Abolisher
23.

Syrene’s heart felt as if it would burst out of her chest as she raced through the moonlit forest, not halting to check if Navy could keep pace with her.

He’d fought—of course he’d fought. What a fool she’d been to believe that he’d wanted to stay bound to his queen. What a fool—

Syrene was just about to enter the clear area surrounding the pit but she scurried to a pause before the mob of trees cleared. A man and a woman appeared out of thin air in the area.

The man immediately fell to his knees—the woman’s hand reached for his shoulder, but he shoved it away, snarling. Hurt flickered across her face, and she stepped back from him. He was panting hard, his entire torso marred with fresh wounds so brutal that Syrene felt a faint restlessness in her own skin.

Then, the man sobbed. He was shaking, she noticed, wildly. He dug his fingers in the twigs, tipped his head back, and roared. The pure pain in it had Syrene’s heart straining. The sound rustled the trees, and she could’ve sworn they grew somber, as if they felt his sorrow.

The woman turned to her side, a hand reaching for her sword. Doubtless, anticipating the sentries would come trailing the sound. Syrene saw her face then.

Maeren.

Navy appeared at her side, panting hard. She opened her mouth, no doubt to remark on Syrene’s speed, but Syrene nudged her with an elbow to shut her up.

The water-wielder hissed, but got the point. She followed Syrene’s gaze.

Maeren was saying, “I can’t walltread you farther than here, Rik.”

Shock seemed to have slapped Syrene across her face when she looked back at the man. Long gone was the waist-length ruby hair, the serenity from his face. Long gone was the glorious firebreather she’d met a year ago. A gaunt, tortured man was traded with him. His skin was so deathly pale—and bloody—that Syrene wouldn’t be surprised if he’d risen from the dead. The burn across half his face had eaten away the undeniable beauty.

“You need to go,” said the wraith. “Before the sentries—”

“Damn your sentries!” Vendrik Evenflame fumed.

Maeren’s lips pursed in a tight line. “You can stay, mourn the man long dead, here of all the places, and accept a tormented death for yourself.” She sheathed her sword. “But I won’t shoulder that Destiny for myself.” She touched his shoulder and squeezed. “Choose life, Rik.”

Then she … disappeared. Dissolved into the shadows casted by moonlight and trees.

But her words rung in Syrene’s head.

A man long dead. Her heart inched to her throat. No, no, no, no—

As soon as any sign of Maeren vanished, weakly, Vendrik lifted to his feet. “I know you’re here,” he announced to the empty area, to the twigs. “Syrene, I can feel you.” Fire burst across his arm. Uncontrolled, untamed. It winked in and out, as if he were trying to smother it in but failed. “Save him. Please.” He sounded so weak. So … broken.

“Do you know him?” Navy whispered.

Dazed, Syrene only managed a dip of her chin. Before she stepped out of the cover of trees.

The firebreather turned to her. He’d already put on the mask of a warrior—his face unyielding, unfeeling, his jaw set. As if he wouldn’t allow her to leave lest she decided to help. “He’s still alive,” Vendrik said. “I know he’s fighting. You have to help him.”

Enemy.

The voice was so sudden, so officious and cold, that she flinched. She looked around, but no one else was present here.

Danger.

With a start, she grasped that the voice was inside her head. But not her own.

Target.

Drothiker. Her heart paused dead. Drothiker’s voice.

Then, slowly, Eliver’s words retraced to her.

It’s like any other living thing. It needs to breathe, it needs to feed, to function properly. And you’re its source.

Another living thing—now waking and linked with each part of her. Syrene was Drothiker. The thing had its own enemies, its own friends. It had its own instincts—all merged with her.

Enemy, it hissed. No, her newfound instincts hissed, when she beheld Vendrik. And Drothiker had one enemy—or rather, five.

The Elite Kaerions.

Vendrik Evenflame was a Kaerion.

No wonder his fire burned hotter than even the core of this planet. No wonder Felset had kept him bound to herself. Because that fire … it wasn’t his own. It belonged to the Otsatya of Flames. A debt.

Vendrik, oblivious that Syrene was quite literally here to aid his friend break out, gritted his teeth at her lack of response. “If you don’t help him, I swear I’ll gut myself right here if only to keep you from having my fire to save this planet.”

She could feel how the beast within her liked that submission.

Too bad Syrene didn’t.

Fortunately, before leaving her apartment, she’d bathed in icy water to avoid any misfortunes. Not enough to send the beast back in the folds of a slumber, but enough to keep it from stretching its claws to her skin.

Syrene walked over to the firebreather. “Give me the details. How do I get down there, where do I replace him, where Felset is, how do I avoid running into her. Everything.”

✰✰✰✰✰

There was a tunnel that landed straight into the dungeons.

The firebreather had, apparently, bid to escape through that tunnel multiple times in the beginning, but had always failed to climb because of the dearth of strength. He told her everything she’d demanded—what to expect, what not to expect. He told her the sentries’ positions—even the weapons they donned themselves in—which made creeping up to their backs and slitting their throats before they could scream abundantly easier.

He told her the warrior squadron wasn’t in Silvervale, to Syrene’s eternal relief—except maybe Maycusen. Syrene could handle the Jaguar.

She could only guess that Vendrik had forgotten to warn her about what she would replace inside the cells. Because Syrene’s very blood chilled when she peered inside.

In each cell, humans—Vegreka, no doubt—sat comatose against the walls. A tube pierced in their wrists, linked to a cylinder filled with olive liquid, which was entrenched in the stone wall they leaned against.

The temperature here seemed to suddenly have dropped even more, until she was shivering. A strange unease nipped at her bones. She’d seen those cylinders before—felt this same uneasiness. In that vision—the one of Deisn and the Enchanted Queen, and the baeselk.

Abruptly, Syrene wished she’d brought Navy with herself here. But her friend was guarding the firebreather, the tunnel entrance, and the cave mouth she was supposed to replace Azryle beside.

And when she crossed the unending passageway now occupied with dead sentries, when her eyes landed on the Prince of Cleystein, weak and bleeding and almost dead, Syrene’s heart squeezed. He was drenched in sweat, slouched against the stone wall. His eyes falling shut, lips parched.

She noticed the blood on the wall above his head, gleaming in the direct moonlight.

Syrene was running now. “Azryle.”

His chest rose and fell at her voice. Alive—still alive. Fighting.

She crouched before him, and patted his cheek. “Azryle.” Syrene knew Felset lay unconscious in a dungeon down another channel beside her, and it was an effort to not approach it and skin the queen, if only to make sure she won’t revive.

But she recalled Vendrik’s words. Don’t waste time on Felset. It’ll take her hours to wake up—and she will wake up. Use your focus on the sentries guarding the area.

Azryle’s lids lifted. And those silver eyes—like a flame guttering—met hers.

“Syrene,” he rasped slowly, weakly.

His eyes closed. Her heart paused.

His lids rose again. Her heart dared beat.

“Syrene …” he repeated. “Am I in Saqa?”

She couldn’t help the snort, even as she fought the prickling in her eyes. “Not so soon.” Syrene took his hand. “Someday,” she breathed, “we’ll visit that place together. Understand? But not today.” Then—

Azryle gasped, his eyes snapping open, as she sent terminating power jolting up his arm. Their joined hands glowed first, then veins at their wrists, then the glow made its way up to their shoulders, in sync with each other.

She felt the beast within her trying to grasp at her mejest, to feed on it and rouse itself. But it failed. This mejest was Syrene’s own, and she’d be damned if she let something else corrupt it.

The power whizzed into their chests, and, like a metal cord, pierced through their hearts. This time, Syrene gasped. It flared in her chest. Her blood began pounding, her veins felt as if they would erupt.

“Were you really going to leave without a goodbye?” Syrene whispered through her teeth, if only to distract herself from this hideous might taking over her, lest it conquer her mind. “You are not dying so easily, you bastard. We have a whole planet to save. Did you really think I would be able to do this alone?” Her voice softened. “I need you, Ryle. Please, stay.”

She felt as her force combed his entire body, each drop of his blood. It mustered the remaining ounces of his mejest in a lump and burst it in his blood like a water balloon. It burned out the poison, enough for Azryle to breathe without much effort, for his mind to clear.

Poison was still there, weakening him. But not enough to kill.

Syrene released his hand, pulling out the mejest before it could destroy him, and went beside him. She hooked an arm around his shoulders.

“Come, now. Let’s get you home.”