Drothiker
9.

Bright, hot tower of fire swapped with Vendrik.

Thanks to Felset’s command, Azryle’s prime concern was forging a barrier around Syrene when fire broke free from Vendrik on the courtyard’s pavement. Stepping back from him and towering her was an instinct.

The fire burned so bright that the whole courtyard had illuminated in the dark night, Vendrik was not perceivable beyond the flames. Cool temperature arose to the extent it felt as if sun stood before him. Ashes of Rik’s clothes had fallen to the pavement, yet greone fell unharmed, his hair harmonized with the fire.

Drenched in sweat, as Azryle advanced a step, Vendrik shot a warning, “Stay away, Azryle.”

Soldiers rushed out to the courtyard, equipped, following the boom that had barked. The cub muttered behind him, her voice heavy with either shock or fear, “He needs water.”

There was a pool behind the fortress. But for that, Vendrik will have to walk on the grass; his fire burned so hot and raged that it wouldn’t take more than mere seconds for it to sweep and swallow the whole place. Azryle yelled to the soldiers crammed outside, “Call a water-wielder!”

“There isn’t any,” Rik imparted from the heart of his flames.

“A sorceress,” Syrene mused. “Faolin Wisflave can summon water from any nearby stream. She’s a slave here.”

If she was a slave, there must be xist coursing through her, keeping her mejest from her veins. Azryle swore filthily. He could hear Vendrik’s frantic heartbeat, could feel the clotting scent of fear from everyone.

One look from Azryle had soldiers and sentries running inside, to bring out buckets filled with water.

The courtyard cleared out soon. “What in burning Saqa have you been up to,” Azryle snapped at Vendrik, wiping away the sweat from his face. “Are you—”

“Ablaze Kosas.”

The female whisper and that scent had Azryle turning, hand reaching for Silencer at his side.

A white-haired, dark-skinned woman stood behind the cub, lilac eyes and dresteen bracelets spoke enough. Faolin Wisflave. Aazem Shinkel towering behind her, eyes widened. It was when Alpenstride peered up at him did she seem to realize someone loomed behind her, and turned.

The sorceress’ gaze drifted from the fire to the Heir of Raocete. Blinked when noticed the sword and the lack of dresteen. Lilac eyes lifted to Azryle then. “That fire will not die away with a few buckets, he needs to be set in contained, freezing water.” He waited. “I can freeze the pool behind the building.”

It was Shinkel who spoke, lifting a brow, “What of the xist in your system?”

Wisflave said to Azryle, “It wears out every ten hours, doesn’t it, Your Highness?” Azryle was not surprised that she had noticed it, sorceresses missed nothing; he had learnt that the hard way. “It was shoved down my throat at dawn.” More than ten hours had swept by.

She lifted her braceleted wrists.

Fool. Azryle would be immensely foolish if he unconstrained a sorceress that powerful—he could scent the degree of her mejest even as it was numb, could sense the depth of her sea. But Syrene snapped, as if reading his thoughts, “His skin will begin melting soon, Prince. That fire is burning too bright and hot.”

Azryle supposed if Wisflave even tried to play clever, it wasn’t like she could do any harm to anyone here. Definitely not to Azryle himself.

He approached her and slid out the slavekey from his pocket—one key to unlock all the bracelets of slaves in Cleystein.

➣

She closed her eyes as the bracelet’s click sounded and hot air grazed her wrists.

There was a wave in Faolin’s veins before the whole song began in her blood. Boisterous—her heartbeat, her veins, her blood—they were all boisterous. It felt …breathing.

Breathing, after endless suffocation in her core, now there was air and salvation. There was life in her. There was joy and coolness in her.

Her mejest was a breathing, living thing. And Faolin was smiling broadly when she opened her eyes. Prince Azryle had returned to his friend, and Syrene Alpenstride was just watching blankly. Faolin tried not to think about the sword at her side. Aazem touched her shoulder. She looked back, just to replace him smiling down at her, fire glinting in those caramel eyes.

Faolin felt her mejest stretching to her skin, eager to begin on the wounds from Jegvr, little did it know those wounds went deeper than the skin. It had already begun on the new ones from swordplay with the soldier.

The prince turned from the firebreather to her.

Oh, right. The water.

She lifted a cupped hand and shut her eyes once again, honing in on the swimming pool behind the fortress.

The archaic whispers rallied in her ears and she felt her smile widening, the ghosts of her mejest began weaving a thread in the sea within her. The ones beside her head were positioned.

And when the shiny thread was weaved, it was conveyed to the tiny ghosts of her mejest, they gripped it tight and began hauling it to the water nearby. Faolin watched through their eyes, watched them advancing towards the fortress in an unimaginable pace. In a moment, the ghosts were past the building.

There. A pool.

They released the thread in it, linking the water to her.

Faolin opened her eyes to water looping her hand like a snake. Syrene’s face was impassive, the prince remained unyielding. But Aazem’s grip tautened on her shoulder, in a way she knew it meant: Good work. The only words he uttered every time she flabbergasted him with her sword tricks, and tried veiling it.

With the water whispering in her hand, Faolin advanced towards the tower of fire.

The prince stepped aside and the flames hissed, steam oozed when the liquid was bestowed upon them on Vendrik’s feet. “Walk.”

And he did, towards the pool. Though water bided fire from the grass, it still turned dark beneath his feet.

Aazem returned to his quarters, Syrene and Prince Azryle followed Faolin and Vendrik. She supposed the ripper was following for safety purposes, and from all Faolin had mustered, Syrene was only following the prince.

They reached the pool, she crouched on the bank. Others watched as the water’s temperature lowered with her mejest, waiting. The movement in water slowed, her hand in it near-freezing.

Faolin lifted to her feet and beckoned for Vendrik Evenflame to step into it.

The fire hissed and whispered as he did, the temperature of the water mounted in a swift tendril. Steams soon gushed off it. Faolin crouched again, her hand seared when she dipped it, divulging only a grunt and a hiss. She gritted her teeth, her mejest fighting the heat.

Thanks to the dark night, as Vendrik dipped wholly in the pool, naked, everything underneath was concealed.

He emerged, scrubbing at his unburned waist-length glorious ruby-red hair. Water slopped down his toned chest, and biceps. Dragon tattoo from his back stretching to shoulders in a maneuver with his muscles. But—

His hair began burning like streaks of fire. Vendrik scowled and dipped again, steam writhed out. Syrene spoke, “It’ll take all night for the fire to settle down.”

Faolin mused, “What’s even causing it?”

Neither behind her replied. One word from the prince would have Faolin nesting here all night and heaping her mejest in water. But he said nothing. And before she could even offer, if only to preserve this feeling in her mejest a bit longer—

Vendrik emerged, any humor Faolin had perceived during the days on the birdship was long gone, as if his emotions were in sync with the mood of his fire. “I’ll stay here all night. My skin can bear this much burning.” Warrior arrogance—she was no stranger to it. “Return to your chamber.” A command from Queen Felset’s Second, though gratitude shone in his eyes.