Abolisher
39.

Azryle awoke to breath tickle his chest.

He knew it was Syrene before he gained enough sense to scent her. His arm was around her—her hair grazing his chin. The gardenia and rain scent filling his nostrils, fogging his mind.

She was awake, lost in thoughts.

He hoped for sun to greet him when he opened his eyes, but … the sky was still at its darkest, stars twinkling. The forest still glowed—brighter than yesterday, even.

“What if we destroyed the stone?” asked Syrene.

Azryle blinked, his mind dawdling. “What …”

She sat up and wheeled to face him. “The Key. What if we destroyed it?”

He exhaled, his gaze moving to the stars. “That might unleash whatever’s entombed inside.”

“What if we hid it?”

“Felset would be led to it.”

“Hm,” she mused. “Grinon managed to take Drighrem from Felset. He made it something else with his power to keep it from her. We could do that with the Key.”

He considered. “I doubt Felset would be foolish enough to allow that to happen again.” He shook his head. “Too dangerous. Too foolish.”

The furrow between her brows deepened as she pondered. “Okay, no one lives here, right? What if we break the stone here?”

“No one, except the Tiny Moons. Somehow, I doubt Starflame would be very pleased to hear your suggestions right now.”

Syrene began tying up her hair, strands of which fell into her face.

Azryle’s fingers immediately twitched to untie it.

She tucked that strand behind her ear. “Well, Starflame isn’t informed of this place.”

He was shaking his head again, even though he knew she was joking. Mildly. “That’s a terrible plan.”

Syrene held his gaze. “You have to open the portal back to our world soon, Ryle. We cannot be late.”

He nodded, as much as he loathed reaching for that mejest. “Where is everyone?” he asked, heeding the silence of the area, the calm river. He could almost imagine the sunlight.

“They’ve followed the river. A few wanted to bathe—others wanted some time to themselves.”

He sketched a brow. “I’m the last one to wake up?”

She nodded, coming to lay down beside him. “I don’t blame you though.” Those lips slowly formed a grin. “I just happen to be a very comfortable company, Prince.”

“Oh?”

Azryle drew himself onto his elbow, before he brought himself atop her, trapping her beneath himself.

Even as her eyes widened slightly, the smirk remained at her lips. “I suppose,” he whispered, lowering his lips to her collarbone, “saying I’m craving comfort wouldn’t be so inappropriate.”

His fingers moved to her waist, lifted her shirt just slightly to meet her skin.

He heard her speeding heart when he slid the sleeve off her shoulder with his mouth and kissed her there. She tilted her head when he moved to the smooth hollow of her neck. She arched slightly beneath him.

“Well,” she rasped, “not wholly.”

She smiled against her skin, his own heart picking up the unusual pace.

Meanwhile his hand moved to her lower back—ascending, fingers grazing her side, scraping her scars. Syrene shuddered, nails digging in his shoulders.

Azryle found he loved her scars almost as much as he loved kissing her.

Her hands balled in his hair when his tongue grazed the side of her throat. The rise and fall of her chest quickened. He kissed the corner of her neck and jaw—right beneath her ear.

She whispered his name, and the sound of it sent chills down his spine.

Azryle moved his lips to hers. Heat claimed him.

Real—she was utterly real.

Not his mind playing tricks as it had this past year. Not any wild dream, not even liquor.

Real.

✰✰✰✰✰

He undid her bra with a flick of his finger.

Syrene almost gasped against his lips.

Haerven. She was in Haerven.

The glowing forest—the mejest and the way this place felt against her skin.

And then, Azryle’s lips.

Haerven.

He kissed her so hard that she couldn’t breathe—lowered himself enough that she felt his weight against herself. Her legs twined around his hips.

He tasted like spice and smoke. He tasted ancient and cruel. He tasted like life—

Home.

He tasted like home.

Syrene’s heart threatened to burst at that thought.

Because that was what Azryle felt like. A lost home waiting to be found for over an eternity.

Even when the literal fire had enveloped her, she hadn’t burned the way she did with Azryle. Everything in her singed with life and desire.

Her thoughts vanished—her breaths vanished. She forgot her name, all the burden.

All she wanted was this—this comfort and delight. Him against her and the rest be damned.

His thumb was grazing the side of her breast. Considering. Waiting. And Syrene smiled against his lips.

She was breathing hard when she withdrew her mouth from his. Her fingers began paying with the short ends of his hair.

“I went scouting an hour ago,” she whispered, moving her gaze from his swollen lips to those silver eyes brimming with unmistakable desire. “I saw a cave—”

“Oh!”

Azryle lifted himself to his elbow when Vendrik appeared from the trees. Both their gazes whipped to the firebreather.

Who was already disappearing into the woods after muttering his apologies.

Azryle exhaled, showering her face with his warm breath. He looked down at her and smiled, tossing onto his back at her side.

Syrene sat up. She began straightening her shirt when Azryle said, “You were saying?”

Fire seemed have stroked Syrene’s face. She shook her head, unable to suppress her smile.

She’d only ever been with one man in her life—even that had chanced this past year, whose shirt Azryle had worn. The shirt he’d died in.

She immediately buried that thought as soon as it surfaced, and picked up another one nagging at her.

Her eyes remained where Vendrik had disappeared behind the trees. “Have you talked to him?”

The prince drew himself into a sitting position beside her and followed her gaze. He shook his head. “Rik needs time and space to heal. That’s what he’d needed when …” He paused and pursed his lips in pure hatred. “When Felset killed his wife.”

Syrene took a horrified breath, all the heat dissipated from her.

“He’ll be fine in his own time.”

“He told me to let Ianov terminate itself.”

Azryle whipped his head to her. “He did?”

She nodded. “He made to make it sound like a valid choice. He’s self-destructive, Azryle. You’re the only one he has in his life—and maybe Ferouzeh but …” She lifted to her feet. “Talk to him. Felset isolated him for over a year. He needs his people around him. Loneliness can obliterate a person without laying a scratch.”

Azryle rose to his full height, towering her. And sighed. “Alright. But I’ll hold you on that offer—”

“Go.” She smacked his arm.

He scowled, rubbing his arm. Then he simply walked past her to his friend.

It was only a moment before he returned at her back.

All Syrene felt was a slight movement in her hair when he flicked it, before it fell down to flow from her shoulders.

Azryle brought his lips to her ear. “I like it undone.” Before he saw himself out, his fingers combing her hair all the way to the ends as he went.

Leaving her smiling like an idiot.

✰✰✰✰✰

A few days drifted by, Azryle still hadn’t found a way to open the portal.

Every night he found somewhere quiet and spiraled down into his mejest. The Darkness came, but the portal didn’t open.

He’d even tried winding his mejest with Syrene’s, but nothing gave way. He’d gone so far as asking Syrene to use the leash and command him … but she’d already commanded him to not feel obliged to her commands.

By now they’d learned that though there was no sun in this world, there was still time. Days.

The trees blacked out in the deepest of the night, grew brighter during days.

They didn’t feel hungry here, or thirsty. Or the need of any other necessities. Not as much as they should have, at least.

One of these days, they learned there were different breeds of Tiny Moons. A few could manipulate elements, others bore mejest. Some could speak, like Starflame.

Everyone was perched by the river when one Tiny Moon flew over to Syrene, and lowered herself to her shoulder. Syrene’s eyes lightened up.

Then the Tiny Moon spoke.

“May I ask who you are?”

All of them instantly equipped their weapons, ready to butcher the small creature.

The faerie instantly lifted from Syrene’s shoulder, cautious, prepared to dash away.

Syrene held out her hands. Stay back.

Reluctantly, the air seemed to calm as everyone unwounded.

Vendrik’s fire leisurely disappeared in his fist—Maycusen returned to his human form. And Azryle …

He hadn’t gone for any weapon. Or any innocuous mejest.

Darkness coiled his fingers. It took him a moment to realize what he’d almost done. He paused, conscious of the sudden sweat at his neck. Swiftly, he pulled the Darkness back in before anyone could discern.

But Faolin, lingering in the shadows behind Syrene across the area, was eyeing him, her face pained—forehead slick with sweat. The veins were just retreating from her neck and forehead.

Her lilac eyes dropped to his hand. And returned to his face.

“I’m … Syrene,” the duce introduced herself to the faerie, drawing both their attention.

Carefully, the faerie returned to Syrene’s shoulder.

“Syrene?” she mused, as if trying to recall a song tickling at the back of her mind.

The duce nodded. “What’s your name?”

“Helmun.”

“We’re lost, Helmun,” Syrene ventured. “We don’t know our way back.”

The faerie tilted her head. “Where do you hail from?”

Syrene ran a gaze around the group before answering, “Lavestia.”

Helmun gasped. “Lavestia?” Her voice had dropped, as if she spoke a curse.

“Why does it shock you so?”

The Tiny Moon rubbed the back of her neck and sheepishly replied, “That had been our home once.”

Pause.

Vendrik exchanged a look with Azryle.

“You’re from Lavestia?” Syrene asked.

Helmun nodded. “Oh, what a harsh world.”

“Why are you here—what is this place?”

The faerie crossed her arms. “It has been a while since I have seen a human. No offence, Mesgur, but humans weren’t trustworthy then, and I doubt they are now.”

Mesgur. An archaic word of respect for—

Azryle’s mind rushed.

Every book in their world said that the Tiny Moons had gone extinct—when they’d simply disappeared from the forests.

With hemvae.

They should have guessed this was no coincidence. Everything made sense. No one had gone to the Jagged Battle to aid hemvae—people had turned against them for forging such a device. They’d done all to replace a way to raze it before it did the planet, but they unearthed no escape.

And then … they simply vanished, leaving the rest to historians’ imagination.

When in reality, they’d found another world of their own.

The faerie recognized Syrene—her heritage, her blood. Recognized her as the descendent of King of Hemvae.

Mesgur.

Princess.

“You’re doing that thing,” Ferouzeh whispered, snapping him from his thoughts.

“What thing?”

“That thing you do—when you’re keeping your face neutral but you’re vanishing from the world.”

Azryle lifted a brow.

Vendrik shook his head at his other side. “You’re brooding. Calculating. What is it?”

He looked between them, incredulous.

Ferouzeh crossed her arms. “Weren’t you?”

He didn’t reply to that. Instead, he looked to Syrene, who was probing the faerie with careful questions as he said, “There might be more to Syrene’s predecessors we don’t know about.”

“Like what?” asked the firebreather.

“Like Grinon Alpenstride might be alive.”

✰✰✰✰✰

“That’s a stretch.” Azryle heard the uncertainty in Rik’s dropped voice.

“I know,” he conceded. “But someone from his bloodline. Hemvae are most definitely alive—and they have their own world. And a ruler—”

“You don’t know that—”

“She called her mesgur. Princess—”

“Mesgur is a word of respect for anyone—”

“Not in Grinon Alpenstride’s era. Hemvae used Mesgur as Your Highness.”

“We are not in Grinon Alpenstride’s era.”

“You’re both being ridiculous,” Ferouzeh snapped. “Mesgur was used for princes and princesses. Long ago. But it’s still a word of respect too. Whether Syrene is a princess or not, we know Helmun recognizes her.” She looked to Azryle. “Grinon Alpenstride died trying to close the portal. He’d already drained all his mejest in Drothiker. He had no protection when he tried to close it.”

“We don’t know anything for sure. Everything with Syrene is always a mystery.”

Someone whistled low.

Vendrik, Ferouzeh and Azryle looked up as one.

Maycusen was perched on the tree right behind them. None of them was alarmed—the Jaguar wasn’t particularly a master at stealth.

He shot off the tree, landed over Azryle’s shoulder.

“This is not a different world, Mesgur,” the faerie was saying to Syrene. “It’s a pocket in Lavestia. Hemvae built it for us—for our safety. It’s just one very vast forest. Time is very slow here—two days here are two hours in Lavestia.”

Some sort of relief cascaded through Azryle, even as it felt odd to think they’d been here for less than a day.

“As much as it pains me to say this,” Maycusen whispered, “jefe is right. There is a hemvae realm. But the ruler isn’t Grinon Alpenstride.” He looked at Azryle. “How often does dearest Czar speak of her father?”

There, Helmun was saying, “We do not have access to them. But they have been watching us.”

“Who?”

“Your father’s people, Mesgur.”

“What—”

Neither Syrene had the time to complete her question, nor Azryle had the chance to consider Maycusen’s.

A moment of pause. Only a moment.

Before the air about the river writhed. Azryle’s gaze snapped to it. Only he, Vendrik and Faolin seemed to have noticed it. They equipped their weapons.

The winds came foremost.

A hole yawned open like an invisible window atop the river. The trees rustled when the wind grew sharp enough that everyone dug their feet in the ground.

A portal.

Someone sucked in a breath when beheld it. The monstrosity of it.

Syrene stepped towards the portal.

“Syrene,” Azryle warned.

But she didn’t hear over the slaps and howls of winds.

The faerie—who was clutching Syrene’s hair to keep herself from being snatched away—screamed something in her ear.

Azryle caught as Syrene’s eyes widened. Her hands fell to her sides, lips parched.

To his utter relief, Faolin was instantly behind her before she could get any closer, gripped her hand and yanked her back. “Czar!”

“Helmun said the portal leads to Lavestia!” Syrene yelled over the noise.

It could be Felset—

As if hearing his thought, Syrene met his gaze across the chaos. Her voice dropped when she spoke, enough that he didn’t hear. But he read her lips.

“It’s not Felset. Or Delaya.”

The portal wasn’t wide, but it seemed to have swallowed the river. It was razing the ground.

Azryle stepped towards it—

Rik gripped his elbow. “No,” he snarled. “We don’t know if we can trust that faerie.”

“I have to check if it’s safe—”

“Why does it have to be you?”

Azryle slid his elbow from his grip. “Am I not the one who brought you here?”

Rik opened his mouth but Azryle had already turned to the gaping wound in the world. The winds made it arduous to take steps—it felt as if he were dragging his legs through waist-high thick mud.

The closer he got to the portal the stranger the world felt—almost as if it were nipping at his skin. The Darkness had come free within him. Now it reached his fingers, singing promise of safety in his ears.

Azryle tried to overpower it, but it was fruitless. The more he fought the stronger it grew.

He felt it at his neck, tainting his blood, filling his veins. Felt it souring higher. He was at the portal when Syrene came beside him. She slid her hand in his, hair snapping around her face. She looked up, met his gaze, nodded with an unspoken promise.

Together.

Together, they abandoned one world and stepped into another.