Drothiker

Azryle leapt to his feet.

There was no blood as the sword went through her.

He gripped the railing to haul himself out—

“Halt,” Felset commanded.

But Azryle was already falling.

From the corner of his eye, he caught Faolin Wisflave and the two others making their way to the platform.

A tremor went through his legs as his feet slammed to the sand, legs buckled.

Too much blood—he’d lost too much blood.

Though that didn’t stop him as he began tearing the baeselk in two with his bare hands, progressing towards her.

One after another fell, until Azryle’s legs were caked in olive blood—taking over his own—until intolerable stench was shoved up his nostrils. One’s claw ripped the flesh at his side, but Azryle barely felt the pain.

Wounds of whips were still stinging as if his skin was on fire.

Eventually, the baeselk stopped coming for him, or he’d killed all—he wasn’t quite certain. Everything seemed to turn vague and undefined, and there was only the rip of her skin and heart as she’d driven that sword through herself ringing in his head, in each inch of him. Along with her words.

I don’t want to die tomorrow, I don’t want to duel you. I just … I want to breathe.

Syrene was sprawled on the sand soaked in her own blood as Azryle limped towards her. But …

There was no blood from where Windsong was wedged in her chest.

Instead there was light. Light flowing from the lightning bolt at the sword’s ring-guard, to the blade, and right into her heart.

Light that seemed to spread through her blood to her entire body until she was bathed in it.

Azryle was vaguely aware of everyone holding breath, of the frantic hearts booming in the arena.

Everyone’s, but hers.

There was no beat—her chest was still as a rock.

Get up, he wanted to shout, but there seemed to be no voice in him. Get up, coward, he urged her silently. Then the foreign word slipped from his mouth, burrowed from somewhere so deep within him. “Please.” It was less than a whisper, more than a command.

Azryle swept to his knees before her.

Syrene was now concealed in light—he could see no skin behind. Then—

“Ablaze Kosas,” someone muttered at his rear.

Azryle was inclined to agree.

He felt the brush of cold wind as it swept past him and circled Syrene, lifted her in the air. Thunder clapped harshly. Her head tipped back, bright hair drifted behind her head, arms opened—as if offering herself to the world.

Then the light began abating. Syrene seemed to come to consciousness—her hand rose to the hilt of Windsong. Her yelp sliced the dawn as she yanked it out of her chest.

When the light vanished, Syrene leapt to the ground.

He drunk in her the zegruks coating her hands, the sides of her neck, before he took in in the shock on her face as she peered down at herself—as if she hadn’t anticipated to survive.

People began screaming at the sudden tattoos in her skin—at the sight of a hemvae, tang of horror saturated the arena.

But all Azryle saw was her veins—visible through the skin as bright light pulsed through them. She looked as if she’d been drawn on with white paint.

It all struck Azryle minutes too late.

Heir of Grinon Alpenstride—the King of Hemvae. The man whose wife was given a device to protect—to pass on to the heirs, with an intent for it to reach the Kaerions.

The man whose hemvae heir could run Drothiker through her veins.

Windsong needed to be protected, with my soul and flesh and bones, I could not allow it to be robbed by wrong hands.

Windsong was no ordinary sword.

Drothiker was no bright oval-shaped diamond.

Windsong was Drothiker.