Drothiker
16.

Syrene did nothing the whole day.

Nothing.

After Azryle left, and she ate until her stomach could endure no more, she decided to sleep, to get all the rest she hadn’t been treasured with before today.

So she did. She slept and slept in the cloudy, heavenly bed. Until it was evening and she could lie in bed no more. The pain in her waist and neck was numb—that tonic must have been of mejest—though too much movement did invite the stinging and protesting.

After draining fifteen minutes lying there, she watched the city below from the floor-to-ceiling glass windows beside the armoire to her left. Nofstin. Sun-City, Syrene would call it. For the sunset, the way pink and blue and orange painted the sky in the most beautiful hue, as a goodbye to the sun, the city beneath was a mirror to it. The sea in horizon like a liquid form of it.

But as the dark began swallowing Nofstin, she averted her eyes, unable to see as the light slowly began eddying away.

So Syrene slid out of her bed. Not to shut the drapes but—to bathroom.

And when she emerged, something in the apartment clicked. Her heart climbed to her throat, but then a familiar female voice called after the door shut, “Ryle?” The lady began humming beautifully as she approached Syrene’s bedroom, her footwear clinking to the tiles. “I’m just here to check on your foe.”

Foe—

Syrene. She meant Syrene. The healer was here—Ferouzeh.

She knocked at the bedroom’s door, but Syrene was already there. She opened the door.

Abyss claim her.

Yesterday, she had not perceived Ferouzeh’s face through the fuzzy sight, had not grasped the otsatya-kind beauty.

Beautiful was not the word. No, Ferouzeh was … devastating.

The hazel in her slender, uptilted eyes seemed to be glinting in the light venturing from the windows behind Syrene. Her round cheeks and pointed chin so smooth that they caught the light of the room. Full rosebud mouth was parted in a beautiful smile. Her silken sheet of hair darker than Azryle’s falling off her shoulder in a fluid grace. Obsidian. The ripper’s hair was midnight dark with a shade of blue, but hers …

The freckle atop her lips’ side somehow playing a part in her exquisiteness.

She wore a sleeveless blue shirt—elegantly showing off her beautiful collarbones—tucked in her pants, those were, too, a darker shade of blue.

Gold-cored hazel eyes descended to Syrene’s waist—to the wound, and Ferouzeh frowned. “I see you have taken the tonic.”

Syrene tore her glare. “Yes—yes … in the morning.”

Ferouzeh angled her head in inquiry. “Have you been sleeping?” Her gaze … monitoring each breath, each different color on Syrene’s skin than yesterday.

“Yes …” Syrene cleared her throat. “There wasn’t much to do.”

A smile pulled at her rosebud lips. “That’s good. You need to sleep and eat as much as you can, girl, if you expect to win that duel with Az.” She stepped forward and slid an arm around Syrene’s shoulders. “And you needn’t isolate yourself in one room.”

Ferouzeh began towing Syrene to the living room. Syrene didn’t protest, for there was dark seizing that bedroom.

“Where’s Azryle?” the healer asked as she settled Syrene on the grey couch.

Syrene’s gaze slid to kitchen involuntarily … she must still be full from breakfast—her stomach did not growl for once. “He left for fortress in morning.”

Ferouzeh scowled. “And you haven’t helped yourself out of your bedroom?” Before Syrene could muster a reply, the healer asked, “Have you eaten anything at all?”

Ferouzeh’s gaze turned hard to an extent … a healer tending to a patient. And Syrene was unable to rein her swallow. “I had breakfast.”

The woman began shaking her head. And then she was padding towards the kitchen. “You need to eat, foolish human girl, food is essential for the healing. Look at yourself, you might as well be a skeleton.”

Syrene didn’t deign to reply as she peered down at herself. At her bony arms, bulging knuckles. A mockery of an alive, breathing body.

“I had to replace the tightest clothes to fit you— Oh, cooked food is already stocked,” Ferouzeh declared as she withdrew bowls from the fridge. “Az has already cooked for two people, that bastard must have reckoned I would be coming to change your bandages.”

The words were already out before Syrene knew. “He knows how to cook?”

Ferouzeh’s voice dropped to a whisper. “He had to learn when he was—” Ferouzeh bit her lip and caught herself. But then she snorted, though her eyes remained dimmed … sorrowful, as if something dark clouded her. “He’s three-hundred-nine years old. It would be a shame if he didn’t.”

Azryle was … younger than Syrene had judged by his graceful skills, posture. And the fact that people trembled at his name. “He remembers his age?”

It took Ferouzeh a moment to reply. “His life is divided in … sections. It’s all calculations.”

She swallowed. Surely, Ferouzeh meant something else. Azryle and Syrene were not same, no, she was not a cruel predator. She was not an Abyss-damned savage who relished in gore and riled her opponents so she could enjoy bloodshed.

Monsters, but wholly different.

Ferouzeh was saying, “What he did yesterday was wrong. If he could feel, he would know that. If he could just—”

“He can’t feel?”

“Of course he can feel.” She snorted. “He feels anger, and humor, and annoyance and many other things, but not the whole sanctum.”

Basically everything than made him a ripper. A predator. Ferouzeh went on, “You’re going to be living with him. Try not to … provoke him.” For he would not feel regret or guilt should he kill her, or harm her in any way. That was why he hadn’t apologized for that punch, even as she had caught him glancing towards her jaw every once in a while.

And that was why he had had no reaction when she had called him a monster. Because he knew … believed that he was one. That it was a word that meant nothing to him, made no difference to what he was.

Syrene did not know whether she envied him or pitied him for the lack of feelings. Yet she found herself asking, “So he feels nothing positive?”

“Depends on the lea—” Again, Ferouzeh caught herself.

Leash?

The light in her silken hair shifted as she looked over her shoulder and frowned. “Enough about Az. You tell me your name first.”

“Syrene.”

Leash. The word roiled her gut. A leash on emotions of someone like Azryle—

“I hear you’re the Lady of Wolves’ Heir.”

Syrene straightened. “I’m not certain if I am anymore.” She had not seen Roacete in thirty-five years. Surely, the prime would have anointed someone else her heir now. A real wolf, perhaps.

“Oh, you are.” Ferouzeh began serving in plates. “She has announced no one else.” Syrene’s heart scrunched as the healer said, “You must have earned a great deal of respect if Prime deems you the only compatible one to take on her legacy.”

“The Lady of Wolves does as she pleases.”

“Oh, I have no doubt.” Ferouzeh turned with plates in her hands, and Syrene could have sworn her hazel eyes gleamed in awe, fanciness, for Raocete. “I’m just—”

She was cut off by a knock at door.

Ferouzeh poised the plates on the kitchen counter and approached the door, her hair flowing with her.

A woman strode in as soon as it gapped. One look at golden hair, green eyes bearing no gold tattling about her mortality, Syrene remembered her from the Glass Palace. Mae, Azryle had called her.

“Maeren.” Ferouzeh smiled.

But Maeren eyed around—didn’t even seem to notice Syrene as she looked back at Ferouzeh. “Is Azryle home—” But her nose flared, sniffing, and beamed. “Is that food I smell?”

Ferouzeh rolled her eyes. “Not if you’re planning to eat it.”

Maeren smiled regardless. “How nice of you to invite me to join you.” Pine-green eyes then drifted to Syrene, as if she reeked over the odor of food. Maeren cocked her head to a side, brows furrowing, as if troubling to place Syrene. “We’ve … met?”

Syrene attempted to lift, but Ferouzeh gave a disapproving wince. She settled back. “Yes—yes, I—”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ve met.” Ferouzeh idly waved a hand and began sauntering back to kitchen. “She’s a slave,” she drawled to Maeren. And Syrene could have sworn there was heaviness in her voice, as if the word a poison. “She’s staying with Azryle for some time.”

“Why?” Maeren’s word was quick enough to remind Syrene of her flushed cheeks when she’d seen Azryle in the Glass Palace.

“It’s a lengthy tale, Mae.” Ferouzeh’s tone took an edge. Old—the healer was older than even the ripper.

Syrene was content to return to her bedroom, but then the healer fetched plates, the scent hit her mouth like a wave from ocean. She had not been full from breakfast after all. Just too accustomed to remaining hungry to not notice or know the variance.

➣

Syrene was in her bedroom when Azryle returned after an hour or two. Had the silent steps not been an indication, the grip that quickly soothed her wounds told her enough.

One moment, he was locking the door. The next, he stood at her bedroom’s threshold, leaning against the frame, arms crossed. His hair was down today, tiredness simmering in his eyes. “Did you eat?” he asked by the way of greeting. But then his gaze descended to the changed bandage at her waist and rose to her neck. As if that was an answer enough, his chin lifted. “I hope she didn’t give you a pain in the ass.”

Why are you being so nice? she wanted to ask. You’re supposed to train me, you’re supposed to be cruel, and rude, and annoying as you were the first few days. You’re supposed to not care about the wound, force a sword in my hand. But Syrene only worded, “She left an hour ago.”

He shrugged. “Figured. Her scent still lingers.” His gaze slid to the books at her side. And lifted a brow. “You found the library.” Not a question.

“Ferouzeh fetched me these from somewhere, to keep myself busy.”

Azryle’s eyes narrowed. “And you haven’t touched them, because …?”

How he even knew she hadn’t, Syrene didn’t ask. Not as heat rose to her cheeks, devoured her whole face as she said, “I … can’t.” She waited for a laugh, waited for him to mock her. Make her feel low about herself as once Deisn had jokingly.

But Azryle only lifted his chin in realization, no hint of judgement. “If you want to learn, don’t ask Ferouzeh. I don’t want her here all the time, ordering me around.”

Syrene found herself drawling teasingly, “And what if I do?”

He flashed one of those mocking grins. “Maybe I’ll show you during the training.” He swept a hand through his hair. “Miss chopping wood, do you?”

She had a retort on her tongue ready to be hurled, but Azryle blurred out. She settled for flipping him off instead.

But he returned a moment later, before she’d retreated the outstretched finger. Azryle sketched an amused brow and said softly, “You’re going to make me enjoy training you, aren’t you?” She opened her mouth but he went on, “Remember to take that other tonic before sleeping tonight. The wound will rouse soon.” And as he reminded her, Syrene noticed there was nothing but coldness in his eyes—no hint of warmth, the niceness. A strange predatory grace.

Leashed. The word clanged through her.

She swallowed her thoughts, and braced herself before asking, “Are there any leads on who … killed Kessian?” She tried not to choke on the word, restrained the burning from her eyes. Braced herself to be shut out, to be told she was slave and be reminded of her place.

But Azryle shook his head. “Nothing.” He shrugged. “Only that the explosion was work of some witch—”

“Explosion?”

Witch. There was no witch tribe—if their clan didn’t stamp as one. Tribes had purposes, to serve a country, shield its people. But the witch clan … they did what they desired. Killed, when they got bored—fed on the Grestel.

Azryle seemed to have paused at the question, and she knew just why. Syrene straightened and ground out, “I can take it.” He had been there—he had been there when Kessian had said she should have shot off that cliff. When Kessian had revealed Lucran. For Azryle’s gaze indeed lowered to her feet—to Lucran’s bite. Is that why he had been too nice—“Don’t you pity me,” she snapped, spitting out the word.

“I don’t feel pity,” was all he said.

And she believed it—for pity would make him less of a ripper.

“Wensel’s body exploded when we picked it up, removing all traces of whoever did it. Manner of killing even.”

Her stomach roiled, felt bile surging to her throat. And Syrene swallowed the nausea. But she let none of that show as she mused, “You said he had been following me for days. Could that mean—could that mean whoever did this was too following us—”

“That is a possibility. Vendrik is not considering it yet, though, unless a sturdy proof is found.”

“But you—”

“Your safety is my responsibility. I have to take it in consideration.”

“My safety is only my responsibility.”

“Not after you accepted to Felset’s offer. You might as well have handed her your leash.”

“What do you mean.”

But Azryle turned, attempting to hide the shadows Syrene caught taking over his eyes. “I’m making dinner.”

And then he vanished.