Drothiker
22.

Syrene returned from the training at night, despite the fact that Azryle had said she would train with him at night. Ferouzeh had punished Syrene and Maeren for their behavior, not swallowing Syrene’s lie.

When she returned, Ferouzeh reminded Syrene of the book Azryle had parted for her in the library.

And library, apparently, was inside Azryle’s bedroom. Syrene had urged Ferouzeh to obtain the book for her, but the ripper had enchantments bulwarking the library, Ferouzeh couldn’t cross the threshold.

Syrene didn’t know what she’d expected his bedroom to look like, but a clean, well-organized one was not it—though she supposed he could wave his hand and it’d assemble itself. It was vaster than the guestroom, bed bigger.

There were two doors inside—it didn’t take her long to figure out that the wider one beside the bed was library, and the lean one beside the armoire was bathroom. Syrene headed for the library.

And stilled when she crossed the threshold.

It was dark here, only dim golden lights were providing dim light—even those were stuttering. The temperature here seemed to have dropped, suddenly felt as if she’d stepped into winter. Shelves casted long, long shadows, and she could have sworn a cold breeze swept by her, grazing her skin. Syrene shuddered.

Her heart began hammering, throat closed. No—not the tower.

Library. She was in the library.

World began whirling, her speeding heart began bellowing in her ears.

She hadn’t realized when her eyes had commenced watering, her teeth clattering. She was not in the tower, not in the tower—

Syrene shut her eyes for a second, shut out the roaring.

Hold your heart sturdy, your will unyielding, and you shall see the power in trembling the cores.

She opened her eyes, and let her mother’s voice usurp the bellowing and escort her. Into the dark she glared, and began stalking towards the table not far from her—where books and a few pages were situated—

There was a low growl.

No, no, no, not again—

Syrene spun back to the door, she could get the books tomorrow, ask Azryle. But then—

“Are you going to leave so soon?”

Her heart climbed to her throat at the dismaying voice, but Syrene continued walking.

“Come to me and I shall grant you that what you wish the most, Heir of Grinon Alpenstride, the Protector of the Sword of Ondes.”

Syrene paused at that, and turned. She opened her mouth to speak but—

A hand came casing her mouth, and she was pinned against a shelf. For a moment, Syrene imagined herself getting eaten and shut her eyes so tight that she imagined they might as well stumble back into the chasm of her body.

But when Syrene opened them, Azryle had a finger on his mouth, shushing silently, quicksilver eyes wide with warning and alarm. He was still hooded, as if heard the creature’s voice all the way to the apartment’s door, and raced here.

Azryle’s hand on her mouth enclosed the majority of her lower face, and Syrene allowed that bit of warmth to seep into her cold skin.

His other hand lowered from his own mouth and gripped Syrene’s elbow—to haul her out. When she looked to the table for the book, she didn’t replace it there.

“Come now, I’ll tell you all the secrets of your ancestor,” the beast spoke. “Do you not want to know his role in the Jagged Battle and with Drothiker?”

She felt her eyes going wide, and Azryle’s tightening grip on her elbow in a warning to not speak.

And then she felt a rush so swift that Syrene might as well have been voyaged between universes. But she was in the living room the next moment, her head spinning but—

Syrene was pinned against a wall, Azryle’s dagger on her neck.

It took her moments and moments to process everything, until Azryle lifted the hood enough to reveal the harsh face. Fury glinting his eyes.

There were so many thoughts flooding through her mind, so many questions … and an impulse to apologize for prying with Maeren. But Syrene said, “I see you had little chat with your wraith.”

“You had no right.” He bared his teeth, fury casting on his features, looking like every bit the monster Maeren had pronounced. “I told you plainly that you will have your privacy, as will I.”

I’m sorry, she nearly said those words out loud, but swallowed them down. She wouldn’t apologize for trying to replace ways to defeat her opponent—no, she chided herself. “You can hardly expect me to not snoop for my opponent’s weaknesses,” she gibed indulgently.

Again, a muscle bulged at his brutal jaw, and Syrene refused to shrink from him. “And did you replace any?” The dagger’s blade urged in her neck, yet all Syrene could notice was his breath on her face. His citrus-kissed scent engraved in each corner of this apartment. “Weaknesses?” he spat out the word, as if it tasted bitter on his tongue.

“If I did, I certainly wouldn’t be tattling about them to you.”

“Two can play this game, cub.”

Syrene smiled, cold and indifferent. “Unlucky for you, there is nothing to know about me. I didn’t exist for thirty-five years.”

“What about before that? How about why did you curse yourself.”

Words were out before Syrene could bite her tongue. “That’s none of your business.”

He laughed, bringing to her attention that she had never heard him laugh before—or smile warmly. And it would have been a beautiful, soothing sound, had it not been so hostile and mocking. Syrene hated it—him. Knowing his past did not alter that fact. No matter how brutal.

“Kill me,” Syrene muttered. “Let’s see if you can.”

His crooked smile remained. “I’d rather do it in front of hundreds of people during the duel. Besides,” he added, drawling, “why in Saqa would I give you what you want?”

Azryle began withdrawing the weapon and straightening, a hand on his hood to throw it back wholly but—

Syrene moved.

As he was distracted, she elbowed his forearm—still pinned beside her head—as severely as her remaining strength would allow, having him loosen his grip on the weapon. She glimpsed his shock, and took him a heartbeat to register what was happening.

That heartbeat cost him.

Because the dagger was already in Syrene’s hand, and its blade on his chest, right over his heart—he was too tall to go for throat.

Azryle was blinking, though his face was unyielding. “I’ll have you know,” Syrene breathed, eternally delighted in his gleaming eyes—shook, but impressed. But her words were poisoned needles. “I don’t give a shit about what happened, about what was done to you. I do not care what you are. But if you stand between me, and my mother’s sword, I will fight you to death, I will not hesitate bringing to your queen’s mind that her leash loosens at nights. And that you keep that thing in your library.”

Syrene slightly dug the blade, just enough for blood to roll out, and soak his dark shirt. His expression remained unaltered—as if he couldn’t feel that either.

“I don’t suppose she knows, does she? About the library.”

Azryle’s eyes danced—triumphant. And if that hadn’t been a shock enough, his hand pinned against the wall, beside her head, and stepped closer. Syrene involuntarily stepped back, but her back met the hard wall.

She stilled further as his other hand lifted to sway a strand of her hair off her brow. The fingers’ calluses went scraping her temple, to behind her ear. Syrene almost dropped the dagger, her body suddenly very numb—very limp. The fingers slid to her chin, and he lifted it, having her meet his eyes.

For some unutterable reason, her heart beat a gallop—heat rose to her face as she beheld he could hear it. And the triumph in his eyes only grew.

She attempted jerking her chin out of his grip, but he held firm.

“Do it,” he muttered, holding her gaze, his voice lower than a whisper. “Drive the dagger through my heart, my hardhearted Alpenstride,” and added with that brutal, teasing smile, “let’s see if you can.” Her own words from his lips were like a jab to her gut.

Syrene disregarded her hammering heart, her burning face. She reeled herself back in her body, forced her grip on the dagger to tighten. “I’ll do it, you know.” Her own treacherous voice was low and hoarse, lips parched, as if waiting to be tasted. And she didn’t dare gaze down at his mouth—no, her gaze was on those glittering quicksilver eyes.

He was enjoying each second of this.

“You’re no killer, Rene.” Her name on his lips like a soft melody, and Syrene could not help the prickling wave that surveyed her body.

She hadn’t realized how close his face had come to her own, and how close his body was to hers, until she felt the pommel of the dagger digging between her ribs. “I told you,” her voice was so soft, “I told you, of the monsters you’ve dealt with, I’ll be the worst.”

And Syrene drove the dagger.

Not through his chest, not through flesh at all.

But through his glorious shoulder-length midnight hair.

Surprised, eyes wide, Azryle fell a step back as his silken hair fell to his shoulder, to the tiles. Warm air of the apartment that replaced Azryle’s breath suddenly cold and gnawing at her red-hot face.

Syrene presented none of that, and knew her smirk was just as victorious.

Azryle was still taking in his felled hair. His uneven length. She was disappointed to see no rage on his face, or in eyes.

“I may, or may not be a killer, Prince,” Syrene crooned, having him snap his gaze to her. Syrene winked. “But I sure happen to be a good hairdresser.”

Tattooed jaw set, silver eyes glaring. No triumph.

Syrene peeled off the wall, finally being able to move. “Next time you touch me anywhere without my permission, it won’t be your hair I cut off.”

Not waiting for his response, Syrene strolled to the guest room—trying not to seem too eager.

She shut her door, and leaned against it. Her hand going to her chest, her heart hammering so violently that running might have had it breaking out of her ribs. What bothered her was he knew each reaction, could hear each beat.

Syrene’s face seared with embarrassment and anger.

But oh, that shock on his face, and wordlessness, she would take that to grave with herself.

Starflame was dozing on the dressing table, her faerie’s wings slumped and dim, and any feeling from her dwindled. If Azryle ever knew about her—if he strolled in and perceived a faerie in this bedroom—

Syrene swallowed hard. She will have to replace a place for Starflame to sleep on, somewhere less … exposed.

➣

Half an hour later, bathed and changed in nightclothes—a simple white tank top and a capri—Syrene returned to living room for the book and … dinner, half hoping to replace the ripper cooking—ceasing to remember it was midnight. But he was not.

Instead, he sat on the kitchen counter—counter, not even bothering with the stools—with a mirror in one hand, scissors in another, wearing his usual grey undershirt, arms bared, muscles and veins bulging as he busted a gut to pivot his arm and level his hair, looking utterly furious and impatient.

Syrene might have laughed, but she realized with a jolt that Queen Felset must be slumbering so late at night, meaning her rein on him …

The ripper inquired, “You plan to stand there all night?” without taking his eyes off the mirror.

She straightened and padded towards the kitchen—surely, there must be something to eat in the fridge. “You want my help, say the wonderful words and I will give it to you.”

“I do not want help,” he gritted.

Syrene crossed the counter and aimed for the fridge. “Opposite of the wonderful words I was talking about.”

“There is nothing stored,” the prince told her. “Maeren ate all of it.” She withdrew her hand from the door’s handle, her stomach grumbling. “I’ll make dinner as soon as I’m thru cleaning up the mess you made.” And that would take all night, judging by the intensity he was struggling with.

With Maeren’s name, came a rush of words she’d spoken earlier.

He had been eleven—eleven, when his ceaseless torment began. And he was still being tortured, right in this very moment. Violated in ways Syrene could only imagine. Three-hundred-nine-year-old, Ferouzeh had revealed.

But she couldn’t pity him—no. Pitying him would be like pitying herself. For he was her mirror in so many ways. Looking at him was like gazing at a sturdier, stronger reflection of herself, of her soul.

He’d had it a million times worse, of course. Three decades in a monstrous form barely counted countered to what he had suffered. Watched his mother’s head rot in a dark cell, had been forced to scent every bloom of the reek. No wonder he couldn’t smile—couldn’t bother being nice. Even at nights when the leash loosened.

She turned to him, watched as those strong shoulders remained high. Not sinking even for a second.

And from the rim of the cloth on his shoulders, there were corners of pale scars on display.

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.

Syrene shuddered inwardly. It was a wonder that he was alive. That he had not broken, Maeren had said, hadn’t unfastened his mind to Queen Felset. And Syrene wanted to shrink as the memory of herself standing on the edge of a certain cliff creeped into her mind. She’d wanted to give up on the first sight of struggle—she’d wanted to run from everything. Still did.

“You’re staring.” His arms dropped and he looked over his shoulder.

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Syrene stepped towards the counter. “I was watching the chaos you’re making of your pretty hair.”

“I’ll have you know—”

She cut him off and extended a hand, rounding the counter to be in front of him. “Hand over the scissors, I’m hungry.”

His brow lifted. “And scissors look so delicious …?”

“No, I prefer eating your hair. That looks more delightful.” He flinched, disgust grasping his features. “Scissors.”

He opened his mouth—to refuse no doubt—but Syrene was already mounting the counter, and made to snatch the damn scissors. But he held steady. No way in Saqa would he let her snatch anything else from his hands ever again—not after that dagger.

“What are you doing,” he grumbled, flashing his white teeth. His deep voice rumbled in layers of her flesh.

Syrene pulled the scissors, but he did not release it.

“I don’t need your help, Alpenstride.”

Syrene rolled her eyes and groaned, annoyed. “Otsatyas above, why are men so obsessed with such macho bullshit.” She paused, towing lightly. When he did not budge, “Please, oh please let me cut your heavenly hair, my fingers long to touch it,” she ribbed.

Azryle looked as if she’d punched him, and he’d actually felt the impact this once. “Macho bullshit?” A brow arched.

“I’m very hungry right now,” she gritted. “I want dinner.” And Syrene yanked out the scissors from his grip. He’d let her—loosened his grip.

Syrene rose to her knees, and walked behind him.

She raked her fingers through his silken, thick hair, savoring in the softness.

She could have sworn Azryle’s head lulled, leaning in her touch, as if she were massaging him. She smacked his shoulder. “Bastard, keep your head still.” And as she said those words, Syrene wondered how many had smacked his shoulder and survived, how many had he let past his defenses.

Syrene knew the answer, and decided not to ponder over it. Instead, she grabbed the kitchen cloth sited beside them and rolled it around his shoulders. Then she began.

“What’s in the library?” she asked.

“Books.”

“I’m going to ruin your hair.”

He snarled inhumanly.

“I live here, I should know.”

“It’s a baeselk.”

“I figured as much.”

Azryle sighed deeply. “Just don’t go near it again, alright? You’re a Grestel, it’ll suck on your literal soul.”

She shuddered—couldn’t repress it, even as she knew Azryle could feel it on his skin. “You sent me there.”

“It had been sleeping for three centuries. Though I admit I should have figured your presence would annoy it to consciousness.”

Her focus jammed on his hair. “You’re funny, Ryle, I’m laughing.” He opened his mouth, but she cut him off with her exclamation, “You’ve had it ensnared for three centuries?” Again, his mouth gapped, but Syrene spoke. “This building is three centuries old?” The realization hit her like a lightning bolt. “You are three centuries old.”

Ryle exhaled sharply. “It was my first kill.” Syrene stilled. “Well, was meant to be.”

“The one that fled—” Syrene bit her lip too late.

His shoulders tensed. “Did Mae tell you everything?”

“She didn’t mention why you’re an asshole,” she said, “if that counts.” Syrene didn’t let him reply. “Why haven’t you killed it?”

“It has a name. Vozas is very kind, and very rare—”

“You said it’ll suck on my soul.” She scraped her fingers through his hair again, measuring the length. And continued chopping.

“Vozas has been hungry for three hundred years,” his voice suddenly soft, as if trying not to fall asleep, “it deserves to feed. And if it feeds on you,” he added, with mockery rallying in tone, “then good riddance.”

Syrene pinched his tattooed shoulder, hissing. The spot reddened; his tall, slender fingers were soon there to shelter it.

Maeren had said the baeselk Azryle was appointed to kill had fled but … he’d spared it, kept it beyond the bounds of Queen Felset. For kindness. Syrene’s heart sank. She swallowed. “What happens if Queen Felset knows you’ve been hiding … Vozas?”

He was silent for long enough that Syrene supposed he wouldn’t reply. But then, “I suppose Maeren told you about dungeons, too?” Syrene’s hands stilled in his hair, her very heart paused. Not at the question. At the pain in his voice—so intense that Azryle, the ripper who didn’t feel, was failing at concealing it. Upon her silence, Ryle went on. “Then you already know the consequences.”

Her throat tightened, and Syrene remembered to move her hands. But when she spoke, her voice came out weak. “Turn around,” she said, “I need to do the front.”

Azryle obliged, clutching the cloth to his chest with one hand. The pain in his eyes threatened to weaken her—the pain even the smirk seizing his mouth failed to hide. “At least Maeren would leave me alone after this.” He thought the wraith desired him for his ridiculously beautiful face … when the truth was otherwise.

Syrene had registered the pain in Maeren’s voice when the woman had been speaking about Azryle’s time in dungeons.

Maeren was in love with Azryle—had been, for longer than they’d even been friends. But Syrene didn’t say it, this was none of her business. Instead, she changed the subject. “You should hope Vozas replaces you hideous enough to leave you harmless.”

The pain in quicksilver eyes began dwindling slowly, amusement capturing instead. Something in Syrene’s chest caved in. “Vozas is a demon of secrets, spilling everything about somebody without having to probe them. He helps me in business purposes. He’s my friend, believe it or not.” Never minding that the baeselk had been asleep for three centuries, of course.

Her gaze and focus were firm on his hair. “Why am I not surprised by your preferred company.”

It was Azryle’s turn to pinch her—since her arms were busy, he chose her waist, where a tinge of pain was merciless. Syrene yelped. Then hit his skull with the scissors’ finger ring. “Prick.”

“You can comment on my company, when you have any.”

For a moment, she released his head and gazed down at him. “I have you.” She batted her lashes. “You’re all I need—all I’ll ever need.” Even as she meant it as a joke, her ears burned when she met his gaze.

He gibed, “I’d want to hear those words during the duel.”

She tore her eyes from his. “And I would never give you what you want.”

After a few minutes of comfortable silence, Syrene sighed and released his head. “Look up.”

He indulged, and her breath caught.

Azryle with shoulder-length hair was one thing.

But Azryle with short, cropped hair, no dark sheet to refuge his perfect face’s sides was outrageously striking. Beautiful beyond measure.

Otsatyas help Maeren.

But all Syrene said was, “If you’re waiting for me to compliment you, you will have to wait for another lifetime.” She hopped off the counter, leaving the mess for Azryle to get rid of. “Now I want my dinner.”

All he replied with was a soft, annoyed grunt as he slid off the counter and Syrene walked to the couch—where he’d left the book from library.

There were a few pages squeezed inside. And on those was written … “M-m-m …” Syrene shook her head, that had already begun aching, and slumped down on the couch. “M-my …”

Syrene hissed. It had been thirty-five years since she’d made to read anything. She’d received the education, but only for two or three years before her life was devoted to the training with Raocete. To the tribes. She’d never supposed she would ever have an inclination to be able to read …

“Try reading one letter at a time,” Azryle called from kitchen. “Then try linking them.”

“My r-row—roommay …” Her sight turned blurry. Syrene blinked through it. “Roommate …” She hissed again and tossed her head against the lip of backrest. “This is fruitless.”

“You do grasp that Rainfang must have already imparted Felset with your weaknesses?” She sat up straight at that. “Pensnial Duel can be anything. For all you and I know, it can be a simple puzzle. Or a riddle. Your life might hinge on reading.”

Syrene frowned at the paper, and continued. “I-is …” She exhaled a sharp breath. “My … f-f-av—rite. Favorite.” She repeated, feeling pleased with herself, “Favorite.” She moved on. “Bee-in—being.”

She blinked. Again, as she read the sentence on the first paper:

“My roommate is my favorite being.”

“That’s very nice of you.” Azryle was smiling in the kitchen, a free hand dramatically situated over his chest. “I’m touched.”

Annoyed, Syrene crumpled the paper and hurled it at him.

It didn’t reach him, though. Ryle tutted, bending to heft it up. “You have to copy it down twenty times.” He chucked the paper. It landed on the couch beside her.

Syrene bared her teeth at him in a snarl, and moved on to the next paper. They were all the same:

Azryle is very nice, I like him.

I am very rude to Azryle sometimes.

Azryle is my salvation.

Azryle is very good with weapons.

I’m jealous of Azryle.

But the last one was not a paper with a sentence. It was an envelope. “What is this?” Syrene asked.

He was behind the couch the next moment, peering down at the envelope from over her shoulder.

Almost a second later, he dashed back to the kitchen. “An invitation from Felset.”

“Why have you placed it in this book?” Her gaze slid to the kitchen, but he had his back to her.

“Because it’s for you.”

Syrene swallowed hard. “What.”

“Feast of Melodies is in a few days. It’s a traditional ball. You’re invited.”

“I’m a slave.” Fear rose to her throat.

Azryle’s shoulders tensed. “You’re also a contender of this year’s Pensnial Duel. My guess is: she will introduce you to the lords and ladies of Cleystein.” He turned then, his face grim. “To whole Cleystein.”