Abolisher
25.

Azryle awoke to a dagger at his throat.

It was as if life had been jostled into him. When he gasped awake, his blood was pounding, his head was spinning. His mind rushed—cold sweat laminated his forehead. It took moments for his sight to adjust.

Delaya Fairdust stood over him.

Typically, he would’ve easily skimmed out from her hold, but pain coursed through him. He couldn’t move, his body a heavy weight. He couldn’t move—

“Where is the stone,” Delaya demanded. “I swear I will slit your throat right here.”

Azryle didn’t know where he was, but the window behind the woman was open, dawn’s light streaming it. She’d sneaked in.

“Coward.” Azryle remained calm, even as his heart was a drumming bell. “You didn’t play by the plan. You never came for Vendrik. What,” he crooned, “did you piss yourself when you saw Felset?”

Her eyes flashed before she slammed the dagger’s pommel into his temple. Azryle’s vision darkened, faintness rushed through him. If only he could move—

“I will not repeat myself, Prince.”

“Then don’t.” He let his head rest on the pillow. “I tire of hearing your horrid voice.”

The dagger’s blade pressed in his throat. “Is this really the end you want? I won’t be so generous, ripper.” Her weapon moved to his cheek—right where his zegruks began beneath his cheekbone. “I wonder how you will scream when I peel the markings off.”

Azryle kept his face impassive. “Good luck. Do your worst.”

“Oh, I will.”

He shut his eyes when the dagger bit into his skin hard enough to draw blood. He wouldn’t scream, he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction—

The bedroom’s door creaked open. The lights turned on. Azryle dared lift his lids.

Fairdust wasn’t leaning over him anymore. She’d turned to face the door. Where Syrene stood, lightning buzzing at her fingers, whirring in her eyes, death on her face. Azryle stilled.

“Here’s a tip for the next time you try to climb a building,” she drawled, bringing up her fingers to eye the bright threats of lightning. “Try to avoid the windows.”

Delaya snarled. That dagger lifted from Azryle’s cheek, and went zooming for Syrene. His instincts edged. But Syrene simply caught the dagger in her hand. “Tch,” she tutted. Her gaze slid to Azryle. Azure eyes met those of silver. “So aggressive, your friend.”

He physically felt the absence when those eyes left.

“This has nothing to do with you,” Delaya hissed.

“Oh, of course not.” She crossed her arms. “Except, of course, you do happen to be in my apartment, and disturbing my guests.” She yawned. “Along with my sleep.”

Delaya began chuckling. She shook her head, as if an invisible wight had whispered a joke in her ear. “Syrene Alpenstride.” Syrene stiffened at that. “Always a smug.”

“One of my countless traits, yes.” There was no humor on her face anymore. Instead, a deep furrow had dug between her brows. “Am I supposed to be returning the sentiment?”

“You are not.” Delaya’s grinned. “But in the coming days, you sure will be thinking about me.” Then—

A flash of bright light.

Azryle’s body, free of whatever bounds Fairdust had shackled him in, moved, Syrene stepped forward to catch the woman, but a crow was already soaring out of the open window.

Azryle swore as pain, sharp and blistering, pierced him head to toe. He fell back on the bed.

Silence.

✰✰✰✰✰

Moments passed; silence remained.

Syrene chewed on her lip, picked at her nails, suddenly unable to stay still. She wasn’t sure her heart was beating.

He continued gawking at the ceiling, and Syrene was vaguely aware words were swirling in his mind, too cowered to land on his lips. At least hers were. His chest was rising and falling—long gone was that steady rhythm, she noticed, listened, his heart was beating unevenly.

Syrene opened her mouth. Shut it. What was she to say? I missed you? No way in burning Saqa was she admitting that.

Silence grew heavy, thick.

Then, slowly, Azryle’s eyes came to rest on hers.

Her heart skipped a beat.

“Hello,” he breathed.

“Hello,” she replied. And as if a secret language, unspoken words were conveyed in that one small word.

His face pained when he sat up, grunting, the muscles of his arms straining with the effort. Syrene looked at him then, as he leaned his head against the headboard, as if for the first time. He looked so … different, than the last she’d seen of him. There was a softness to his features, a warmth looking so foreign, so absurd, as if a mask not quite fit to his face. There was an exhaustion Syrene was too cognizant of.

Syrene, still looming by the doorstep, leaned against the doorframe.

“Who was that?” She broke the sudden silence.

He threw a glance in the window’s direction. “Delaya Fairdust. Someone I’ve stolen something precious from.”

Syrene sketched a brow. “The prince a thief? That’s new.”

“There’s a lot of new going around,” he said, running those silver eyes along Syrene’s dyed hair. “Might as well pitch in.”

Syrene drawled, “As long as it’s not her heart you stole.”

Azryle’s coughed. “I doubt her knife would’ve my at my cheek, if that’d been the case.”

She snorted.

A pause.

“How have you been?” he asked. And Syrene was distressingly reminded of how broken she’d been when she’d met him a year ago, how extremely unhinged.

She defensively crossed her arms across her chest. “Good,” she answered. “You? Ferouzeh told me—about the leash—” She swallowed. “I know you’d said you don’t want to be free, but I hadn’t known in the staride—”

“Free?” he echoed.

“Yeah, you’re not bound anymore …” Syrene hesitated, suddenly alert. “Are you?” If he was still bound to Felset, she’d made a grave mistake bringing him to the apartment. She should go for the dagger, she knew she should go for the dagger—

There was no mistaking the furrow between his brows, the slight narrowing of eyes. “No—yeah …” He shook his head, his face slowly freeing itself of any emotion. “Of course.”

Syrene’s suspicions spiked. Azryle was too good at lying—Saqa, so good that she couldn’t even scent whether he was telling the truth—but something pricked at her senses, her instincts, like a intuitive confirmation that he was lying. That feeling swelled into a knowledge, until she knew with a firm certainty he was lying. In her bones, in her blood, the feeling seemed to speak.

But why? Could it be that he was Felset’s spy? Could it be that he was here to kill Syrene? Could the whole situation have been a ploy?

Despite what her heart demanded, her mind worked.

Conveniently, Felset hadn’t been there to stop them when she’d gone to rescue the ripper.

Conveniently, both of Felset’s most trusting warriors happened to be harboring under Syrene’s surveillance.

Conveniently, when she’d followed Maycusen’s directions on the letter, she’d found Azryle in the Jaguar’s stead.

Syrene couldn’t help the hurt that daggered into her chest. Who was Azryle to her now?

Enemy? Friend?

Stranger?

Kill him now, a logical voice whispered, when he’s weak and can’t fight. Kill him before he brings Felset to Navy and Vurian.

It was likely that she was being paranoid, but the weapon was already in her hand at her back, her feet were advancing towards him before her mind commanded.

Kill him—

You can’t kill him, another voice sneered, ruthless. You can’t harm him, you can’t do anything to him. Because your body is vulnerable before him. Because you are vulnerable before him. You know he sees the parts of you that you don’t even recognize yourself. You know he’s the only person in the world who manages to make you feel less alone—you wouldn’t lose that for the world.

“Syrene.” Azryle stiffened, now cautious.

But he made no move to defend himself, she noticed. His shoulders tensed, but … he remained sitting in the bed.

Syrene pocketed the dagger back in her pants.

Who was she kidding? She couldn’t kill him—she wasn’t even able to tighten her grip around the hilt. Azryle was Felset’s weapon at Syrene’s throat, and what did you do when there was a weapon at your throat, threatening to gash? You didn’t slay the weapon.

You found a way to disarm the foe.

Syrene perched beside him on the bed. He tensed further. She took his hand—it nearly consumed hers, the rough calluses met hers. A mixture of warmth and longing flared inside her at that touch—and for a brief moment, she wondered what it would feel like, to lay here beside him, let his bodily warmth envelop her. What it would feel like, to be in his embrace.

The moment passed, and Syrene remembered what lay between him and her.

Felset.

He was whipped. Again. In dungeons. Again. Tortured. Again. New scars she would never be able to heal, to touch.

She wanted him. But more than that, she wanted him to heal. And not just the physical wounds.

Syrene called her mejest. Their entangled hands were soon wrapped in bright light. Azryle sucked in a sharp breath when their mejest knotted.

“I can free you, Azryle, right now,” she whispered. “You can go live your life, as a normal human. You can go discover yourself—the person you are, not the one she forged. You don’t have to comply to her commands. I can give you it.” She squeezed his hand, the light enhancing. “Just say the word.”

For moments, he only stared at her. Then—

“I don’t want any of that,” he murmured back, eyes searching her face. “I want to help you kill her.”

She couldn’t deny him this. No—how could she? But … “Why did she torture you this time, Azryle?” Syrene didn’t think she was breathing—she kept herself calm. It took all her strength to ask him this. “Does she still desire you—”

He shook his head. Then he told her everything—about Vendrik’s fire, the wards around it. About how the firebreather had helped him escape Cleystein a year ago, and was being punished for it since.

When he finished, her chest ached. For Vendrik, for Azryle, for every soul Felset had toyed with. She didn’t speak for minutes. Then, “If you’re still bound to her—”

“I’m not.”

Again, that knowing seeped into her bones. Truth. He wasn’t bound to Felset but he wasn’t free either? Confusion arose in Syrene. She didn’t know what to trust, what to accept. She didn’t even know what was triggering this knowledge inside her. It wasn’t her instincts, she knew that much, the feeling was too strong to be a mere instinct.

She pulled her mejest back from his. The light died, but their hands remained linked. Syrene didn’t want to let go. She asked, her voice still a whisper, “Why do you not want to be free?”

Azryle straightened. He was silent for long enough that Syrene thought he wouldn’t reply. Then, “Rippers were made to hunt down baeselk. They’re hemvae, created with Drothiker—whatever monstrosity that device held.” He rested his head against the bedhead. His thumb began rubbing her palm—Syrene doubted he was aware he was doing it. She tried to ignore it. “I have an invisible leash to my soul for a reason, cub. I don’t wish to know what I would become when there’s no one holding that leash.”

“So you truly never wanted to be free of her?”

He scoffed. “Oh, I wanted to rip her apart. Be done with her.”

“But you said—when she commanded you in that throne room, to tell the truth whether you want to leave her—”

He was already shaking his head. “Felset is insane, but she isn’t a damned fool. She’d asked whether I want to be freed. Not whether I want to be freed of her.” His eyes dropped on her again, and Syrene felt the burden of his gaze. “You freed me.”

Abruptly, her face felt hot. “Just don’t get your hopes to the skies.” She snorted. “I don’t like you or anything.”

He drawled, “You love me.”

“Oh, poor you.” She gave him a pitiful look. “Your hopes are already mounting.”

Syrene shrieked when Azryle quickly gripped her hand and yanked her to himself. Her ass left the bed, her face landed inches from his, hand came to rest on his shoulder to brace herself. She heard his heart speeding, mirroring hers.

“You love me, Alpenstride,” he whispered with a lover’s softness. The familiar citrus and musk scent clouded her senses, butchering all her thoughts, when his breath met her lips, just as his gaze dropped to them, his eyes glazed with desire.

“I don’t,” she replied with equal softness, but didn’t retreat. Couldn’t.

His chin lifted, bringing his lips closer. Syrene felt frozen. Numb. Her heart was hammering. His hand, still gripping hers, laced their fingers.

“You don’t hate me.” His lips were a breath away from hers, and all Syrene wanted to do was release the control. “Not anymore.”

“I hate you.” She waited.

His grip tightened around her hand—she knew he was fighting to hold himself, even as his face bared nothing. His eyes gossiped more than he would like them to.

Then, slowly, gently, his face came beside hers, grazed her cheek with such lightness that she found herself fighting a shudder. Sparks burned her cheek. His lips touched her ear as he breathed, “My zegruks are much prettier.” Syrene paused.

When his face came before hers again, he was smirking that teasing, triumphant smirk that, she found, she still couldn’t stand.

Oh, what an ass. He’d done this before—a year ago. Bastard.

When Syrene straightened away from him, he laughed.

Laughed.

Not a cold, taunting sound anymore. But a warm, serene sound full of humor and mischief.

Syrene couldn’t help what erupted in her chest—couldn’t help the way the sound reverberated in her flesh, echoed in her bones. She wanted to trap it in a jar, like one did a fleeing butterfly, and listen to it every day.

She still kept a straight face, if only to keep that delight on his face. She placed her hands on her hips, and scowled. “I do hate you,” she hissed. “I loathe you. And otsatyas know you’re going to burn in Saqa.”

She turned to leave, but Azryle grasped her wrist in an iron grip, as if knowing she would try to wrench it free, and tugged her again.

His lips met her cheek. Syrene’s face burned.

She looked at him, his eyes still abound in mischief, but a sincerity limned them. And gratitude.

He murmured, “Thank you for everything, Alpenstride.”

He released her, and Syrene uncurled. She picked out an invisible piece of lint from her shirt. “So long as you stop calling me Alpenstride.”

He tilted his head again, a predatory movement. Considering. Then, “What would you prefer then?”

Syrene gave him an incredulous look before she crossed her arms. “I have a name.”

“Hm.” Azryle mused, lips quirking. “And what is it, cub?”

Syrene hissed, actually irritated, and pinched his shoulder. He laughed again, bringing his slender finger to the reddening skin. “Get some rest, you prick,” she grumbled. “Don’t die in your sleep. Heal. We have a planet to save. And a bitch to kill.”

He shook his head, the smile growing wider on those lips.

Syrene felt his gaze like warm velvet around herself as she reluctantly walked to the door. Her hand reached to shut the lights—

“Leave the lights on.”

Her chest tightened, remembering the darkness of the dungeons in that vision Drothiker had shown her in the arena.

Syrene nodded. She’d almost shut the door when she paused. “Believe what you want,” she said. “My zegruks are much prettier.”

Azryle’s chuckle fluttered her heart, seemed to have rattled her bones, before she shut the door.

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