Drothiker
5.

Azryle Wintershade watched Syrene Alpenstride go utterly still, the kind of stillness only an immortal could acquire. Her chest heaved relentlessly as she glared and glared at the sorceress, not even bowing to the Enchanted Queen beside Deisn Rainfang. He debated apprising her that people had died for it.

But his queen just smirked in a wicked way that usually suggested people to run for their life. And they did. Not that they ever broke free.

Alpenstride fell back a step, slammed into him, as if in a daze—or shock. This close, Azryle could faintly hear her hammering heart, the room reeked of her dread and sorrow … and utter shock.

Not a friend—each reaction from Syrene implied that Deisn was anything but a friend, as the sorceress had claimed five years ago, when he’d been arranged to lift the curse.

Deisn Rainfang, the Duce of Tribes now, the Sorceress of Yharia no more. The duel was known worldwide—one of the fiercest in history. The half-hemvae felled duce, Hexet Evreyan, despite lacking mejest in her veins, had put up a darn good fight. A warrior whose mejest had been her own core.

As if Azryle’s thoughts were conveyed, Syrene curled her fingers in a tight, near-shaking fist. And rage—so reminiscent to that of her beasty form—tainted the room. That reek of unforgiving wrath that beast had borne was still marked in his memories.

His queen heeded it, sucked on it as if feasting. Her smirk grew and Azryle braced himself.

Rainfang snorted, gaze descending to the crimson blood now trickling down Syrene’s fist, landed on his boots. He ignored it. “So dramatic,” mocked the sorceress.

There was no movement in the Heir of Wolf Tribe.

“Don’t fret. Raocete is alive and steering her cubs as per usual.” Deisn angled her head. “Though it’s a pity she never elected anyone to fetch her heir from that Saqa.”

“You killed her,” was all Syrene uttered, seething. But didn’t straighten off Azryle. As if he were an otsatyas-damned wall.

The sorceress smirked. “Two decades and five years ago to be exact, my sweet Rene.” She crossed her arms. “Don’t worry, I never expected any respect from someone of the Wolf Tribe.”

By the Destiny, the Enchanted Queen lifted from her throne, and even the duce went rigid. Her white dress a flow of wind as she descended the dais. Still, Syrene remained motionless.

Azryle restrained himself from rolling his eyes as he swept away from the seething wolf. She held herself and he leaned against the enormous doors, as Felset directed with just a look, deterring Alpenstride from fleeing, regardless of the xist in her system keeping her from any sort of mejest she might possess.

But then Felset spoke, “Ah.” Amusement simmered in her bronze eyes. “The Grestel who made the Plunge.”

Ablaze Kosas. A human—

“My friend Deisn told me lots about you.”

Alpenstride’s only reply was her spit to the floor.

Azryle’s warning snarl echoed in the throne room.

But Syrene ignored him. “With all due respect, Majesty, befriending a snake will only deal you venom.”

Deisn lifted an amused brow. And Felset laughed, her own rage streaking her scent, kernelled by that spit a few inches from her feet. Not a soul had ever been that venturesome; people had died for lifting their eyes at the Enchanted Queen. It was miracle in Haerven itself that Syrene was standing right now. But the queen only said, “I appreciate the warning.”

Whatever brewed in Felset’s mind to have had her utter those words, was not going to be pleasant. Definitely not for Alpenstride.

The queen’s fingers wormed in the cub’s near-shoulder-length honey hair, so gently that Azryle found his gloved hand reaching in closer stretch to the hilt of Silencer. “I want to know how you made the Plunge, Syrene Alpenstride.”

Syrene went rigid. Her nails withdrew from the flesh of her palms. “I want my sword.”

The cub had guts, he’ll give her that. But what limits of imprudence did one have to bear to demand from the Enchanted Queen? So irrational of her life.

But Alpenstride’s brashness was not the only infrequent sight today. Because Felset smiled, fingers still in the Heir of Wolf Tribe’s hair. “It shall be returned.” Azryle held his breath. And judging by the stiffness in the cub, she had not anticipated that reply. But his queen added, “Prove that you can hold it, and it shall be returned.”

Syrene stilled further and Deisn descended the dais. This was no part of their plan.

“I hear you’re lethal, Syrene. Enough that the Lady of Wolves, the woman they say is the definition of lethality, made you her Heir. I heard they began calling you the Human Wolf in the tribes.” Heard—from Azryle himself. He’d had to tour the whole country to muster information on her. “Show me your lethality, and the sword is yours. Tell me how you made the Plunge, the freedom is yours.”

The air in the room dispelled. Even from Azryle. A slave freed—someone from the Voiceless Pits freed … that had never occurred before. Nowhere on the whole planet Ianov.

Either Syrene’s heartbeat had dwindled entirely, or Azryle could not earwig it from here. Her still posture suggested the former. “What.”

Deisn echoed it, louder.

Only Felset’s restrain on him kept Azryle from demanding the same.

But the queen only said to Syrene, “Take the freedom, return to your tribe. Reunite with your predecessor.” A side of her mouth twitched upward. “In exchange for only one piece of information.”

If Felset willed, she could simply have had Syrene tormented until she barked and spilled. Why she even bothered bargaining, or offering freedom at all, Azryle hadn’t the faintest idea.

After long moments of silence, the cub only muttered hoarsely, “My sword.”

Only a gaze from Felset had Deisn raising her hand; lilac fog emerged, expanded and fell. It surged past the sheening blade of an ancient sword that appeared. Syrene grimaced.

The sorceress imparted with Felset, bequeathing the weapon, “Windsong, she used to call it. Her mother’s sword. An ancient, rare piece—worth more than I can calculate.”

Syrene’s hand strung out for the sword and Felset allowed her to clutch it.

The former’s callused finger surveyed the sharp, shiny blade; as if she knew each inch of it. It drifted to the golden bolt amid a ring carved on the bronze rain-guard.

A silent minute swept by.

Alpenstride stretched the sword to the queen, her voice steady and harsh to a certain degree, “Real one.”

As if an overt lie, Windsong remolded to lilac fog in Syrene’s hand and vanished.

Impressed—his queen was impressed. What a day to experience, Azryle’s head spun; Vendrik would have had his mouth gapped.

Felset’s blood-painted lips curved upward. “As I said, you shall be granted your sword once you attest your aptitude to hold and wield it.”

Syrene stayed silent. Waited. Accepted.

“Surely you’ve heard of the Pensnial Duels of Cleystein, Heir of Raocete.”

Azryle straightened.

But the quietness from the human suggested she hadn’t an inking. Indeed, she’d been sixteen when she was cursed, and a long way off the lands of Cleystein to hear of the Pensnial Duels.

Felset noticed the confusion in her scent, and heaved an exasperated sigh and began. “Pensnial Duels, Syrene Alpenstride, are what decide your worth in this world. Either people will respect you after it, or … well, there is no alternative, opponents tend to have no mercy.” A savage smile at that. “People from all over the country gather in an arena to watch.” Her face split in a vicious grin, baring white teeth. “It’s a duel to death, Heir of Raocete.”

Alpenstride remained unmoving, to Felset’s annoyance.

But the queen went on. “Typically, they’re not shown their foes, which is what makes it more thrilling. But …” She swept a look over the human’s bony posture. “I would have considered your condition and put you up against an equal. But my warriors are all far-off from the borders of Olkfield.” The queen’s gaze moved to Azryle. “Only my fiercest.”

Oh, otsatyas. He could spend his time in myriad finer ways.

His uninterest must have staged on his face, because Felset caroled, “Buckle up, now. I’m sure she wouldn’t be so easy.”

The woman was out of practice. Thin—too thin. The bones of her shoulders seemed to be bulging out at edges, he could scent the extent of her exhaustion. The cub was drained in all imaginable facets—physically, emotionally, mentally, spiritually. The reek of it had been gnawing at his bones for the entire week. She will be easy, and Felset knew that too well; could scent it, feel it outstretching to her own self. Just as Azryle did.

“Oh, the duel isn’t now.” A show—it would be a show for public. To shove the woman off her edge and divulge whatever information she’d schemed to gouge out with Deisn.

Felset knew that whatever training, Azryle would still be dwarfing her, the duel will still be outmatched. For Alpenstride was spiritually drained, and a Grestel. He had his ripper senses and three centuries of training, experience in battlefields.

And when the cub would return from defeat, Felset would not return her mother’s sword, causing Syrene to lose her tether.

Azryle was ready to gamble that Felset had sent all her fighters out of Olkfield, just so it would be him against her. Vendrik consigned to that fortress in Nofstin was a part of all this too.

It was a torture after all. A different kind.

His queen went on. “Prince Azryle will also be the one to train you, Syrene.” It took all the training of three centuries to keep himself unyielded. “So worry not, you will be obtaining the finest training.”

Syrene squared her shoulders, didn’t even think twice before saying, “I accept.”

Who knew the Heir of Wolf Tribe would have a death wish.

He did not fail to notice the amusement and triumph in Rainfang’s lilac sorceress eyes.

Felset’s eyes glinted too. “I hope next time you return to castle would be to retrieve your sword.” She beckoned to the door in dismissal. “You may stay tonight before leaving for fortress, if you want.”

Syrene’s gaze glided to Deisn, and hatred swallowed her scent. “I leave now.”

The sorceress just offered her a smirk. “Might want to bathe first.”

The Heir to the Lady of Wolves spun to him—to the doors he leaned against. “That strong reek is not mine, Deisn.”

True. Even as she did not mean the scent, despite the tang of all Syrene’s emotions, it was Deisn’s coveting and bitterness that tainted the air even in corners.

Syrene’s eyes … Azryle stilled. Golden like fire burning and raging in the core. White freckles in the light azure world seemed to be shining like lightning crackling and swirling there.

He blinked, attempting to clear his vision.

Indeed, when he opened his eyes, the lightning was long gone; gold was settled in one place; azure like sea in a bright day.

With Felset’s look of approval, Azryle straightened off the doors and swept aside. “Be ready in ten minutes.”

But his queen said in a saccharine voice, “Show her to her chamber, Prince Azryle.” Leave Deisn and I alone. “And for otsatyas’ sake, take those chains off her.”

He just nodded.

She was dead, Syrene realized as the prince led her to some quarter. Duel or not, she was in a damned labyrinth of death and chaos.

Information for freedom. A bargain with a near-otsatya woman. And even thinking of double-crossing her would be measured self-sacrifice, insanity. One had to be out of their mind, or at least sozzled to an extent, to scheme against the Enchanted Queen.

And here Syrene was, plotting to drive xist out of her system and making a run. Here she was, planning to slip past a centuries-old male ripper.

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

Shit. Shit. Shit—

Raocete had been like a mother to Syrene—more—the Lady of Wolves would never want her divulging that information. So, fine. Syrene would die playing a lock to that piece, exposing it would do no good. Definitely not to Syrene herself.

Seeing Deisn again had riled her blood, and drove her enough to stay unbending before the queen, but a duel with a ripper—

Ablaze Kosas.

Freedom, freedom, freedom, freedom. Her each pulse roared. But at what cost?

No. Syrene will never declare how she’d made the Plunge, but her mother’s sword … Windsong …

Whether you crumple mountains, or rip past worlds. Stars may burst to sprinkles; sand may forge clouds. With that lightning in your heart, let this bolt of Windsong guide you home, Flarespirit. Her mother’s ghostly voice was still balmy in her ears.

The stars to witness in this quiet night, I declare you the Protector of Windsong, young Alpenstride. You do not surrender.

Her mother had kissed Syrene’s brow and wiped her tears with blood tainted hand and said, You do not surrender, Flarespirit.

She had been ten, then, when her family was butchered in that cold night, when Syrene had made the first run for her life, nudged by her mother. The words yet thundered with each beat of her heart.

Survival—it had always been about survival.

Windsong was said to have been forged by Ondes, Otsatya of Skies, millennia ago; a gift to Alpenstrides. A fortification. Her mother had once said that the Sword held the might of the otsatya himself. Syrene had even asked whether an otsatya could be summoned, the answer had been: They come when they want, Flarespirit, don’t tire yourself with such questions.

So Syrene hadn’t asked again.

But now … Queen Felset stowed the sword in her possession, Deisn knew the price it lugged, the Alpenstride bloodline lashed to it. Knew Syrene would tread Saqa to clutch it back—Syrene had once been foolish enough to think the sorceress her friend and spill the gift of Ondes to her. Deisn knew Windsong was the last piece of Syrene’s mother.

The queen and the sorceress were also aware that Ondes’ power will not answer to them. Not unless they were from Alpenstride bloodline.

Because Windsong was just an ordinary sword to others. It was a promised power to a preferred Alpenstride heir, one who would be powerful enough to hold it. Otsatya of Skies had gifted the sword to Grinon Alpenstride millennia ago, claiming that his bloodline will be gifted with an heir destined to return the power.

A descendent from her bloodline born just to flurry themself to the world … Her heart clenched.

Alpenstrides only knew that they were to guard the Sword and pass it along to the heirs, ensure that it progressed on to the heir chosen by Ondes.

So minutes before she was cursed, Syrene had made the Plunge and cached the sword. Made herself immortal, lest her lifespan ended before she returned to her human form.

And Queen Felset and Deisn used Windsong to bargain. Because how Syrene had made the Plunge was more vital, more beneficial to the new Duce of Tribes.

Deisn killed Hexet Evreyan, Syrene’s heart strained, eyes stung.

The Fallen Duce had been a mentor, had propped her during the training and brutal trials to qualify, intending to become accepted into the Wolf Tribe.

Her vision soon blurred, but she blinked through it. Blinked through the pain and swallowed through the tightness in throat. Syrene will avenge the Fallen Duce the moment she grasped a chance.

Deisn will pay.

The clanking of dresteen to the bricks had Syrene noticing they had entered a vast crypt. Empty—slaves must all be on the day’s work. Only a few remained, and bowed as the warrior-prince flowed by.

Again, red soon tainted their cheeks, and His Highness didn’t seem to notice.

The man who lifted her curse.

Now the man who will be her death.

Syrene was shaking her head when they halted in the corner of the crypt, a hallway led down from here, chambers flanking the narrow route. She felt the ogles when the prince whirled to her and gestured for her to lift her hands, a key in his own hand.

Beating of heart grew, image of overseer painted before her, further tightening her throat. Syrene shut her eyes tight.

Breathe—breathe.

She opened her eyes to the shackles diving and clinking to the floor. Well, that was certainly quicker than that overseer’s process.

Prince Azryle Wintershade crouched to undo the dresteen of her feet and Syrene found herself stepping back.

He looked up, annoyance molding his features, rage simmering in gold-cored silver eyes. And she realized that look must have had men running. That tattoo did not help. Syrene ignored that. “You can tell sentries to do that, you know.”

His voice a lethal murmur, “If I could, I would have.” There was no indignity or discomfiture as one would expect from an arrogant prince crouching before a slave.

But there were certain scars Syrene did not want anyone perceiving. At least sentries wouldn’t ask questions or ponder at all. “I’ll unbar it myself, then.” Her voice was soft too, very conscious of the stares and growing murmurs.

He lifted to his full height, and Syrene had to lift her Abyss-damned chin to peer up at him. A hand stretched towards her and she blinked—even the key lain in his palm was of glass. “Here.”

Syrene’s hand reached for it. But—

The key a fog, her fingers went through it, surging past. The fog retraced and remolded to a whole key. She blinked again, and frowned. Even a key was made of mejest.

Prince’s smile was anything but sweet before he crouched again. Heart hammering, Syrene lifted her dress to reveal the ankles. He snarled, “A bit more.”

Abyss claim her.

She lifted her dress and bared the scar of ruthless wolf bite amid her calf and ankle. From the friend whom she had killed in her beasty form and hadn’t even felt remorse for it. Deisn had sent Lucran to Syrene to lift the curse, knowing Syrene would slaughter him. Knowing it would crumple even her bit of humanity in that form.

It had worked so impeccably. Even as she had not recognized Lucran, it had killed every bit of her. After that kill, Syrene had forgotten who she was, had almost given herself wholly to that beast.

As the dresteen freed and unclothed the scar wholly, she felt the looks segueing to disgust behind her, felt them in each inch of her. The prince only blinked slowly.

Mercifully, he lifted to his feet, hard face unexpressed. A part of her was glad for it.

He turned to the hallway. “Last one to right is unclaimed. Everything is already available inside.” He fished in his dark jacket’s pocket and slid out other keys. “I’ll return in ten minutes.”

And then he was walking out and Syrene strode to the chamber.

She was barely inside before she collapsed to her knees and wept. For both Lucran and Hexet Evreyan.