Drothiker

The ground shook again, violently enough that Syrene lost her footing, but Azryle was already there. He seized her wrist and yanked her upright.

“What is happening,” Syrene breathed, panic rising to choke her, ground grumbling and quivering. And as she turned—

Her breath snagged.

Faolin and Deisn had their hands joined, both standing still as sculptures. But the dark mist was swirling like a dangerous storm around them, whipping their hair and clothes with powerful gusts.

Azryle swore behind her.

She motioned to him only find him working on Levsenn and Vur, two fingers from each hand on both their temples. “What are you doing, Vendrik,” Azryle grumbled to himself.

Syrene focused on her breathing, on these reinforced senses, endeavored to think past the roaring of power in herself. She sprawled her senses around the arena like a water tide flowing in.

Only the riot of ground and these beating, frantic hearts answered.

“What do you want!” Syrene helplessly yelled to wherever Felset was hiding. “You know how I made the Plunge, I have fought the duel; both parts of the bargain are thru! Release Raocete and Starflame!”

For moments, there was no reply. Then—

“Syrene Evreyan Alpenstride,” came Felset’s voice, pure abomination in it. “You’ve stolen two of my assets, and I want them returned to me.” She must have seen Syrene’s puzzlement, because the queen ploughed on. “Did you know dearest Grinon had used my very power to forge the device you just embedded in yourself like a toy? Did you know since the moment the Jagged Battle had come to an end, I have been on a quest for Drighrem.” That’s what Drothiker was officially named.

“You had Windsong with yourself all along—”

“Oh, Drighrem looked anything like a sword.” It was the cruel bite in her tone that had Syrene straightening. “If I had known—”

“If it was your power, you should have felt it—Drighrem and Drothiker can be two differen—”

“Foolish girl,” Felset snapped. “Your ancestor imbued all Drighrem’s power in a sword to secreted it from me. Added more of his own while forging the device so it wouldn’t reek of me.”

Ground shuddered again, and Syrene dug Windsong in the sand—leaning over it as if it were a cane.

“You are now Drothiker,” Felset went on, “my asset.”

And then Syrene felt this rush in her like a sea had been poured inside her, her blood grew cold and rowdy, heart grew wild. What is happening—

“My property,” Felset declared again, Syrene heard the grin in her voice.

Her blood felt as if it was shaping into tiny spikes, ready to pierce its way out of her skin. She felt the power rising to her throat, looping around her heart. Syrene endeavored to take a hold of it, press it back in but—

She didn’t feel the blood from her nose until she tasted it on her tongue, her body seemed to be going numb. Syrene was no stranger to what was happening—she knew this loss of control too well, had felt this slaughtering vulnerability in Azryle the other day.

But in her own body … it was worse. So much worse.

It made her feel dead—as if her soul was diminishing. Not her own anymore. It felt outlandish, unnecessary.

Syrene hardly heard as Felset said, “My mejest, my power. Mine to control.”

Weapon—Drothiker was a weapon, forged by the might of a hundred hemvae to end an otherworldly army.

She was a weapon, and a weapon needed a wielder.

Felset was the wielder.

Felset was her owner.

“Syrene,” called a foreign voice from worlds across.

No—no, from beside her.

She felt a whisper of the touch as Azryle, looming beside her, seized her hand, laced their fingers.

But she could not move, could not turn her head to face him. She was being held by this power zooming in her veins, wielded by her owner.

“Let go, Prince,” fumed Felset.

He ignored her. “Syrene.” Azryle stepped before her, lifted her chin with his finger to have her face him. Silver eyes pierced into her, sharper than Windsong’s blade.

“Leave her, Prince,” commanded the furious Felset.

“Lifyre.” The name from his lips came spearing through her senses, her soul. He lifted their twined hands to his chest—the back to her hand over his vigorous heart. His other hand’s finger came poking in her own chest. “Yours. Not hers.” Then—

Otherworldly, unearthly, cunning, slaughtering power lanced through her in a dozen bolts to her soul as their twined hands began glowing.

And Syrene was tugged to life like waking up from a deep slumber.