Drothiker

Vendrik Evenflame did not comprehend why was he was ordered to stay in Nofstin, when there must be too much work teeming at the Glass Palace.

He was aware of one thing though: he was not needed in Olkfield. His queen was ten kinds of many things but not reckless or foolish. Had reasons for everything, each step calculated and discreetly planned, Vendrik being commanded to remain in Nofstin must have its own reasons.

“Maybe it’s a good thing, Binou,” he muttered as he hurled meat to his griffin’s enormous yellow beak. “Olkfield had grown boring anyway.”

Binou knickered, as if in an agreement, as she lowered her eagle head and poked the meat with her beak before devouring it as whole in a matter of seconds, had taken him an hour to hunt. She ruffled her gilded white wings and shook herself in satisfaction.

Vendrik chuckled. “You greedy oaf, had I not fed you enough last night?”

Binou nudged him with her razor-sharp beak, having him falling a step back.

But his smiled faded soon. Maybe it was the heat of this city, but the fire within him burned too hot these days, there was a strange agitation in his flames. His throat dried at least twice in an hour, but regardless of how much water he gulped down, the fire did not rest, crackled constantly. He’d even tried bathing in near-freezing water, but it had heated the moment he’d stepped in the pool.

Vendrik just hoped it wouldn’t stretch to his skin and burn every next thing he touched.

It had never befallen before, not once had he had trouble monitoring the heat. But now … it felt as if some power was beckoning around Ianov, calling for his flames. Where, he hadn’t the faintest idea. If he had, Vendrik would have just paid a visit there, if only to balm the burning in every bit of him.

Vendrik hurled another piece of meat. “If I don’t visit the next few days, don’t throw a tantrum,” he chided. He didn’t think this agitation in his fire was anything natural, and the fact that he was growing worse every passing second … he would not risk reducing Binou to ashes.

Binou had been a gift from Queen Felset after he’d returned from a battle fifty-two years ago, when Vendrik had spared five-hundred soldiers’ asses with Azryle. He’d taken care of her ever since, hadn’t been far from her for more than a week.

But with his fire fidgety, Vendrik hadn’t stepped inside the fortress’ towers either, because the hallways heated the moment he entered. Soldiers never denounced, hadn’t dared to even lift eyes at him thanks to being Queen Felset’s Second, but Vendrik knew better than to lie heavy on them after day’s relentless work and training. So, he’d been spending his days with Binou, in a forest yards behind the fortress, and returned to his apartment down in the city at nights.

Every night, whenever he was at the fortress, Faolin Wisflave entered the stables with a broad smile on her face and walked straight to Aazem Shinkel’s stable. The first nights, Vendrik had been inclined to inquire because no slave was meant to be charged with same duty every night lest they planted an escape route—they were Ianov’s skilled criminals after all. So, he had approached the stable, found them dueling with swords and laughing.

They’d dropped the swords when caught him. Vendrik had taken Aazem’s word that Wisflave was harmless, the soldier was one of the most loyal and honest and skilled ones Vendrik had ever encountered.

But he hadn’t returned to stables today—to the fortress at all. Because Azryle coded a message on greone: Reaching fortress tonight.

Greone was another device Queen Felset had gifted all her warriors for mission purposes. It was a thin, unbreakable glass of mejest. If Vendrik tapped on his own, Azryle’s greone would flash the light Vendrik had willed in the tap.

It had taken them three years to come up with myriad codes—the three years the Vendrik had grown a friendship with the ripper.

Red light meant: Danger.

Green: Get out of there.

Yellow: Need help? Or Help needed.

Purple: Yes.

Orange: Is everything fine?

Pink: How long?

And so on.

The one they’d never used, or had every intention to never use was code black: Leave. Goodbye.

Vendrik said his parting words to Binou and picked his route to the fortress, leaving the griffin whining. As he went, he slid out greone from his pocket and tapped pink to Azryle. How long?

Afternoon sunlight had begun bathing the dark green leaves in gold, casting huge shadows beneath them.

A griffin was offered to Azryle too, the prince had refused it outright. But even birds and insects knew spurning anything from the Enchanted Queen was welcoming death with open arms. So Azryle had demanded a stallion. Raswell, he’d named his mount.

Aside from Vendrik himself, Raswell was the only friend Azryle had had in that miserable life of his.

Predator. Monster. Murderer. Assassin.

With that skillset of a ripper and reputation he had, the prince was little to blame for lack of friends in his life. It had taken even Vendrik almost three years to get accustomed to Azryle’s presence around him, and not flinch every time he spoke in a friendly manner. Extremely rare—and lucky, Vendrik supposed—to have the ripper as a friend and not a foe.

Because Azryle was known for showing his enemies dust, and having them taste each flavor of it. Known for making them fall on knees before ripping them in pieces. Hence what he was: a ripper. It was said that rippers were bred from hemvae after the Jagged Battle, bearing the same heightened senses. Were sharper, with that lack of remorse after ripping beings into pieces. And Azryle with that lack of remorse … only otsatyas could defeat the man in a battle.

It’s not a need, it’s like having a fine wine, Azryle had once demonstrated, to rip things. There is a satisfaction, and there is anything but remorse. It’s in my nature, I can’t help it. Rippers, monsters—they’re all the same words. I could rip you and I’ll still get satisfaction out of it. That last bit had been a joke, of course, but words had spoken true.

He was Queen Felset’s personal assassin for a damn good reason, and the Enchanted Queen used his skillset in her best advantages. The prince knew that himself. Because as the queen got her work thru, Azryle got his satisfaction out of it. It was a triumph on either side.

Azryle was more assassin than a prince. More of a slave than a distant nephew of a sort to Queen Felset. The missions his queen assigned him had earned him the nickname whispered in each street of Cleystein: Pall Moira.

Dark Cloud of Destiny.

His friend had never acknowledged it.

Vendrik’s greone blinked a light shade of blue. Soon.

He tucked the device back in when he loomed outside the fortress. And turned, only to find Ryle ascending the hill.

With Syrene Alpenstride. No dresteen on her skin, instead—

Vendrik blinked.

There was a sword sheathed at her side. Even from distance, Vendrik could feel her exhaustion and was almost tempted to haul a bed here for her. Her lips were parched; skin tanned enough to tattle how long they’d been on the journey.

That Azryle had not bothered with any of the vehicles crammed at the Glass Palace. Raswell seemed to be in better condition than Alpenstride.

Azryle snarled at her—at her pace. Heavy, slow steps. The prince did not fancy people winding him down. There were times he’d even hauled people by collars, never minding their position or posture.

To Vendrik’s eternal shock, Alpenstride snarled right back. How many had trembled at even the thought of lifting their eyes at the Pall Moira? How many had dared to think at all? And not only because Azryle was a ripper or because he was Queen Felset’s personal assassin.

But Alpenstride made no effort to conceal she was fed up with the Prince of Cleystein. And otherwise. It was a surprise that Azryle had not killed the human. And there was only one thing that could have kept him in check.

A command from the Enchanted Queen.

Vendrik watched them grow bigger, until he could hear Alpenstride’s raspy, shallow breaths. He did not fail to notice the fresh wounds on her hands, as if she’d wielded that sword at her side. And chopped wood. Vendrik knew, because it had been he and Azryle who had trained Maycusen—another warrior of Queen Felset’s—when he’d been young. Maycusen had been the sinister one to train, a smug who never listened, even to the Pall Moira himself.

So Azryle had provoked the jaguar shifter’s rage. The prince had had him chopping wood, working in kitchen, given him brutal movements to practice, until Maycusen was bone-tired and near-dysfunctional at the end of the day. And every next morning, the shifter drained all his rage in the training.

Azryle, like a bastard the prince himself was, had smirked and relished the whole time, watching Maycusen train just so he could beat Azryle’s ass someday.

That day never arrived.

Where the Jaguar was today, where Queen Felset had sent him around the world, Vendrik hadn’t an inking.

There was no sign of exhaustion on Azryle though, and Vendrik never sussed out whether his friend concealed it too well or were rippers immune to exhaustion. Never asked.

They both came to a halt before him and Azryle asked, “How long have you been waiting here?”

Vendrik made a good show of scowling, displeased and tired and bored. “Half an hour,” he lied.

“Saqa, Rik.” Ryle handed Raswell’s reins to the stable man, who came rushing. “You made it sound like you have been waiting for hours.”

Vendrik rolled his eyes, turning to the fortress as they began walking inside, Azryle falling a step behind Alpenstride, and Vendrik stepping beside him. “That’s coming from the man who goes berserk when he has to wait more than mere five minutes.”

The prince bared his white teeth in a grin, and opened his mouth to say something before the grin twisted to a deadly look that usually had men sweating when Alpenstride halted, Azryle almost slamming into her. She looked over her shoulder, azure eyes limned with annoyance. “You lead the way. Or am I supposed to miraculously know the map?”

The tone had Vendrik flinching. He could not keep his shoulders from the shaking his buried laugh caused. Such rare a sight, he would be fool to not savor in each second of it.

Azryle flashed him a look—full of warning. Alpenstride fell a step beside him.

Vendrik lifted a brow at Azryle in a silent question.

Prince just shook his head, in a way that said: Don’t ask. But then he hissed, “Why in Saqa are you burning so hot?” Indeed, sweat beaded to the ripper’s brow, and slid down Alpenstride’s temple. Though she seemed to be in her own daze.

Vendrik shook his head too, rubbing at his forehead; Don’t ask. But—

Azryle’s gaze sloped to the steel wedding band in Vendrik’s finger. It had been almost twenty years since Lilith’s death, and he still hadn’t peeled it off. The warrior-prince exclaimed, “Ablaze fricking Kosas, Rik!”

The band had turned scorching orange.

Vendrik halted, blinking at it. It was a miracle his clothes hadn’t turned to ashes. But—

Fire burst out of Vendrik.