Drothiker
21.

“Syrene.”

Something behind her thudded, snapping her out of her slumber.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the lighting, and another moment to grasp she had drifted off in the bathroom.

The door banged. “Syrene!” Azryle growled. “I’m breaking in.”

She dizzily lifted to her feet, her head throbbing as she opened the door to the ripper furious outside. She opened her mouth to snap at him, then she noticed he was armed and cloaked—either returned from somewhere or leaving.

His face was unyielding, any softness she’d seen last night was long gone. The brute towered her. “What of the training today?” she asked, because it was too unlike him to let her breathe a day without blood tasting her hands.

“Ferouzeh and Maeren will train you today for a few hours. Ferouzeh gets on well with defense, and Maeren with the alternative. I have a few matters to deal with at the moment, we’ll train at night.” His gaze was shrill—assessing her face … her own waste that still marred it. Heat of embarrassment soared to her cheeks at the consciousness of it. But then his eyes slid to the bathroom behind her. “Did you fall asleep inside?” Fainted, was more like it.

Syrene turned to the bathroom again, and caught a glimpse of her own posture in the mirror atop the basin on the wall across. Disgust swiftly swapped with the embarrassment. There was sauce on her face, vomit on her mouth, her hair pasted to it. A foul taste tainted her mouth, she noted, as if she’d eaten rotten meat. Too rife with embarrassment, Syrene said, “You promised me privacy,” and shut the door after stepping into the bathroom.

When Syrene returned after bathing, Ferouzeh was already monitoring the weapons by the couch, Maeren was in the kitchen assaulting the fridge, and Azryle was nowhere to be found.

Ferouzeh’s gaze flicked to Syrene as she reluctantly sauntered towards the couch, half tempted to remain in that sunlit bedroom. “You look better than I’d seen you last time,” the healer said by the way of greeting, a faint, sweet smile blooming on her rosebud lips. Syrene did not fail to notice the quick glance towards the scarred scratches on her neck.

Maeren deemed it alright to extract her head from the fridge and proceed towards the living room, hands unfilled. Her golden hair was adorned in a braid today, lips blood-painted. Her stealth like every bit the wraith she was. Wraiths were one kind who did not need to make the Plunge, were immortal heedless of what body they acquired. “Ryle said there is a book for you to read in the library.” The lessons, she recalled with a jolt. He told them about her illiteracy—“He’s sharing his library with you, human, and exchanging books, I crave for your charms.”

Syrene blinked, still feeling giddy thanks to Azryle’s mejest still in her system. He hadn’t told them about her illiteracy.

Ferouzeh was shaking her head. “Don’t listen to her, she’s just pissy that you’ve known Az for only two weeks and he’s sharing his library, when he’s never even let us past his enchantments.”

Everything was too loud, too much to process.

“But I’m serious.” Maeren scowled. “There must be something that you continue influencing the most dangerous Vegreka on Ianov, being a Grestel yourself. First the Prime of Wolves and the Fallen Duce Hexet Evreyan, now our very own deadliest warrior of Queen Felset’s.” She added, “Who doesn’t even feel.”

At that, Ferouzeh cut the wraith a glare.

Maeren disregarded that and went on. “It must be petrifying, living with the man who you know will be your death.”

Ferouzeh had nothing to say to that, since it was true that it would be her death in the duel’s wake. Even Syrene couldn’t deny it. So she instead asked, “Where are we going to train?”

“On the rooftop,” the healer answered, collecting the weapons. “I’m supposing neither Queen Felset nor Azryle versed you with what to expect of the duel?”

“Swordsmanship to the opponent’s death?” Syrene could not keep the bite from her words. She pursed her lips. “I figured that out.”

Maeren snorted, a dimple in her cheek digging. “Abyss have mercy.”

Ferouzeh was shaking her head. “No, human. Pensnial Duels are different every year. Sometimes, it’s only the swordsmanship, yes, there are even rounds of it sometimes. But other times, there are different challenges each round, even baeselk are hunted and used as opponents, to make it more interesting. A few times, even, opponents are set out in forests; one that emerges alive, wins. It all displays on an enormous screen, in that case.” Syrene’s throat closed. “That’s why Az brought you here to learn how to heal, just in case, but you weren’t in any state to even sit up.” She cut off to survey a stake.

So Syrene had indeed accepted her death when the Enchanted Queen had proposed the bargain.

Show me your lethality, and the sword is yours. Tell me how you made the Plunge, the freedom is yours.

Syrene shut her eyes—it was too much information and too early in morning. Death was not what she’d prophesied to consider today. It had been fighting she had decided. Fighting.

So she’d fight.

You’re not broken. You say you have an ounce of life left in you, then take that kernel and build it anew. Allow it to grow and thrive.

When she opened her eyes, Maeren was staring deviously at her, made Syrene feel absolutely unnerved. The wraith did not avert her gaze, but her brows furrowed, confusion now coloring her face. “Fell asleep … after the Pojekk’s attack?” she mused.

Syrene nodded, and considered averting her own glare. But no—no, this was not what she had been thirty-five years ago, so easily cowered by anyone. She had held her chin high, back straight, and never allowed someone to stare her down and intimidate her. She had been Raocete’s anointed heir after all.

She was still Raocete’s heir. But more than that, she had earned that position with nothing but her own backbreaking work, her own training.

They thought her human and weak, expected her to breathe when told.

Maeren tore her gaze and looked at Ferouzeh beside her. “That’s impossible.”

The healer waved her hand. “Azryle took care of it.”

“How?” Shock—there was shock on her face, and Syrene doubted Maeren was aware it was on display.

“I don’t know”—Ferouzeh began walking towards the apartment’s door, weapons in hand—“something like going in her mind and blocking the nightmares. One of the skillsets he’d stolen from baeselk.”

Syrene shuddered. “He can control minds?”

Ferouzeh smirked over her shoulder, hazel eyes glinting. “And a lot more than that.” She opened the door. “I’ll be at the rooftop, come when you’re ready.” Flicking the obsidian plait off her shoulder, Ferouzeh shut the door behind.

And with that thud, a heavy silence weighed between Maeren and Syrene. The former was still picking out weapons—Syrene did not fail to notice the stiffness in her thin shoulders. And half wondered whether the wraith was restraining herself from punching Syrene.

I want you to make Maeren hate me.

I don’t care how you do it—tell her all the reasons you hate me, tell her I have venereal problems, if you have to. Just get her to hate me and leave me alone.

Syrene’s ears began heating, and she turned away from Maeren, headed back to her bedroom for slippers. She would do no such thing. Because all the whys and wherefores of her loathing towards Azryle will certainly go disregarded by the wraith, and Syrene would just be running a fool’s errand.

When Syrene returned from her bedroom, feet donned in slippers, Maeren was nowhere to be seen. She supposed the wraith must have receded to the rooftop, but Syrene hadn’t heard the door … Then again, Maeren could travel in walls, as Azryle had divulged.

Syrene began stalking for the door, but—

There was a dagger at her neck, tugging her to a pause. Syrene’s throat closed, tightened. Her heart sped.

“Here’s the first lesson, Grestel:” Maeren muttered from behind Syrene, seemed to have spat the word with scorn, “beware of your surroundings, take notice of each breath booked around you.”

Syrene’s hand reached for Maeren’s arm, tugging it lightly—

The wraith tutted. “That will have you killed, girl, stop struggling.”

Despite the prickling of fear in her skin, Syrene smiled. “Whoever said it would be a struggle to get out?”

And then Syrene elbowed Maeren’s face, hard enough for the wraith to recoil a step, earning a grunt from her. Syrene’s hand on the Maeren’s arm did the work of slipping the dagger out of her grip.

Syrene whirled, stepping away. The weapon in her hand on Maeren’s throat. “You may be a wraith, but confined in a human’s body, will bleed like a human.” She angled her head, relishing in Maeren’s shocked face. “Tell me, if this girl plunges the dagger and you escape this form, how many years would it take you to treasure another suitable one?”

Maeren countered softly, attempting everything to appear calm and failing, “You will do no such thing.”

“Says who?” She emphasized her point by piercing the blade’s tip in Maeren’s chin. Red blood trickled down her throat. Maeren hissed. Upon her silence, Syrene went on. “I have been trained by Prime Roacete and Duce Hexet, do not even for a second think I will reconsider slitting your throat.”

“I get your point,” Maeren hissed. “Lower the weapon.”

“I have a few questions.” Syrene might be stepping her boundaries, but unfortunately for the wraith, Syrene was the one in power here.

Azryle had told her to make the wraith hate him. Well, she supposed he’d be pleased to know how wrong that went.

The ripper had also revealed Maeren was no good at defense with the lack of training in this fragile body. And though he had forgotten to mention Maeren was not much of a fighter, despite being skilled at a few offensive maneuvers, the difficulty in her movements—or the lack of those—her caught breath ratted her out.

Maeren scowled. “Don’t be ridiculous—”

“Why do you keep gazing at me as if I’m some danger?”

Her brows shot up. But then she heaved out a defeated sigh. “You live right across the hall from me. You humans are hardly trustful. So you will forgive me, Syrene, for remaining alert when Azryle can’t, and Vendrik is engaged with his case.” Kessian’s image began depicting right before Syrene, of the state his body had been in when she’d found him in the chamber, in her own Abyss-damned bed. But Syrene hooked her attention in the hatred in Maeren’s tone when she’d uttered her name and swallowed that down instead.

“What do you mean, Azryle can’t?” As if his name was a call, Azryle’s mejest in her system seemed to have awoken and began swirling. Syrene shut that out, too. Or tried to.

The wraith hesitated. “I can’t say.”

Syrene dug the blade deeper in an answer.

Maeren bared her teeth in a silent snarl. “He is … bound.”

“So I’ve heard,” Syrene said. “I’m going to need more details than that, or I’m taking your throat instead.”

“I can’t say.” She hissed again, more savagely this time.

Long shot, but Syrene still asked, “You can’t say, because you’re restricted by Queen Felset?”

Maeren’s eyes went wide with alarm. “What do you know—”

Syrene began moving the dagger in the wraith’s flesh, in a way she knew hurt like Saqa. Maeren indeed yelped. But Syrene only gritted, “Answer. My. Question.”

“Yes.” Her throat bobbed. “Yes, that is why.”

Then all Syrene ought to do was word her questions right. “Tell me about Azryle’s past. Surely, you can’t have been compelled about that.”

Judging by the clearance in her eyes, she indeed wasn’t. But there was something else … something like hatred and panic. Maeren had made no attempt to hide she considered Syrene a threat, someone who might pounce before the duel.

Well, then be it.

Maeren asked, “Why do you seek to know about his past?”

It wasn’t his past she sought, it was his weaknesses—something that could immensely help her survive the duel. Surely, since Azryle was the one allotted to train her and an opponent, he wouldn’t miraculously take pity on her and so willfully hand over his own weaknesses. “I’ve been fairly interested in him lately,” drawled Syrene. Her gaze sloped to the dagger, and made sure Maeren noticed it. “I won’t repeat myself.”

“He has a long past,” the wraith murmured, her voice holding a tremor. Some savage part of Syrene relished that it was someone else afraid for once, rather than herself.

Syrene said indulgently, “Then it’s a good thing Ferouzeh seems like a patient healer.”

Weakness began gnawing at Syrene’s legs, couldn’t bear standing too long. A faint pain nipped at her neck thanks to looking up at the tall wraith persistently. She stepped around Maeren, dagger maintaining its position.

Only for a second, Syrene detached the weapon from her throat. Maeren made to move, but Syrene’s arm was already around the wraith’s neck, choking her lightly, and dagger in the other hand nailed to her back. Once again, Syrene found herself wishing she were taller, if only it would have made restraining Maeren easier. “I’d stay still if I were you.” She emphasized her point by pressing the blade. Maeren hissed.

Then Syrene ushered the wraith to kitchen—the counter and the stools. Maeren sat down without much protest. Syrene didn’t—not yet—and she remained behind the wraith, dagger again at her throat.

A muscle in Maeren’s jaw bulged in fury. And then she asked, “Do you know anything about rippers?”

Syrene remained quiet.

“Well, then.” She sighed. “At least I hope you are familiar with the rip in the world during the Jagged Battle and all that horseshit, because I’m not up to giving you an Abyss-damned history lesson.” Syrene waited.

Then Maeren began.

“After the battle, because of all the beasts stuck in the Crack, the situation with baeselk was getting worse and worse. They came and feasted on Grestel—and Vegreka, of course, but mostly Grestel—and left unharmed. The hundred left hemvae began losing their nerve; they’re the reason the Crack exists and the Gates have been left unbarred, after all. After a while, they came to a conclusion and created Baeselk Hunters—otherwise known: rippers. Hemvae themselves had volunteered to be trialed, for Ianov. So hemvae after hemvae were voluntarily experimented, all different kinds of mejest were used on them to create the ones appointed to hunt baeselk. Centuries and centuries later, after whatever sorcery, they managed to create a bloody race—a bloodline of rippers. And by then, only a few hemvae were left, and their extinction began.

“Anyway, rippers are nothing like they seem. They are monsters, girl. And I mean it literally. When a ripper in born, they have an invisible leash to their soul, blood, and any other source of existence; they are bound to their mothers, theirs to command, until their leash is handed over to someone else—ancient words are spoken and all that bullshit. And if unleased …” Her throat bobbed. “When unleased, they’re worse than baeselk. But Azryle … he’s different.” Syrene almost felt the relief, but then Maeren added, “Worse.”

Syrene’s skin felt suddenly cold, and bare. She swallowed the tight lump in her throat. “How is Azryle different?”

“When he was ten, you see, Queen Felset found him—through whatever mejest she possesses, she felt Azryle’s power in the world, like an awakening demon, or a forming new star. She hunted his mother, wormed in her mind and made her believe Felset was Azryle’s aunt and his mother could trust Felset. And so, Azryle’s mother willfully handed over the leash. One thing each being on planet Ianov knows is: Felset is insane. When Azryle was eleven, he was forced to make the Plunge, and it’s highly dangerous to make the Plunge before age twenty. Azryle could have lost his mind, could have been lost in his own mejest forever. But even at eleven, he was so greatly powerful, that he came out alive, with the burnt-golden core in his eyes.

“That had been the first time Felset had felt triumphant. But Azryle was still eleven, he was still a child with emotions, who had just felt that horror of dying during the Plunge. During that same week, Felset appointed him to hunt a baeselk. Since his leashes were held by her, he did not refuse—could not refuse. But he returned defeated, that baeselk bolted. Felset was furious, and she grasped he’d lost the beast because Azryle was still in the horror of the Plunge. And so, Felset removed his feelings. Told him he was a ripper, born to kill, not a weak human cowered by feelings. Azryle stopped feeling that horror and fear—and most of all, he stopped feeling regret or love or anything that made him … well, humane. Because when Felset began commanding him to kill someone else other than baeselk, he did not hesitate. Time passed, Felset got bored.”

“What do you mean, bored?” Syrene spat the word, horrified. “And you still did not answer how was he different.” Her grip firm on the dagger.

“He is different, girl, because when he kills a baeselk, he steals a power involuntarily. Like you would replace, with a wave of his hand, he can teleport things from one place to another.” Syrene recalled how the plates had appeared on her bed with a gesture of Azryle’s hand. And last night—“He can control minds. He can alter images like no other. And for that specific quality, Felset cannot compel him. She cannot make him love her like a nephew might love an aunt … or some other way—or make him believe she was his aunt at all, like she had his mother. But then again, she doesn’t need to compel him, since she can still command him. Still, if she could compel him, she could make him feel other things.”

Revulsion roiled Syrene’s gut. “Like what?”

“She could make him love her, so he would want to protect her, not forced to—and well, bed her.”

Her stomach turned. “But she can command him to love her, like she commanded him to not feel.”

“That is not how it works.” Maeren was growing impatient. “Removing something that’s there is one thing. Creating a feeling anew, that’s an entirely different thing. Yes, she could make him crawl in bed with her, command him to love her, and he would. But it would still be fake—he wouldn’t really feel it.”

“Queen Felset desires Azryle?” Syrene didn’t quite comprehend why, but she was sickened by this new information about Queen Felset. Probably since she had always believed Azryle was her nephew …

Maeren, to Syrene’s surprise, snorted. “Who doesn’t? Everyone desires Azryle, human. Even your friend Deisn Rainfang, if you haven’t noticed already.” It was impossible to rein her flinch at that.

“Ferouzeh doesn’t.” And neither did Faolin.

“That is because Ferouzeh prefers women.”

Syrene cleared her throat and straightened, slightly pressing the blade in the wraith’s throat. “You didn’t answer my question about Queen Felset getting bored.”

Even from over Maeren’s shoulder, Syrene could’ve sworn the woman rolled her pine eyes. “When she grew bored of him, Felset wanted to make alterations, as if he were some asset needing enhancement. She wanted to compel him, it had become a bizarre obsession—she couldn’t stand she couldn’t control Azryle the way she’d wanted to.” Maeren shuddered beneath Syrene’s blade. And Syrene braced herself for whatever gut-wrenching truth was about to be thrown her way. Even that didn’t work when Maeren spoke again. “She had him locked in dungeons for eighty-one years.”

Syrene stilled. Horror seized her entirely. It was all she could do to keep her grip tight on the dagger. Her voice was soft when she spoke. “What happened in the dungeons?”

“He was whipped every day, they did all to break him and make him open his mind to Felset, let her compel him. For eighty-one years, he was thrown in dungeons, commanded to not use his mejest, and was whipped, not even allowed to scream out his agony. It was dark—” Her voice had grown soft, eyes vacant. “So dark and cold. But he survived—any lesser man’s will would have crumpled. That’s how Azryle is different—because he has what Felset had always wanted in her warriors: a skillful asset with an unbreakable will. Though Her Majesty could have never prophesied that quality would someday come in handy against her.”

When I look at you, I see someone who spent three decades being a creature and survived, someone who spent three decades in that defeating darkness, and still came out human.

For eighty-one years, he was thrown in dungeons, commanded to not use his mejest, and was whipped, not even allowed to scream out his agony.

This time, it was her heart that broke—her heart that twisted.

Azryle was Syrene’s mirror, a silently screaming soul.

“Torments did not end there.” Maeren went on. “When Azryle refused, Felset turned up with his mother, she commanded him to feel the sorrow when Felset beheaded Azryle’s mother right in front of him. He was commanded to feel the horror when his mother’s head was left there in the cell with him for days and days, he was forced to watch it rot, scent the reek of it.

“Still, Azryle did not break.”

There were tears welling in Syrene’s eyes, her throat had tightened to the point of pain at the horror and … more horror. The image of her own mother flashed right before her, the blood seeping from her waist as Syrene had run that night with Windsong in hand.

She kept her voice steady and she pressed the dagger again. “And how do you know all this?”

“Because I was there. Each second, from the moment Felset went to take Ryle from his mother, to those dungeons, I was there.” Maeren seemed to have gone limp. “He was my friend, then, even as he couldn’t have one. He was my friend because he had saved me from Felset. All those years before the dungeons, Azryle had kept Felset from taking over my mind wholly with his own mejest. I hadn’t realized that, until he was commanded to not use his mejest. His hold on me had tumbled, and Felset had known he’d been keeping me out of her grip.”

“And you didn’t help him.”

“I was commanded and compelled not to,” Maeren snapped, reeling herself back to her body.

“I doubt the Enchanted Queen would have left you alive, if she’d thought you were double-crossing her.”

Maeren went rigid at that—but her past and her relations with Azryle were of little use to Syrene, so she didn’t inquire. She instead asked, “What happens if she releases Azryle during the duel?”

Maeren snorted. “You better hope not.”

The dagger pierced her skin, now, blood touched Syrene’s hand and Maeren gasped and grunted. “Answer,” demanded Syrene.

Syrene felt the movement of Maeren’s throat under her touch as she swallowed. “There are odds he might not even know who you are, he will hunt you like any other creature. But … I doubt Felset would, because if she once set him free, there will be no other way for her to control him, since she can’t compel him.” She added, “Again, she might only loosen her leash and not wholly free him.”

“And how, exactly, may one get her to loosen it?”

Again, Maeren snorted. “Unless you’re capable of doing the impossible …” She trailed off. After a momentarily pause, “You did make the Plunge, being a Grestel.” The wraith let out a long-suffering sigh. “Well, distract her. You will replace, human, that Azryle, at nights, is not a harsh brute. In fact, if you looked closely, he might even seem human. That is because Queen Felset is asleep at nights, not concentrating on the leash, or … well, with someone in bed. She gets distracted.”

Oh.

Oh.

This whole time Syrene had supposed Azryle was fond of nights—

“Anything else, my captor?” Maeren seethed. “Ferouzeh does grow tired of waiting, you know.”

“What does Queen Felset want with me?”

“She already told you.”

Show me your lethality, and the sword is yours. Tell me how you made the Plunge, the freedom is yours. “Why does she want to know how I made the Plunge?”

“You do grasp I’m not her dearest friend and she does not share her secrets with me?”

Syrene straightened. There should have been so many questions rushing through her mind, so many questions she should’ve been asking about the duel, her opponent. And yet … there was nothing in her mind, only these words ringing in her head.

The man she was living with, if given a command, would rip her apart. All he knew was death and violence, all he was familiar with was hatred and blood. And he was to be her opponent … her death, she supposed, if what Maeren spoke was true. If Azryle indeed held that power, that mejest, there was no getting out alive.

Syrene hadn’t realized she’d been holding on to it—to that hope of the slightest chance to get out alive—until it was crumpled to dust.

But there was no way Queen Felset would allow her to die, she still longed to know how Syrene made the Plunge. Then what in Saqa was the queen planning, if the duel was just a show for her people?

Syrene hadn’t realized she had lowered the dagger until Maeren’s punch came for her jaw.

Syrene stumbled back, grunting.

It wasn’t a hard punch, but the inside of her cheek began bleeding, having roughly come in contact with her teeth.

“Oh, that felt good,” Maeren muttered and again charged for Syrene.

Until the apartment’s door opened.

Maeren’s punch halted midway as both their gazes went to Ferouzeh standing at the threshold. The healer’s hazel eyes were wide as she took in the blood running down Syrene’s mouth, Maeren’s neck, and then the punch midair. “What in Saqa are you two doing?”

Maeren opened her mouth but Syrene replied first. “Training.”