Abolisher
1.

Syrene Evreyan Alpenstride knew she was being followed again as she walked down the dark alley. Cloaked and hooded, armed to teeth.

The cobblestone street leading to her building was empty and disconcertingly silent as usual, despite the patter of rain on the puddled water. Apart from that patter, there was another sound, one she could catch only thanks to her hemvae hearing.

Footsteps. One person. Vegreka. A man.

Ugh.

Syrene casually let her one gloved hand slide closer to the dagger sheathed at her hip, as the other hand straightened her shirt’s collar, mounting it up to her jaw, to hide the sides of her neck.

She let her fingers curl and uncurl at her sides.

Syrene was aware of it all too well—being shadowed and having a bounty on her head, those assassins all those years ago had given her a grip on these skills—though not intentionally—to know when she was being hunted, when the danger was near. And Syrene was never mistaken.

Especially not since the day she’d been forced in her hemvae form, ripped of her Grestel life. In this form, with these heightened senses and edged instincts, it was hard to miss what was taking place in her surroundings. Hard to not hear the breaths that were registered around her, movements that had the air rustling.

It had taken her months to adjust to this advanced body—months—but only because whatever now rushed through her veins was in a deep slumber, had been for a year now. And frankly, Syrene planned to keep it that way.

Syrene slowed her steps, let her follower near her, let him start panicking and sketch out his attack—she surely couldn’t lead him to her apartment. No, she wouldn’t let him anywhere near Navy. She wouldn’t risk another friend, not after—

She felt a pang in her heart, an ache in her throat.

Not after Deisn.

Deisn …

Syrene mentally shook herself. No—she wouldn’t think about Deisn Rainfang, now of all the times. She’d promised herself she’d never dwell over her past, what happened a year ago, and all the years before. She’d started a new life in this town, far from Cleystein, that wretched country—far from Jegvr and the tribes. She’d left her past, left everyone.

But these memories … they were like a thorn jutting out of her heart—one she couldn’t jab in.

She mentally crumpled her thoughts like a paper and hurled them out. And it was only then she noticed the steps had ceased behind her. She couldn’t hear the breathing, couldn’t scent the Vegreka over the onslaught of rain.

Syrene groaned in frustration and halted. She whirled.

The alley stretched out before her, yawned at the other end, where people passed the gap, going along with their lives, no one sparing a second glance in this unnerving alley’s direction. She knew someone was hiding in the shadows along the walls, could feel his presence like a lion sensing its prey—

Before even the new drops of rain had a chance to meet the puddle, the man dashed for her like a weapon with preternatural speed.

Unfortunately for him, Syrene’s hemvae instincts were sharper.

One moment, the man was a blur hurtling towards her. And the next, he was pinned to a wall nearby, in the same shadows he’d been hiding in, Syrene’s forearm against his neck, her dagger’s blade’s tip pressing in a side of his neck.

He wasn’t tall, but the position she was holding him in had him bending his legs slightly. Her face wasn’t so near to his—and yet, she could smell the stink of his breath, of his clothes. Hadn’t had the luxury to bathe? His green eyes were bright with shock in the dark and … fear.

“I’ve lost count of how many of your ilk I’ve killed this past year,” Syrene breathed. “Doesn’t your queen get tired?”

Indeed, Queen of Cleystein’s cronies had been hunting Syrene for the whole year. No matter how many identities she obscured herself under, how many lives she changed. They always found her. At first, she was attacked every week—they came for her everywhere, every second was spent running. But there had been no attacks for the past six months she’d been living as Cerys Omdrial, a simple Grestel. None. But now …

She captured the man’s eyes going wide, lips parting slightly in shock. “So—so it’s true …” he stammered. “You’re the Last Hemvae. The Heir of Grinon Alpenstride—the King of Hemvae.” His green eyes slid to the sides of her neck, which were concealed beneath the collar of her shirt. “Syrene Alpenstride.”

Syrene’s teeth ground in irritation, and she slightly pressed her dagger’s tip in his neck. He winced painfully. “How did you find me?” she demanded.

“Czar!” he gasped the referent she’d been running from—the one that was meant to belong to Hexet Evreyan only. But her mother was no more. She’d died in a duel challenged by Deisn Rainfang in order to conquer the power of Crown of Stars. “Czar—I’m just a messenger,” he pled. “Her Majesty would like to propose a bargain—”

Syrene choked out a mirthless laugh. She’d made countless mistakes in her half-a-century life, and repeated them time and again. But this … this one she wouldn’t repeat even in her grave, even if what the queen were offering was resurrection. For bargaining with Felset was like willfully treading in Death’s maw.

The man bristled as Syrene leaned in closer to him, went rigid when her cheek grazed his. “Give your queen a message from me, will you?” she crooned in his ear.

Then drove the dagger through his neck.

He let out a chocked sound and collapsed on the cobblestones as Syrene withdrew.

Message sent: No bargains. No communications.

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Syrene didn’t leave the body in the alley. No—leaving it there would have caused questions, left traces. Even setting it aflame would have left the scent, attracted suspicions.

So she’d hauled it here—to her apartment.

She loomed outside the apartment’s door, rain water from her dark clothes dripping to the green carpet, the man’s body glamoured in mejest beside her, hidden. The hallway was empty, neighbors were most likely slumbering so late at night, to Syrene’s relief. The reek of the body should dispel by morning.

Leather of her gloves groaned as she curled and stretched her fingers at her sides, over and over. Syrene let out a long breath. She willed terror to retrace to her, willed it to swallow her eyes, her face, willed her heart to race.

Syrene recalled her days in Jegvr—the whipping and vulnerability—recalled her life in that dark tower, that inhuman body. Recalled how it’d felt … that helplessness and self-hatred. And let those memories lay claim to her, let them grip her until Syrene began shaking, her heart speeding.

Then, with a shaking hand, Syrene rapped at the door, and let go of the glamour on the dead body. It fell like a drape.

When there was no reply from the other side of the door, Syrene knocked again—more harshly, sharply this time.

Moments later, Renavy Yevlou snapped from the other side of the door, “Just a damn minute!” She’d been sleeping—the rasp in her voice revealed that much.

But all her drowsiness vanished when she opened the door and perceived Syrene’s condition. Though it wasn’t Syrene Renavy saw on this side of the threshold.

No—she saw Cerys Omdrial. A weak Grestel who carried a mysterious shard of terror in her heart.

Navy’s eyes—the blue so dark that they were almost black—lowered to the dead body sprawled on the floor, blood still seeping from his neck and blossoming on the carpet.

Here’s what she saw: The dread in Syrene’s eyes, on her face, was the cause of her trembling—if not, the drenched clothes in the winter were. A dead man … someone like Cerys Omdrial was never a murderer, so that made her a victim.

Syrene wasn’t at all surprised when Navy grinned like a savage. “It was about time my influence worked its charms and you returned with a dead man at your side.”

Syrene willed that shakiness into her voice, too. “Navy, I—I … I didn’t know what to do. He—he came attacking out of nowhere, weapons in his hand—” Tears were easy to form in her eyes.

Navy idly waved a hand, as if Syrene hauling a dead man to the apartment was hardly an inconvenience. “Go change out of those soaking clothes before your weak human body gets sick, I’ll take care of this.”

Syrene wrapped her arms around herself, a portrait of an uncertain afraid girl. “Take care of it?”

Navy arched a brow. “Do you not want me to get rid of it?” She flashed another grin. “Do you want to poise it in your bedroom like a trophy? I totally support you, if that’s so. I mean, this is quite an achievement—for you.”

Syrene made a face that she knew was a mixture of innocence and surprise and fear. But then she whined, “Can we not have this conversation in the hallway? Someone—might wake up.”

Navy just rolled her eyes and dramatically beckoned for Syrene to enter. “Of course, madam.”

Syrene went straight into her bedroom, ignoring the scattered clothes in the living room—a man’s and a woman’s … none of those belonged to Navy. The owners were probably asleep in her bedroom. Navy had had quite a night, then—Syrene just hoped she wouldn’t have to surrender this usual sight any time soon, she didn’t want to start another life with another name, without Renavy Yevlou in it. But if Felset had tracked Syrene down, if she had …

Syrene was in the bathroom now, gazing at herself in the mirror. As soon as she locked the door behind herself, she unclothed herself from the mask of Cerys Omdrial. She watched in the mirror as it slid off: her shoulders rose slightly, terror from her face vanished, her eyes sharpened as she threw back the hood from her head.

For a moment, she only stared at herself. A stranger gazed back. The brunette dye of her hair was still intact, having had colored it a week ago for the fifteenth time this year. Her freckles were stark on her winter-pale skin, making her look unwell. The exhaustion in her eyes was the only thing that felt her own, had always been her own—it was now her only tether to herself. Her real self.

She took off her gloves first, baring her hands wholly. Winter’s cold air grazed them as she glared at them—so foreign … even after a year, they were so utterly foreign to her with these zegruks marked in each inch of her skin.

Zegruks were hemvae markings, linked with their mejest. The stronger the power, the darker the marks. They looked like any other tribal tattoo—designs varied for every hemvae—but were so utterly different. Any Vegreka could tell the difference between a normal human tattoo and the zegruks—it was the mejest in the markings that made them so obvious … the very mejest scarred in their skin.

Since the day her human form had died, Syrene had been wearing gloves, and high-necked shirts, to hide her heritage from the predators roaming everywhere.

Syrene stripped off her layers one by one, until she was standing wholly naked before the mirror. Her zegruks covered both her arms, her shoulders, snaked up to the sides of her neck. And on the back, they coated her shoulder-blades—looking like wings. Her whip scars below the wings were still left untouched, unmarked, and she didn’t know how to feel about that.

Syrene bent down towards the basin and splashed cold water on her face.

When she straightened, the Duce of Tribes was glaring back at her. It was a mockery. A taunt—that she should be in the forests, commanding her tribes and doing her duty. Instead, she was running from the Enchanted Queen on her own. Tribes would offer her their safety, they would do everything to keep Felset from her, the Crown of Stars was lying in wait for her to claim its power. But …

The thought of another person dying for her made Syrene want to claw her own eyes out.

Syrene left the mirror and walked into the shower booth, repressing the shudders caused by the icy temperature. The water was near-freezing when she stepped in it—and didn’t bother warming it, she’d rather grown fond of coldness. Or maybe it was Cerys Omdrial who was fond of coldness.

She’d started using that name six months ago, after killing Felset’s seventh assassin. All the other identities hadn’t lasted more than a week or so, someone always tracked her down, always ruined her life.

But not for the past six months … until today.

Silvervale was a small town in a country on the other end of the planet from Cleystein. A quiet town with the lowest crime rate—a town hidden in shadows, almost forgotten. She’d removed herself from the past entirely, burying each last scrap of Syrene Alpenstride, before starting a life in Silvervale. When there had been no attacks for months, only then Syrene had let herself settle into this life, allowed herself to accept friendships.

Little did she know, she’d grow so fond of the wicked blue-haired water-wielder.

Her meeting with Navy had been simple: Syrene had been a new girl in town, looking for a place to live. Navy happened to be on a hunt for someone who could share rent.

But now, Syrene feared for her friend, and loathed that she’d let herself settle so soon, loathed herself from putting Navy in danger.

One command from Felset to the Prince of Cleystein and Syrene’s very organs would lay bare. She wondered why the queen hadn’t sent Azryle Wintershade to hunt her down—if the ripper found her … if he was the one to come for her tomorrow …

A tremor of fear went through Syrene. And she suppressed it back in.

She would fight him to death; would drive a weapon through herself before he could haul her to his queen. He wouldn’t think twice before killing Navy though, wouldn’t hesitate torturing Navy to have Syrene conform.

Syrene lowered the temperature of the water a bit more, and invited the pain that shot through her whole body—the numbness it caused. She felt her heart speeding, felt the blood roaring. It felt like spikes of ice were piercing in her skin, freezing her blood as it touched. Syrene grunted, braced a hand on the wall.

Whatever was in her veins, whatever power Drothiker was, Syrene didn’t want it. Dreaded it. And bathing in cold water froze the power for a while, sent it in a deep slumber … it was like xist to Drothiker.

Her eyes watered due to the intolerable pain, muffled screams slid from her bared teeth.

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