Drothiker

Cub. Azryle called Syrene cub. Young wolf.

She did not know whether he did it to piss her off, but if he did, it was working impeccably. But when she called him Your Highness, the man flashed her a look and said to cut the bullshit. That tattoo on half his cheek and neck was enough to make her piss herself, but when he clenched his jaw and the inking bulged …

Enough for Syrene to bristle and back the Saqa down. So she called him Azryle. No referents of respect as one might expect from a slave.

They’d left the Glass Palace two days ago, and there was no vehicle like the birdship for the prince. No, they’d been roving through forests afoot, even when he had his stallion—Raswell, Azryle called the horse. He said she needed to walk, a segment of training.

For the Pensnial Duel. Syrene cringed and repressed that thought deep in.

Azryle was basically training her just to kill her later. It was as absurd as it sounded. She had no doubt that Queen Felset calculatedly set her up with him, had no doubt that it was prompted by Deisn herself. World will watch as the Heir to Wolf Tribe will fall as a weakling before the ripper. It’ll crumple the fear the Lady of Wolves had sowed in the world for past the centuries, begetting Sorceress Tribe in power.

Just what Deisn Rainfang wanted. The Duce of Tribes her ass. The sorceress may be powerful, but she was not inhumane as Syrene was. As Deisn had made Syrene by driving her to kill Lucran in that tower.

Yes, Queen Felset had been right that it had been Syrene’s lethality that had enthralled Raocete. Lethality, more like savageness. The Human Wolf, they’d begun calling her, begun knowing her as.

Until she was cursed at age sixteen.

She hadn’t the faintest idea where Windsong was—whether the Sword of Ondes was with Queen Felset or was it sent with Azryle. Whether she would be handed it after the duel, or during the course of it.

Syrene sighed.

There was no dresteen on her skin, but xist was shoved down her throat this morning by the prince. Even when it was declared by Deisn that Syrene did not possess any mejest, that she was a Grestel, not a Vegreka. He might call her cub, she was not actually a shifter.

Sunlight waned wholly from the sky; moon ascended. And Syrene was still walking, thankful for the cool temperature that bloomed.

Azryle advancing towards a tree, leading Raswell by reins, was the only indication they were halting here for the night. Only indication for her to grab the weapons he’d handed her—so confident that she will not be able to make a run—and begin the session.

Of course, Syrene was not offered any rest, excluding the few hours of sleep after training. Though her training wasn’t meant to commence until they reached Nofstin, the prince had decided to make this trek a Saqa too, as if endlessly marching and he calling her cub was not enough to piss her off.

“Here’s a deal:” Syrene suggested, “you’re going to kill me whether I train or not, right? How about we spend some time and you return to Her Immortal Majesty and tell her I’ve been trained. I receive my sword and we provide Cleystein a duel. Outcome; we both know.” Upon his silence, she went on. “Spare us both from this Saqa. Neither do you want to kill your time with this,” he’d made it pretty clear, “nor do I.”

He didn’t turn, but chuntered, “How about you shut up and begin your session, cub.”

Syrene’s jaw clenched to the point of pain. “Stop calling me that.”

Azryle turned from Raswell. “You want easy death.” He lifted his brow. “Why would I give you what you want?”

“So you’d rather drain weeks training me?”

“No. Draw your damned weapons and speed up the process.”

She smiled. “Why would I give you what you want?”

He smiled back. Terribly. “Because your sword, cub, is with my queen. And you won’t get it unless you cope.”

“Brings us back to the deal I suggested, doesn’t it?”

His mouth curved up and he shrugged. “Fine. I reject it.”

Syrene’s snarl was inhuman. Enough to suggest that it wouldn’t take much effort from him to turn her into that monster she had been and bite his head off. “You hunt monsters,” her words bathed with hatred, her mind encircled with it, “ever realized when you turned into one?”

Instead of the rage she’d expected to have provoked—the kind she’d gotten the whiff of even in the forests—Azryle offered her a smirk, cold and ruthless. “I’ve been a monster since long before that, Alpenstride.” He angled his head. “But don’t worry, you might get a glimpse if you don’t draw your sword soon.”

“No.” Insane, irrational. She’d been called worse. But then—

Faster than any Vegreka had the right to be, Azryle sprung for Syrene.

She was pinned against a tree, his forearm against her neck, hindering air from it. She choked, throat in agony. “Let’s get one thing clear, shall we?” Nothing but coldness, inhumanity on his still face. “I’m ordered to not kill you and protect you from any external threat, but I can damn well break your bones if I want.” Silver eyes were simmering with violence, annihilation. “So here’s your first lesson: save your breath for the duel, cub, you will need it.”

He withdrew. Syrene coughed her throat out. But she was not done yet.

When the prince turned, Syrene spat on the twigs. “Rumor has it that your queen can worm in people’s minds, has your squadron leashed. Is that why you play her dog, why you won’t kill me? Because you can’t control your actions?”

Before even the air had a chance to rustle in his wake, Azryle punched Syrene.

She budged enough to save her nose from cracking, but her mouth felt the agony, had her head slamming in the tree behind. And mouth tasted blood.

Oh, that felt wonderful. Deserving. She wanted more.

Another blow aimed for her, ripping past the air with that cunning speed and Syrene welcomed it.

But his fist halted before she felt her jaw cracking.

No, no—she wanted more. Wanted him to snap her back in her mind, wanted him to punish her for trusting Deisn, for putting her bloodline at risk. For having the Fallen Duce—Hexet Evreyan—killed. For not feeling remorse after killing Lucran in that tower. All because she wanted someone to trust after her family was butchered.

Maybe she should have died that night too. Syrene hated her mother for nudging her to run and survive, for proclaiming her as the Protector of Windsong.

She spat blood on Azryle’s sharp face. “Do it, coward!”

With that tattoo bulging at his jaw, he withdrew and crooned, rubbing her blood off his face with an arm, “Why would I give you what you want?” He growled, “Weapons.”

“I don’t want an Abyss-damned duel with you!” There. She admitted it out in the world. Admitted that she was a coward, that she did not want to face any of it. That she wanted to run from it for as long as she could. Just as she had when she was ten. Had run with Windsong from the house limned in her family’s blood, hadn’t helped them in any way.

“Shouldn’t have agreed, then.”

I accept, she’d said to Queen Felset, so driven by rage and hatred towards Deisn. So desperate to regain Windsong and do at least one thing right in her worthless life.

“Look at it like this:” Azryle said, “You are given a chance to prove yourself. Two choices. You train and you might be the one to get out alive and regain your sword.” He pointed towards the one dangling from her side. “Or you give up now, and just either wait for your death or slavery for rest of your immortal life.” A pause. “You decide.”

Syrene would never get out alive from the duel, even Azryle knew that. Any other sane person knew that. And Windsong was in Olkfield with Deisn and Queen Felset while Syrene was en route to Nofstin.

She had as good as dived into the Abyss. She was damned. She was damned—

“It’s not that difficult, cub,” Azryle snapped. “You fight. You made the Plunge; did you really think immortality would be that easy? Regardless of what befalls, you fight. You do not yield.”

You do not surrender, Flarespirit, her mother’s words sounded in her ears.

You do not surrender.

You do not surrender.

You do not surrender.

“Fine,” Syrene spoke, if only to drive out the roaring from her ears. “Let me warn you though: you might have dealt with unimaginable monsters, Azryle Wintershade, I promise you I’ll be the worst one.” She drew her sword.

Azryle smirked. “Not something to be proud of.”

“You certainly seem to be.”

A flash of feral grin was all she let the Prince of Cleystein offer before Syrene charged for him.