Drothiker

All launched at her as one.

Their horrifying faces, disgusting enough to rouse any horror, any nightmare, were sufficient to freeze her in place; but as they neared, she remembered to duck right first, and then left, remembered the duel, her purpose. Windsong was like a song to her power, an amplifier to her each skill.

A few were on their enormous feet, but the others bore wings and shot from the skies like enormous bats.

Most of the audience had fled, terrorized screams still pervaded her ears as a baeselk came to her right. Syrene whirled and sliced. But before Windsong’s blade could hit home, something cold and wet gouged her left arm.

Syrene screamed, almost relaxing her grip on the sword.

But she held tight, and continued twisting and turning her mother’s sword at the baeselk, ignoring the blood spilling from her arm, the revolting movement in her wound, her skin cowering and curling inward.

Venom.

Syrene knew better than to muse over that as she strived to continue moving. If she paused, if she—

They would suck on your soul, Syrene reminded herself, do not allow them to grip you again. She didn’t want to harken back to her past once more.

Her sight was clogged by the beasts encompassing her, like walls pressing in on her.

Good.

Syrene sliced.

Her ears physically stung as three baeselk shrieked an earsplitting song, staggering back; Syrene almost gagged as olive blood coated the blade of Windsong and made to her hand.

But didn’t let herself get distracted.

Even as another snap of whip sounded over this shrill noise. Syrene’s heart felt as if it ripped apart—she clenched her teeth against it.

She had to fulfil purpose today. Get it done with.

But Starflame and Roacete and …

Azryle.

If she died today, if she did what Brother Adlae had instructed her … the price would be Raocete and Starflame and Azryle. Their slavery in exchange for her freedom.

It’s fine, a ruthless, selfish voice muttered inside her as she brought a baeselk down. This once, you get to be selfish. You’ve had enough—no more. Let this be your reward, and your price.

But a small voice, scared but fearless all at once, said, You can’t leave them like this. You are who you are because of them, you’re alive and breathing thanks to them. Get your thoughts in check.

But Ianov’s future—

You’ve been a slave; you’ve been tortured since the day you were born. Is this planet worth the cost?

Four lives in exchange for billions.

Billions who can’t treat others with an ounce of respect. Let this be Ianov’s end, at least all will die together.

Syrene suppressed each voice inside her, each debate. She shall do what needed to be done—there was a price and she’d paid it her whole life, she couldn’t balk from this one last step. So close to her Destiny … she would not be a coward again.

She’d been trained for this—mentally and physically.

She will not fail her mother, her planet.

Tears welled in her eyes, ache in her throat growing unbearable. She was tugged out of her haze when a claw ripped the skin of her thigh, ripping the leather.

Syrene’s scream boomed in the arena as she swept to her knees.

All the baeselk came at once, thwarting the dawn’s light from her. Syrene moved her arm, and another whirl of Windsong had the beasts screeching and withdrawing.

All she needed was enough time to plunge Windsong into her heart. All she needed was to get far enough—

Her sight had begun darkening thanks to the venom scattering in her, world was slightly spinning. All her senses had begun growing vague. Windsong became a heavy metal in her hand as she took down another beast, rolling in the sand wet with her blood.

You do not surrender.

Get up, snarled a voice in her head, fighting past the deafening cries.

But it was shut down when something cold and disgusting and vile came piercing in her neck like a thousand stakes.

Syrene’s cry went ripping the arena as scalding blood flowed from her neck.

Teeth—a beast was clinging to her.

Pain lanced through her as the beast ripped the skin from her neck.

Darkness came like a wave before her eyes, she felt her grip loosening on the hilt of Windsong.

You do not surrender, Flarespirit.

“GET UP, SYRENE!” someone shouted and sobbed. Levsenn. At least the siren was alive. At least she had that.

That voice once again reverberated in her head, demanding, Get. Up.

It took her a few moments to make out the owner of it, the pure command in it had her snapping her eyes open. Then she heard another bark of the whip he was getting stricken with by his own friend.

Deisn was laughing somewhere.

As a beast’s arm, bearing a sharpened spike where a hand should’ve been, came to impale her, Syrene mustered last ounce of her strength and rolled to her right, gripping Windsong tighter.

Sand bounced as the beast’s arm plunged in it with a slaughtering impact. Syrene rolled back to her left as another arm came for her head.

Then she lifted Windsong and drove it through the baeselk from chest to skull. Olive liquid rained on her face; bile soared to her throat. But the beast collapsed.

It wasn’t enough.

Venom in her had spread, her body felt heavy. She could not stand, could not move.

Get up, Syrene, Azryle urged again. If the Enchanted Queen could command with her mind-controlling skills, Ryle could surely communicate with it.

But she felt life dwindling from her like being slurped with a straw. Felt her blood flowing like water from a dam.

You must pay the debt, her brother’s reminder rung in her ears.