women batting their eyelashes at him, blushing instantaneously. Whether he noticed it, he didn’t divulge it and began leading Syrene to stairs.

They threw a disgusted look in her direction, at her dirt-caked clothes and skin. She kept her head inclined, and supposed she had to get accustomed to it now.

As many returned to their work, a woman approached with a wide smile on her face. The prince and Syrene halted.

She was breathtakingly beautiful. Golden hair, pine-green eyes, heart-shaped delicate face. But bore no golden core in eyes. A mortal Vegreka yet to make the Plunge, or a Grestel? thought Syrene. A slight blush on cheeks; the warrior-prince didn’t seem to notice it, or just simply unheeded it too well. “It’s about time I begin not believing when you give precise timings of return.” Her voice was gentle, unfaltering—of a lady.

“I still have to return to Nofstin, Mae,” was all the ripper said in his bored, flat voice. Immortal arrogance.

Mae’s gaze drifted to Syrene; not in an offensive way. “Is everything alright?”

The warrior-prince’s tone was same as before. “I’m a bit occupied, right now.”I’ll fill you in later.

The lady frowned at that. “When are you leaving for Nofstin?”

“I don’t know.” Hard voice, but spoke true.

And then he was leading Syrene to the stairs again like some haughty bastard, offering no parting words to the pretty lady who motioned with them as they walked past.

Syrene almost felt bad, but then she remembered she didn’t give a shit about anything.

They remained climbing and climbing, until they were walking down a long hallway—to the giant doors at the end of it. Her heart began hammering in her chest, very conscious of who awaited on the other side.

Again, Prince Azryle tugged at Syrene’s dresteen chains, snarling in annoyance this time. Inhumanly, lowly.

So soon, they spanned the hallway and loomed outside the opened white, gilded doors.

Syrene paused.

The dread in her was not at the pristine throne room. Not at the luxurious seats set for lords and ladies. Not even at the tawny-haired, bronze-eyed queen who perched at the golden throne, smirking.

But at the golden-brown-haired sorceress who stood beside the throne, at the familiar lilac eyes now cored with burnt gold.

“Greetings, Heir of Raocete.” Deisn Rainfang angled her head. “The Lady of Wolves sends her regards.”

But Syrene’s throat tightened to the point of pain as she perceived the Crown of Stars gleaming atop Deisn’s brows, declaring her as the new Duce of Tribes. Tattling to the world about the death of Hexet Evreyan.

Dread—cunning, slaughtering dread roiled Syrene’s gut and throat.