Drothiker

Faolin and the others had entered Olkfield an hour ago.

She’d pushed her mejest to limits, speeding whatever vehicles they traveled in, sapping it completely—she’d need no less than three days of sleep to refill it.

They sat in a carriage, trudging through the empty market so early at dawn, heading straight to the duel arena. It was still dark, but the city was alive thanks to the Pensnial Duel. They’d earwigged people beaming and whispering it was taking place in half-an-hour in an arena twenty minutes from here.

They’d filched a few clothes from this market, slid out of slave attires.

Faolin had taken whatever she could find, though Levsenn had taken her time, elected the finest dress. They’d even stolen jedzem from a few pockets, to pay the carriage rider.

At least those skills still persisted with her—art of pickpocketing secretly. Aazem wasn’t alive to train her for that too.

Her throat hadn’t loosened, burning in her eyes was constant.

She ignored them, as she had been for past hours. If she acknowledged this hurt, this massacre inside her, she might never be able to guide herself back from this dark poison dwelling within her, threatening to slay her.

Could you die from agony in soul? Could exhaustion gnaw at your spirit to the point of emptying?

“I can make explosives,” Undesin offered hopefully.

They’d found the boy careening outside the cave, attempting to outrun the cracks that should have swallowed Nofstin by now. Bleeding and panting and coated in dirt as they all had been.

Were those rifts headed here now?

He claimed he’d been an orphan before he was fetched to the fortress to train and get into military. They couldn’t leave him alone—judging by his scrawny posture, he hadn’t had enough training to survive those devouring fissures alone.

Levsenn asked beside Faolin, “What happens when we get inside? We will not make it there before the duel.”

Faolin kept her eyes on the window. “Then we help her win it.”

From the corner of her eye, she caught Vur bristling—he hadn’t expected her to reply, to speak at all.

She moved her gaze to him. “Can you do it?”

He nodded.

“Good, then. Fooling the ripper wouldn’t be easy.”

He ran a hand through his golden hair, a ghost of that cocky smile playing at his lips. “Then it’s a good thing I’ve had too much practice with my mejest lately.”

Faolin only nodded and looked out the window.

By the time they reached the arena, sky had bloomed the darkest blue, oranges outspreading at the horizon.

They paid jedzem for the ride. As soon as the carriage vanished from their sight, Vur concealed everyone beneath his mejest.

Careful to not touch the crowd teeming outside the gate and reveal their guise, they strolled beside the line marching towards the gate—towards the two guards flanking it and reviewing everyone with their mejest.

As they went, Faolin caught what the guards were doing.

A bracelet was being clamped around the audience’s wrists before permitting them in. It didn’t take long for Faolin to comprehend it was no steel.

Dresteen.

Vur and Levsenn seemed to have captured it too—if the faint stillness she felt in them was any indication.

The gates were wide enough, slipping inside without getting caught would be effortless but … judging by the flaring noses, the guards were scenting each person.

A tug at her arm had Faolin gazing towards Levsenn.

The siren had her hand stretched out, leaves in her palm. “It’s from Blueneath,” she whispered so low and even Faolin barely heard it. “I hauled a few with myself to conceal my siren scent. Eat it.”

Faolin dared a glance at Vur, but he and Undesin were already swallowing the dark leaves. She grabbed them and mirrored the men, mostly because Levsenn had not once looked so somber before. Gnea, yes—but not since she’d petered playing that little role out.

The leaves had a sharp taste like mint, but … the aftertaste almost had Faolin retching, even as her stomach was empty.

As the guards neared, everyone seemed to have stopped breathing. The guise was in place, thankfully—it was proved when Faolin and the others walked right beneath their noses and crossed the threshold.

Undesin seemed ready to bolt and ditch them all, had begun sweating and was fairly shaky, probably thought them foolish and overly brave too, but the boy had nowhere else to go. Here, in the capital, people will eat him out if seen alone and wandering.

He wasn’t a criminal—not yet at least.

If they survived today, his Destiny was his own to forge, to command.

They followed where the crowd arrowed to—through the hallways and rooms and doors—until they emerged before an arena, watching over the empty field from the top step of the concentrically circled seats, propped atop a tall wall encompassing the vast sandy stage below. There were two gates embedded the circling wall, fronting each other from across the field.

Syrene was behind one of them.

Across from where Faolin watched, there lain an arched balcony swelling out from inside, atop the audience seated beneath.

Queen of Cleystein stood there, a cruel smile on her face. A chill surveyed down Faolin’s spine at the power that radiated from the queen. She’d heard many rumors, myriad whys and wherefores of why one should fear the near-otsatya woman … she’d never believed them. Until now. Looking at her, Faolin’s knees wanted to bend, to acknowledge and respect the power Her Majesty carried in her veins, but she kept herself towering.

That woman across from her bought slaves every year, had legalized slavery. Faolin had nothing but disgust for the Queen of Cleystein.

Seats were mostly taken, people were enthusiastic and beaming and cheering. Faolin knew more will continue coming even when there will be nowhere to sit, they would remain standing and watch.

To watch the Prince of Cleystein, the Pall Moira, the only ripper left in the world, powerful enough to lay ashes to this very arena in a matter of seconds if he willed.

The brute bastard.

Faolin had never sought to punch someone more. That cocky grin he’d given Syrene after sending the Pojekk after her …

“We should remain here,” Vur muttered beside Faolin.

They were standing against a wall, hidden from the eye with Vur’s mejest, right behind the top circle of seats. The platform was very clear from here—easy for Vur to concentrate on his mirages.

So Faolin nodded and leaned against the wall.

But a thrum went through the stadium, having the sand bounce. People braced their hands on the arms of their seats. Silence fell in the arena.

Sweat broke out at Faolin’s neck.

Vur peeled off the wall beside her as the heavy gate on the left began lifting, making a keening, rumbling noise.

Everyone seemed to have held breath, even the sun seemed to have paused its ascend as Syrene Evreyan Alpenstride was uncovered. Small, fragile, but her face was hard, rigid. Of a survivor, a fighter. She was dealt no armor, only a bronze chest plate. The green cloak whipped behind her, fighting leathers tightfitting to her vigorous body, her honey hair pulled back in a short, taut plait.

The sword in her hand was like a part of her body, just as much as her bones were, its blade shining in the light of awakening dawn. The lightning bolt in the golden ring at its bronze rain-guard seemed like it was gleaming in her hand, serving its master.

The Sword of Ondes.

Faolin’s heart plunged to her stomach.

As Syrene stepped onto the sandy field with death on her face, Faolin caught a glimpse of Hexet Evreyan. The blue eyes holding the might to tumble the world, the sheer will to bring about a new, just world.

A glimpse of the warrior Syrene was, one that had wrestled her own soul to survive.

The crowd began murmuring, and Faolin’s ears caught a few words from people chatting in the seats right before her.

“She killed the lord yesterday,” someone murmured.

“She did?”

“One rapid blow, right in his neck.”

Vur grimaced. Undesin’s eyes went wide. But Levsenn’s beautiful lips cracked a proud, savage grin.

Because those were the kind of rumors considered common for the Human Wolf in the forests all those years ago. Faolin supposed Levsenn had been there then, too, living in broad daylight. For everyone, she could have been Syrene’s human friend. Her little secret.

Syrene was eyeing the crowd, her grip firm on the Sword’s hilt.

Faolin and the others were veiled, so the human—the duce … her duce—could leave the hope to find a familiar face in the seats circling her.

A mouse trapped midst the lions.

The human’s eyes landed on the queen, and remained there. Faolin found herself bracing as confrontation simmered in her blue eyes. A dare.

Everyone noticed it, for the arena again fell silent.

The Queen of Cleystein motioned to the hallway behind her, and Faolin’s breath caught.

Azryle Wintershade stepped out—the famous Jaguar and the firebreather flanking him. Dresteen-tipped whips in either’s hand.

“What the …” Vur trailed off as his gaze snapped to the other gate on the right, across from the one Syrene had walked out of. Who was the opponent, if not the prince?

Levsenn snapped, “You said he is the foe.”

Vur gritted, “I said I’ve heard gossips.”

Faolin didn’t have enough breath left in herself to speak. But when she looked at Syrene … the duce had paled. The rumors had spoken true. Or Syrene was lied to.

The queen angled her head and said something to the prince. Even from here, Faolin could perceive the gleam in her sharp bronze eyes.

The Prince of Cleystein peeled off his black shirt and knelt.

Audience gasped and murmured.

A few words from his queen, and the Pall Moira was on his knees.

But his eyes, Faolin noticed, were hard and fast on Syrene—just as hers were on him. Countless conversations seemed to be swapping in that locked stare, world seemed to have paused to let them have this chat.

Faolin could not tell whether it was a trainer commanding his protégé or … a friend confronting another …

Syrene’s face went from fear to fury in a matter of a few seconds.

And another boom sounded.

The heavy gate on the right began hauling up, and the viewers were already cheering for whoever was behind. They’d already gambled the Grestel’s defeat.

Faolin’s heart beat a gallop when there was nothing but dark inside. Not a movement.

The arena fell silent, holding their breath.

“One chance,” announced a voice from the dark void, amplified with mejest. “You have one chance, Syrene Alpenstride.”

Something in Faolin’s emptied mejest stirred, itched—a warning. It was torn between cowering and soaring to protect Faolin. Her each instinct went on alert as she caught a movement in the darkness.

Vur swore as he felt it in his own mejest—Levsenn was already sniffing. And gagged. “It’s disgusting,” she spat.

It. Faolin’s heart creeped up to her throat.

“Do you accept the bargain?”

Syrene’s only reply was the tightening grip on her sword. But then her gaze snapped to where the queen and the others stood, as if gleaning something.

Her Majesty had her hand raised, her eyes trained on Syrene. She said something to the warriors flanking the prince that Faolin supposed was Now.

The snap of the firebreather’s whip ripped the air across the field as it tore the prince’s back.

Horror had Faolin’s gut wrenching, her hand reached to cover her mouth.

Syrene’s face crumpled, went bone-white. “No,” she mouthed.

But the warrior-prince’s face remained free of any emotion.

No one in the audience spoke.

“Either you both die today,” continued the voice from the dark room. “Or you accept the bargain and save both yourself and the ripper.”

Syrene’s and the prince’s gaze met again, and Faolin knew the command conveyed too well.

Do not yield.

It went both ways.

Horror remained on Syrene’s face—not for herself, but the ripper—as her chin lifted. “Why don’t you ditch cowardice and show yourself first.” Her steady voice boomed in the silent arena.

This time, the laugh that came from the void was feminine.

And Deisn Rainfang stepped out.

Of course—to claim the Crown of Stars and its power, Deisn had to be the one to slay the Duce of Tribes, no one else.

But that wasn’t what had Faolin stumbling a step back, the crowd screaming and bolting out of their seats and running.

There were shadows straggling behind Deisn like black mist, her lips were parted in an otherworldly grin that had hairs on Faolin’s neck rising.

She was not alone.

Monsters of different shapes and sizes trailed behind her like her guards.

Baeselk—transported wholly in this world from the Crack. Dread gripped Faolin and squeezed her until her bones ached.

People were still running and screaming—many fled. Only a few fanatics remained.

Vur muttered, “Ablaze damning Kosas.” There was a tremor in his voice. Fear for his only family, yes, but also at the fact that his mejest could not be used on baeselk. That they could offer no help in his ridiculously outmatched duel.

That was when Levsenn grew frantic and screamed, “RUN, SYRENE, RUN FROM THERE!”

Vur’s hand was on her mouth to shut her up, but the queen’s gaze was already on them—as if she could see them behind the mirage.

Before they even had a chance to move, a tendril of destroying power struck them like a slash of sword, had their feet gluing to the floor.

Faolin knew their blanket of mirage was down when Syrene’s gaze snapped to them and eyes went wide with recognition. Deisn’s shock and hatred when she spotted Faolin punched Faolin’s mejest with that roiling darkness.

But the baeselk didn’t stop to convey their shock.

They were already on Syrene.