Abolisher
41.

Faolin waited.

She began counting her breaths as soon as Syrene stepped through the gate with her prince. Waited for the oath to cleave through her soul and shred it to ribbons.

Everyone was holding breath in the area—not a single person breathing. Renavy was staring at Faolin, waiting for her to crumble, for Faolin’s life was a confirmation of Syrene’s.

So were Vendrik Evenflame and Ferouzeh. If Syrene was alive, so was Azryle.

Moments passed, Maycusen spoke when nothing happened. “Are we supposed to wait for a clear coast sign—”

Something was tossed from the portal.

Everyone soon armed themself. But it was only a pebble.

Faolin stepped towards it, so did Vendrik.

She crouched and hefted it up. She expected a wave of exterminating power—anything—but nothing happened. A simple pebble.

“I think this is your clear coast sign,” muttered the firebreather, standing over her.

Faolin nodded and lifted. “Let’s go.”

Everyone around her moved.

An army of faeries had gathered about the area, watching, or maybe in a silent goodbye.

Vur and Levsenn appeared at Faolin’s side. She didn’t realize she was looking for Ferouzeh in the crowd until she found her approaching the portal with the firebreather. Hazel eyes on Faolin.

Their gazes locked. The healer nodded her good luck. Faolin nodded back.

“If I don’t emerge from there, do have the tendency to throw my body in the ocean.” Levsenn shuddered beside Faolin. “They would probably chew on it since I was exiled from Blueneath for coming to terms with cursed soilkin …” She shrugged.

An attempt at joke—but beneath all the bravado, Faolin was surprised to replace that the siren might be, for once, frightened.

Vur’s hand reached out to her lower back in comfort.

Faolin managed a grin at her … friend. The word felt strange generally, but more so when used for Levsenn. Aquakin were meant to be their enemies by nature, after all.

“Are you scared, Levsenn?” she teased.

Levsenn frowned, but neither denied nor retorted. Fear must have truly paved its way through her.

Faolin touched her shoulder and nodded at her—a warrior offering comfort to another. Levsenn seemed to sag. She nodded back.

“We better get out alive, Wisflave.” Cunningness rallied in her sapphire eyes like a storm. “I didn’t let my ass suffer for the whole year in your company so we could die for nothing.”

“At least my company didn’t make you want to die,” Faolin drawled. “Not sure I can say the same about yours.”

The siren chuckled as they began advancing towards the portal. The winds were sharper every step closer to it.

Faolin’s pulse quickened as they closed in. She dared catch Vur’s gaze. If they died—if something happened, she did not want to part with him with words hanging like knives between them. She did not wish for silence to be his last words to her. She opened her mouth, but he was already nodding.

I understand.

She smiled slightly—it was all she could do as the portal pulled at them, threatening to swallow them.

She tore her gaze from his, only to replace Ferouzeh stepping into the dark void—the firebreather’s arm around her. Faolin’s heart paused dead when she disappeared into it. Her throat tightened.

Then heart was racing.

Be safe, she willed. Be safe, be safe, be safe—

The moment they stepped through the gate, the pull was so strong that she could have sworn her bones bent. Before she knew it, she was reaching out for Levsenn’s hand.

She expected eternal darkness, expected something terrifying, but light enveloped her. Countless colorful streaks zipped past her—all around her. The place was so bright that she couldn’t see—felt Levsenn’s hand in hers but there was no one beside her.

She couldn’t even perceive her own self—couldn’t feel it.

It almost felt as if she were swimming inside a moon.

Then the moon spat her out, as if loathed the taste of her.

She landed on her knees when the brightness behind her lids disappeared and Faolin felt her limbs, felt the air around herself.

Her world’s air.

She opened her eyes, and exhaled a long breath when found moonlit trees encircling her.

The trees … Faolin recognized these trees. Her chest tightened when the familiar scent of tribes slid up her nostrils—tightened so hard that she felt her eyes itching.

Home.

She lifted to her feet.

Levsenn was hissing—her cheek, hands, had scraped roughly against the ground. Vur offered her a hand and helped her to her full height.

Faolin looked around, heart bracing. Ferouzeh—

The healer was crouched beside the prince … hunched over someone. Faolin approached them.

Syrene was unconscious.

“I can’t detect anything,” Ferouzeh mused. “The portal must have—”

Syrene snapped to a sitting position, gasping for air. Frantic. She eyed everyone standing over her. Then she scanned the forest, recognition flooded her eyes when she placed the trees.

But that frantic expression didn’t waver.

Syrene’s hand reached into her hair, her chest heaving. “I remember,” she breathed. “I remember him. I—” Her voice broke.

Those azure eyes landed on Faolin. There was no mistaking the unchecked wrath burning in there. So wild that Faolin watched it taking over her duce’s entire body, her eyes, her mind. “Take me to her.” Syrene lifted to her feet. “Right now. Take me to her,” she snarled viciously.

The command—the pure command …

Faolin was moving then—she didn’t even have to ask whom the duce was talking about. She bowed, and made to turn and lead her, unable to think anything else as the command pulsed in her blood.

But Azryle gripped Syrene’s elbow and whirled her, alarmed by her sudden anger. “Cub—” he warned.

Syrene yanked her elbow from his grasp. And commanded in a voice brimming with lethal calm, “Stay here.” The instruction wasn’t only for him, but for everyone present here—barring Faolin, of course.

A command from the Duce of Tribes. Utter viciousness and dominance in it were what had the hair on Faolin’s neck rising, despite having her mind reined by the command.

The ripper froze. Not by some force, definitely not at the order—but at the coldness and promise of violence in her voice.

Syrene said, “Let’s go.”

And then Faolin was leading the duce away.

Towards Hexet Evreyan.

✰✰✰✰✰

The cave was as dark as Faolin remembered, darker still as they treaded deeper into it.

Dimmed witchglows burned along the walls, illuminating the dark corners. Faolin paused when they entered the west wing of the cave.

She retrieved a stone from the ground and tossed it into the empty hallway stretching before her. The sound echoed.

Faolin felt the other presence in her mejest.

She swallowed before calling, “Hexet.” It felt strange to call her by the first name—it’d always been Czar Hexet, or Duce Hexet before. “Czar Syrene demands your presence. Show yourself.”

Faolin heard the catch in the breath.

Syrene had begun tapping her finger to her elbow beside her, impatience rippling off of her. But she stilled entirely when a shadow appeared at the far end of the hallway.

Not of human, but a wolf. It was bulkier than the most, strongest than all. Deadlier than anyone. And it was snarling, sizing Faolin and Syrene up.

Faolin’s head bowed in respect, but Syrene only stared as the wolf shifted. There was no light to laminate the process—for it didn’t take more than the barest moment for Prime Raocete’s human form to replace the wolf.

“Sprog.” The word was spoken low, but it echoed.

Young trainee.

Syrene’s only question was, “Where is she.” The words were venom incarnate. But the suppressed anger in it was so obvious that the prime seemed to hesitate, as if she didn’t quite believe what she’d heard. As if Syrene’s tone and anger conveyed more than just those three words.

It was the first time Faolin had seen her hesitate.

Before she could answer, another figure emerged from the corner. Again, that hitch in breath—both from Hexet and Syrene.

The former duce took a step towards Syrene. Then another. The first one was cautious, the second one was to brace herself because there was no mistaking the tremor in her legs as she beheld her daughter after thirty-six years of fearing for her life.

Faolin felt the relief and love that washed over Hexet in her own skin—as if she hadn’t quite been breathing for these thirty-six years.

Hexet didn’t seem to have seen the rage Syrene was swathed in though—or simply chose not to heed it—and began striding towards the duce.

She broke into a run.

When she crossed the distance, she gathered Syrene into a hug, raining kisses all over her face as tears ran down her cheeks. All the while muttering You’re alive. You’re alive. Otsatyas, you’re alive.

She was shaking. The woman who’d earned the tribes through sheer will was shaking.

Syrene remained limp in her mother’s arms. Only when Hexet withdrew to scan her face again, did Syrene speak.

“What else have you taken from me?”

Hexet paused. “What?” Her voice was so vulnerable, so weak, that Faolin’s heart strained.

Syrene shoved Hexet’s hands off her shoulders. Her voice rose. “What else have you taken from me?!”

The confusion only deepened on Hexet’s face. She wiped Syrene’s hair from her face. “Syrene, I’m …” She scanned her face. “Do you not remember me, Flarespirit? Do you not recognize—”

“Don’t you dare call me that.” She shoved past her—Faolin had a vague sense she did that only to keep herself from pushing her mother.

Hexet turned to her, bewildered.

“Don’t you dare call me that.” Her voice was shaking.

The former duce looked to Faolin for an explanation. But Faolin had none, she only averted her gaze, if only so Hexet wouldn’t catch the pity Faolin was feeling for the woman.

“You planted that seed in my mind—that seed of Brother Adlae. You tampered with my mind with witchcraft when I was merely ten. And that’s fine. I don’t care. But removing my memories?” Her voice broke now.

Hexet’s face cleared slightly.

Syrene furiously rubbed at the dawning tears in her eyes. “You took him from me. My father. You took one good thing in my life from me and forced these—these burdens on me. He was one reprieve I had.”

“Flarespirit …” Hexet ventured.

“Why did you do it!” Syrene screamed. “What else do I not know. What else did you take!”

“Syrene, you don’t know him. He’s not the person you think—”

“I do know him. I’ve only spent these past couple weeks with him and I think I know him more than I know you.”

Hexet bristled. “What?” Her voice steered demanding. “You went so see him?”

“You’re the one who told me he lives in Silvervale, remember? He goes by Kefaas Petsov. But you know that already, do you not? I didn’t even know he was my father until fifteen minutes ago. But he did, didn’t he? All along, he was trying to help me not for the sake of this planet, but for my own sake. He knows—he remembers. I’m willing to bet everything that he wrote all those articles for me, so I would replace him and come to him for help. So I wouldn’t be suspicious.”

Hexet took a shuddering breath, tears slipping from her eyes. “That man is not your father.”

Syrene stared at her.

“He stopped being your father the moment he chose his people and decided to leave Lavestia, and go play a king. He stopped being your father when he abandoned us both.”

Syrene’s face crumpled and she began shaking her head. She looked so exhausted, and so hurt, that Faolin wanted to hug her, offer her comfort. “I just want to know why did you have to remove my memories of him,” she whispered, fatigue lay heavy on her.

“Because I was afraid, Syrene.” Hexet took a step toward her. “He persisted telling you tales of his fairytale world. I was afraid you would wish to abandon Lavestia as he did. That you would wish to go be a princess there and leave your own world to its Destiny. Because why wouldn’t you? Who would not want that life over the one you’re Destined with—”

“And so you decided to plague my life with what you did.” Syrene cut her off, incredulous. “You decided training me to die in the end makes you any better than whatever you think he is.”

Hexet stiffened at the blow. “I was a duce. I had responsibilities to this planet.”

Syrene began laughing. The mirthless sound so cold that it chilled Faolin’s blood, had the hair along her arms rising. “You did that all right. You did your duties as a duce just fine.” She angled her head, the laugh fading. “But what about your responsibilities as a mother?”

Hexet looked as if she would collapse.

But Syrene didn’t seem to notice. Her voice rose again. “You succeeded at being a duce. But don’t you see how terribly you failed at being my mother?”

Only then did Prime Raocete speak. “Do not forget your place, Sprog.” Syrene straightened at the prime’s cool, dominating voice, as the wolf behind her approached. “You shall not speak to your mother like that.”

Syrene scoffed.

Otsatyas above, scoffed.

Prime Raocete’s fury came in a strong tendril. “Apologize.”

But Syrene looked over her shoulder at the prime. “Do not for a second forget that I am your duce, Lady of Wolves. Your position as a prime, or even the respect you’ve earned from all the tribes, do not outrank me. Think twice before you dare command me next time.”

Faolin’s mouth went dry.

The Prime of Wolves stopped short, a mixture of shock and disbelief and disappointment flitted across her face.

But Syrene commanded Faolin, “Let’s go,” and began storming out of the place.

Faolin followed.

But not fast enough to escape Hexet’s Evreyan’s muffled sob.

A warrior broken.

A mother broken.