Drothiker

Ablaze damning Kosas.

Faolin Wisflave felt as if her body would crumple any minute now. First day at slavery and she didn’t think she was going to wake up tomorrow; if she did, maybe without a few bones and knackered muscles.

Her dress was drenched in sweat when she returned to the crypt of slaves after the day’s work, her fingers bleeding from the work in kitchen, ears ringing with Cook’s hissing and scolding. Faolin was vaguely aware of slaves seated and chatting in the crypt, of the exhausted groans resonating in the bricks as she made her way to her chamber, her lids as heavy as her whole body.

She never realized soldiers ate so much, or were untidy as Saqa. The only part of the day she’d relished had been when she’d had to furbish the swords in the courtyard and stables. Because otsatyas, she could have sworn they called to her, pled for her to wield them.

But damn Jegvr, all her training was lost somewhere in the stones of the Voiceless Pits, Faolin bruised herself in an effort to wield the weapon. Vur and Eliver had snorted—the only minute she’d seen of the two men today. She was fairly certain they must already be curled up in their beds, only because she was inclined to do the same the instant she spanned the endless route to the chamber. She was just about to enter the hallway when—

“Faolin.”

Blinking tight to clear her blurry vision, Faolin turned at Eliver’s voice—blur singings took a sharp edge, golden lights cleared as she did.

Vur, towering the half-hemvae, asked, “Where are you going?”

Faolin motioned to the hallway of chambers behind her. “Where does it look like I’m going?”

Eliver lifted his lavender brow. “Are you not staying for dinner?”

As if a plea, her stomach growled, loudly enough for both men’s gazes to descend to it. It was Vur who imparted, “They’re setting up dinner.”

It was then she perceived Cook in the crypt behind Eliver and Vur, the arranged tables and watery mouths thanks to the aroma of Cook’s delicious, delicious food. Faolin’s own mouth rivered, her stomach growling, as if coaxing her.

And with Cook, stood Gnea—Faolin’s chamber mate—smiling at Faolin, medium brown hair gleaming in the crypt’s lights. They’d acquainted with each other at dawn, twenty minutes prior to leaving for the day. The woman—Faolin wasn’t certain whether Gnea was a Vegreka or a Grestel—was enchantingly beautiful, enough to make her wonder whether it was Gnea’s mejest seeding the alluring … whatever she was.

If Faolin had had her mejest, she would have known instantly whether Gnea would be trouble. If she’d had her mejest, she wouldn’t have been here at all.

Sighing, she snapped herself out of it, only to find Vur ogling Gnea. The latter blushing instantly and averting her stare.

Faolin snorted. “I don’t suppose slavery is so hard for you.”

Vur excused his gaze too, and only winked, smirking. Eliver was shaking his head. “You should have seen them earlier today.”

“Don’t act like you weren’t ogling the soldiers while they were exercising,” snarled Vur.

Eliver scowled, cheeks rimmed red. “In my defense, I didn’t know you caught that.”

“You were dribbling.”

“I was not.”

Faolin laughed. Eliver asked, changing the subject, “Are you staying?”

She nodded, her stomach growling its triumph.

Everyone seated, and Cook began narrating the tales he was well known for. Eliver and Vur led Faolin to a four-person table where Gnea was already seated alone. The woman’s smiling sapphire eyes did not at all suggest that she was drained, despite the work.

Faolin slid in a chair beside her, Eliver and Vur across from them. Slaves were occupied heeding Cook’s tale of long-lost Tiny Moons—faeries, commonly known—and their queen. No one certainly knew whether they went extinct or secreted themselves, but there had been no sight for centuries. Almost felt as if hemvae and Tiny Moons had begun their own clandestine world, far from this one.

Eliver asked Gnea, signaled by Vur no doubt, his voice soft in the quiet crypt, “How long have you been here?”

“Five years.” Gnea’s voice as melodic as the song that soothed you to sleep.

A blink from Vur, observing that there was no gold core in her sapphire eyes. “You must be really young when you were apprehended to the Voiceless Pits.” Indeed, she merely looked twenty, and it required spending fifteen years to be ranked Chosen.

But Gnea was shaking her head. “I was born there.”

Faolin flinched. “How—”

A shadow came over her eyes. “I don’t know. Only that my parents were eliminated from the list because of the mistake, and that drove them to attempt suicide.”

Guilt oiled Faolin’s gut. “I’m sorry.”

Gnea just shrugged. “Cook is a raconteur, he declared it to me.”

Raconteurs grasped information from the world, their mejest allowed them to delve and demand whatever they desired to be conversant with. The extent hinged on how deep the chasm of their mejest went and how solid it was, how much were they allowed.

Cook wasn’t a slave, he was forced no xist down his throat to keep his mejest numb, and it was utterly irrational of soldiers to let him venture here, especially late at nights. The crypt was crammed with Ianov’s most lethal criminals; Cook could be killed for information—worse, tormented.

That snagged Eliver’s attention. “A raconteur?” Thinking about probing Cook and forcing out information about Drothiker no doubt; Faolin contained herself from rolling her eyes.

Vur indeed threw him a look that had Eliver backing away, respecting the woman’s sorrow.

But Gnea stated, “He wouldn’t divulge any information, though, if you’re planning to ask him.” Her voice dropped even more, “Queen Felset has some grip on his mejest, keeping it in confines.”

Ah. “Why hire a raconteur at all, if he’s that much of a threat? There are myriad other cooks on Ianov.”

Gnea shrugged. “Who knows. The Enchanted Queen is a mystery no one has ever been sharp enough to unravel. People don’t even know what mejest she holds.”

Faolin blinked. Holy otsatyas. How come she’d never noticed that none of her tales tattled about her mejest or what power she held?

“People claim that she can worm in minds and that the warriors around her are all in her possession. A few even claim that she gains her power from some other world.” Gnea shook her head. “All I know and care about is that she is the reason we’re out of Jegvr.”

Though this fortress was no better, that fact held.

Eliver spoke again, “Is it possible she might be one of the five Kaerions?”

“Eliver,” Faolin warned. The man did not seem to notice they were in a crypt heaving with people. Mentioning the Kaerions in public, especially with him and that starkly inked line running along the vein at the side of his neck—zegruks, hemvae markings—revealing his heritage, could have him slaughtered.

If reports about Drothiker spoke true, hemvae were the reason planet Ianov was at near-destruction. A half-hemvae speaking of the Elite Kaerions was like him mocking the world and alluring death by reminding them of hemvae’s actions in the Jagged Battle.

But Eliver scowled in her direction. Gnea laughed. “You believe Drothiker was real?”

He lifted a brow. “What’s so funny about that?”

Faolin was saying, “Not only he, Vur does too.” She dug in her food. “Both men seem to be missing brains.”

Vur grumbled, “You and I are both immortals, we’ll see who’s missing brain when the time comes and the five Kaerions disclose themselves.”

She opened her mouth but Gnea asked Vur, “When did you make the Plunge?”

A smirk, river eyes glinting. “A few years ago.”

Faolin choked on her food. “In the Pits?” Her voice echoed in the quiet crypt’s dusty bricks; Cook paused his tale; gazes wafted to her. She added, loudly, “I could have really used your otsatya-kissed food in the Pits, Cook!”

Giggles occupied the corners and a smile tugged at the old man’s lips. Indeed, she doubted anyone had praised or just thanked him after merciless work in kitchen. Faolin returned the smile before Cook proceeded with his tale.

Gnea chuckled at the save. But Vur scowled. “Say louder, Lin. I don’t think Tiny Moons and hemvae heard you.”

Faolin mimicked his words. “Saved your asses, didn’t I?”

The man rolled his pretty eyes, earning a blush from Gnea. He didn’t notice it and continued eating.

Eliver lifted a hand, showing the dresteen bracelet that had been clamped around their wrists when they arrived here. And asked Gnea, “How come we’re the only ones wearing these?”

The woman shrugged. “We all wore them when we were brought here. They get removed after days—when soldiers and sentries have made certain you will be no trouble.”

➣

Another day passed. Night fell.

Muscles sore, Faolin returned to her duty in the stables, the only duty of the day she had not yet established whether she enjoyed or loathed.

Cleaning dirty stallions, she loathed.

Touching the stallions and reminiscing her old, free days; she adored.

All the soldiers, drenched in sweat, had returned to their quarters; only few remained in the stables, tarrying with their horses.

Faolin was cleaning the last one, her final task of the day before discarding to her own chamber. Mercifully, Cook had someone else helping him in the kitchen today, sparing her already bruised hands.

The owner of the stallion entered the stable, sweat sheen against his tanned skin, white shirt drenched in it. Brown hair damp.

He went straight for the cloth perched on an arm of the wooden chair beside his horse and began wiping the sweat off his muscled arms, toned chest, sculpted face. All the while Faolin jammed her eyes at the brown stallion, brushing him.

After drying himself, the soldier advanced towards the table behind the stallion; a book lain there. His hand stretched for it, but—

He angled his head at his swords and daggers beside the book. “Did someone hone them?”

She kept her voice steady. “Yes, a slave did come.”

The man motioned to her, golden-cored caramel eyes narrowing. Faolin skulked her wounded hand behind the stallion. “Who.”

Her eyes firm at the horse, making sure to not blink. “I don’t know the name, I’m new.”

She lifted her lids enough to catch his gaze descending to her hand brushing the stallion. Moments passed; the soldier loomed there, Faolin felt the gaze surveying her. Otsatyas, if he had her barred from these stables only because she’d touched his weapons—

“Did this slave happen to be an immortal sorceress with freckled face and short white-as-moon hair?”

Faolin’s throat closed. “I don’t know. If you would have her prohibited from the only place she likes in the fortress, then no. If you would accept her apology and her promise to never touch your weapons again, then I would have to say yes.”

She could have sworn he smiled. “Does this sorceress plan to have her hidden hand healed?”

“She certainly wouldn’t be able to sleep with blinding pain now, would she?”

He inclined his head. “Then I would accept the apology.”

“Good. She says she’s sorry.”

The man grabbed the book from the table. “Don’t you think I should know her name first?”

Ever so harmless question, even as someone she’d once been. “Faolin Wisflave.”

“So we suddenly know the names of slaves, despite being new here?” A smile tugged at his lips and Faolin found herself noticing how beautiful the soldier was, despite the hideous scar on his nose’s bridge. “Aazem Shinkel,” he named himself and returned to the chair beside the stallion with his book. “I hope you remember mine tomorrow.”

A smile sketched at Faolin’s own lips. “I’ll remember all the names as long as you don’t have me banned from here.”

Aazem smirked. “Don’t worry, it’s not every day a slave knows how to hone weapons so skillfully.”

Her brow lifted. “Don’t you underestimate us slaves—” Faolin’s eyes widened when she realized. “Say that again.”

He opened his book and began reading. His smile was mischievous, eyes glittering. “I don’t repeat myself, Faolin. I hope your hand will be bandaged when you return tomorrow.” Caramel eyes lifted to her. “You wouldn’t want to cut yourself again while honing the weapons.” He added, “And wielding them.”

She made sure to not gape, heart growing boisterous. “Giving a weapon to one of the most lethal criminals on Ianov,” she said instead, “might not be a very bright idea, Aazem.”

“That’s for me to decide.”

Faolin successfully hid her smile. “Fair enough.”

As he continued reading, she continued cleaning the stallion.