Abolisher
2.

Syrene was trembling, her legs buckling, when she stepped out of the bathroom with bone-white skin.

She hid her hands in soft pink gloves, her neck with a shawl—the frigid weather made a good excuse for them both—before approaching the living room. Navy was already waiting there, sorting out her weapons on the table before a dark-blue couch, hadn’t returned to bed. The mass of her silken blue hair was bundled up, two pencils shoved through it. Her back was to Syrene, but Syrene knew Navy was aware of her presence in the living room.

She approached the water-wielder, and slumped down in the couch beside her. “Why haven’t you returned to bed?” Syrene asked, trying to avoid all the weapons sprawled on the table. She couldn’t show her curiosity regarding weapons, for Cerys Omdrial was an untrained woman who took no interest in things as such, and was most likely to harm herself if she touched a weapon.

“Which one do you think is the prettiest?” Navy’s face was solemn, focused, as she examined her all sorts of daggers. There weren’t many things Navy took seriously, but when it narrowed down to her daggers and knives, she was like a she-wolf guarding her cubs.

Syrene threw her head back on the lip of the backrest, and shut her eyes. “They’re all hideous.” Lie—they were all very beautiful, and she wanted nothing more than to run her finger along the edges of their blades.

“If it’d been someone else, Cerys,” Navy murmured, “they would have been tasting blood in their mouth right now for uttering those vile words.”

Syrene’s lips quirked. “Very unfortunate for them that they’re not me.” Wrong thing to say—Cerys Omdrial’s attempt at joke would have been: That’s very kind of you, Navy. But Syrene was too exhausted to think over her words.

A sigh from Navy had her opening her eyes and lifting her head off the backrest. Her heart sank. Her friend’s shoulders were slumped today—she doubted the water-wielder was conscious of that. She’d only known Navy for months, and … not once had Syrene seen her shoulders slumped, and that sigh …

Worry.

“What’s wrong, Navy?”

Navy seemed to snap to attention—her shoulders shot back up. “I asked you a question,” she grumbled, cutting a glare in Syrene’s direction.

Syrene arched a brow. “Since when do you care about others’ opinions—especially when it comes to your weapons?”

At that, Navy smirked. “Since I’ve stopped relishing in whimpers and groans of dying men.”

Syrene lifted a brow.

“Since never, Cerys. Take it as a test of your taste.” She returned to her weapons. “So?”

“Test of taste?” mused Syrene. “I could pick the most hideous one and you’d still find it beautiful.”

“Of course. Weapons are all beautiful, unlike humans. Weapons are seen as they are: sharp and deadly. But humans … beautiful they might be for the eye, but for all you know, their insides could turn out to be profane and putrid.”

Syrene heaved out a defeated sigh and sat forward to have a good look at the swords and daggers and knives and … Navy’s favorite: a fancy hatchet. Golden decors were carved in its blade—not steel, dresteen—like a tattoo. The handle’s wood was the same blue as Navy’s hair—natural.

Syrene smirked and jabbed a finger at the hatchet. “That one.”

Navy looked baffled. “One moment you refuse to near an animal at all, and the next you’re setting your eyes on the dragon?” She waved a hand, and a glamour hid the hatchet—as if guarding it from Syrene’s greed. “Choose from the knives and the daggers, Cerys.”

Syrene frowned, but then her eyes settled on a dagger with jagged blade, a side of which was spiked like treacherous spine of a dragon indeed. She made a face she knew was disinterest as she pointed a finger at it.

Navy’s gold-cored dark eyes glittered as she lifted the dagger, a small smile blooming at her dark lips. Navy’s skin was a deep bronze, that of those of southern continent—Zhenea, and that was all Syrene knew about the woman. Navy was a mystery, her past unknown, just as Syrene herself was to Navy.

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Syrene would have been a fool to have been living with the woman without knowing a single thing about her. The first month she’d met Navy, she’d used all her time mustering information on her—that was, whatever she could pluck while being here in Silvervale.

Navy was almost a century old, looked merely twenty-five. Younger. She’d grown up in a small town in Zhenea, where her father was killed for not being able to pay his debts—she was taken by those lenders, was ill-treated by them for three years before she’d made her run. She’d wandered in woods for months, hiding from her hunters—this, Navy had told Syrene herself, albeit without explanations—where she’d trained herself to fight with wood, sharpened spikes, survived without enough clothes and food.

When those lenders found her in the woods, though less skilled, Navy had acquired enough survivor instincts and knew where to land a killing blow—having had hunted all those animals for food—to have survived that day. Though those lenders hadn’t.

“As my weapon tore their flesh,” Navy had once demonstrated for Syrene, “their blood coated my hands, the cold liquid touching my skin, and that feeling, Cerys … that feeling of relief and freedom I’d gotten … that had been my kernel to a liking for killing.” She’d had such light in her eyes, such dark pleasure, that Syrene’s flinch hadn’t been feigned.

Navy had robbed the lenders’ dead bodies—clothes and money and whatever they’d had—and bolted from Zhenea. She’d started another life with those few coins and scraps of clothes.

That was all Syrene had mustered of Navy, no more details. She’d been suspicious of the water-wielder at first, but after making sure she had no connections with the Enchanted Queen or the tribes, Syrene had begun letting herself feel comfortable with the woman.

Now Navy was the only comfort Syrene was left with.

After eyeing the dagger like she were parting with the dearest friend, Navy stretched it towards Syrene. “Here.”

Syrene arched a brow. “Are you ill?” She touched her gloved fingers to Renavy’s forehead, portraying a mock concern on her face. “Is it fever?”

Navy looked offended. “Do you think me a weakling?” she exclaimed in disbelief. Then opened her mouth to continue the mocking, but shut it when she clutched Syrene’s wrist. Navy’s brows creased as she lowered Syrene’s hand from her forehead. “Why in Saqa is your skin so cold?”

With a jolt, Syrene noticed her sleeve had slightly hiked up, zegruks were on display. She didn’t blink as she smoothly snatched her arm from Navy’s grip and adjusted the sleeve before the water-wielder could catch a sight of the markings.

And then shrugged. “Yours is just too warm.” She swept her gaze to where clothes still lay sprawled on the carpet beneath the table, taking the conversation with it. “Had a tiring night, did you?”

Navy stretched, smirking. “Very.” She sighed, any humor vanishing just like that, took Syrene’s hand in hers and placed that jagged-bladed dagger in it. “Keep it, before I feel tempted to spill your blood with it.”

“What’s wrong, Navy?” Syrene looked down at the beautiful dagger, her fingers itching to curl around its hilt. “This act of yours is shouting that you care—that you have feelings, you might want to be careful—”

“You were almost killed,” Navy exclaimed abruptly. “I was here, living my usual day and—and they came for you.”

Oh.

Oh.

“It’s been decades and decades since you killed those lenders, Navy,” Syrene countered. “There’s no way they’re still hunting for you. And the man who came for me wasn’t related to—”

“And how do you know that for certain?” She pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes, leaving the dagger in Syrene’s hand. “It’s either that, or you have enemies who are hunting for you. And you, Cerys, are incapable of having enemies.”

Well …

Navy lowered her hands from her face and met Syrene’s gaze. “You know how to wield a dagger, you—”

“I don’t.”

Her friend choked out a laugh. “I may be an extraordinal, outrageously beautiful package on the outside, my friend,” she tapped a finger at her temple twice, “but what lives in here is way sharper.”

Syrene sketched a brow.

“The man you killed today—the manner of the stab, it was done by someone who knew what she was doing, had done it before.”

“It was a coincidence.” Syrene flicked her hair off her shoulder. “Can’t say I’m surprised that I’m a natural.”

But Navy had abandoned all her usual wittiness today. “A natural, my ass. I don’t know what you’re hiding, or what you’re running from,” Renavy continued, “if anything. Or how your Grestel eyes bear the burnt gold of immortality. But living with me already brings enough danger. Just—” Again, that sigh and the rise and fall of shoulders. “Just keep a weapon with yourself.”

Syrene opened her mouth, but was interrupted by Kavous, who walked out of Navy’s bedroom with only a white sheet wrapped around his naked hips, yawning, one golden eye open.

He stopped short when caught Syrene and Navy sitting on the couch, and the yawn halted midway, both eyes snapped open. Lazily, those golden eyes glided to the dagger in Syrene’s hand.

Navy noticed it too, because mischief rallied in her eyes like shimmering stars in a dark night. “Damn, Kavous,” she swore. “You’re up too early—we were just going to finish you— Our job, I mean.”

Kavous scowled, and gave Navy a look of disinterest. Like Syrene, Kavous was not a morning person, the last person you messed around with after he’d woken up. “Attacking me when I’m sleeping because you can’t beat me in a conscious combat? Cowardice does fit you.”

Navy wasn’t insulted. No—annoying people was her forte, something she excelled at, and having had just woken up, Kavous was falling right in her clutches. Instead, she clutched at her chest in mock dismay. “Is that how you speak with a woman after you’ve spent a night with her?”

Kavous ignored her and began collecting his clothes from the floor, muttering something about murdering Navy.

“What happened here, anyway?” Syrene asked Kavous. “What happened to your plan that involved trying to make Waimsan jealous with me?”

Navy snorted. “It misfunctioned, broke, lit up on fire and turned to ashes, and then even those ashes ceased to exist.” Her grin was nothing short of wicked and teasing.

When Syrene lifted a brow, Navy explained, “Where Kavous is trying to make his former lover jealous; mister former lover himself is in a similar trance.”

Syrene’s confused expression remained.

Navy heaved a sharp breath. “He saw Waimsan kissing another man yesterday, which led him to the Stone Chamber, furious and utterly jealous, where he found me …” She trailed off.

Syrene could imagine the rest—the drinks and strangers their errand must have involved. A year ago, a conversation as such would have had Syrene blushing, but a lot had changed.

“Speaking of Waimsan,” started Kavous, running a hand through his damp golden hair; as if Waimsan’s name a spell, all drowsiness seemed to have ebbed from the man.

One moment, Kavous was standing on the other side of the table. And the next, as if he’d been shoved into a pocket of the world—as if a hidden tunnel opened for him, and he walked right into it—he disappeared. A moment later, as if thrown from the sky, the man landed beside Syrene. It had always been difficult to comprehend his mejest—still was. But she liked to think she was getting ahold of it.

Kavous slid an arm around Syrene’s shoulders. “He will be going to the Stoned next week. And you are going with me.” He added, “Unless, of course, you have someone else you’d rather go with.”

Syrene frowned.

She didn’t—and Kavous was well aware of that. That’s why he didn’t wait for her answer.

“That’s right.” Kavous grinned.

The Stoned was a party hosted every month by the owner of a tavern—the Stone Chamber—down the alley, where everyone got wasted, the drinks were free for the entirety of the night. All kinds of games were played, all kinds of dances were danced—from slow couple dances to pole dancing. All of it for free.

Kavous and Waimsan had set on different paths a month ago—over a damned fight, during the Stoned—but neither had moved on from one another, and neither’s pride refused to succumb.

Unfortunately, Syrene had been the one to prompt this making-the-other-jealous game.

Well, technically.

It’d started a couple weeks ago, when Syrene and Kavous had been in the Stone Chamber. Waimsan had arrived with another man, and, those green eyes jammed on Kavous—who had been gulping down strong drinks at the bar, trying to drown his own heartbreak—had kissed that man right there. Syrene still remembered the look on Kavous’ face when he’d seen Waimsan with that other man, the way it had crumbled.

Her heart had strained. Syrene hadn’t thought—hadn’t been able to, she’d been drunk herself—and had gotten up and kissed Kavous. Waimsan had broken his own kiss, mouth gaped, then had stridden out of the tavern.

After weeks, Syrene was still cursing that day. Because her dizzy mind had awoken ideas in Kavous’ roguish mind. He would kiss Syrene every time Waimsan was near, or would hold her hand and smile lovingly down at her.

Every time, Waimsan would turn crimson with jealousy.

Apparently, he’d shot back at Kavous last night.

“Otsatyas,” Renavy groaned. “Can’t you two bastards just make up? It was just one Abyss-damned fight. Let Cerys have fun of her own.”

Kavous darted a look at her. But said nothing and disappeared just like that—she felt the barest pull when he did. Must’ve stepped into his own apartment across the hall.

Renavy rolled her eyes. Then she scowled at Syrene. “You don’t have to do this, you know. Let them deal with the situation like someone who’s lived more than seventy years.”

It wasn’t that Syrene enjoyed meddling—not at all—it was that Kavous had a reputation in Silvervale—people feared him, despite his friendly, welcoming manner. And seen with him, it kept predators at bay—kept any suspicions at bay. So Syrene was taking her own advantage from it all, while Kavous was taking his.

She only helplessly sighed in her reply. Then said to Renavy, “You should sleep.” She closed her fingers around the hilt of the dagger. “I’ll keep it.”

Renavy flashed a lazy grin.

✰✰✰✰✰

Syrene returned to her bedroom, shut the lights, and crawled into her bed.

Her exhausted bones protested weakly as she drew the thick blankets over her head, and let the warmth laminate her like second skin. She shuddered as it did.

In the dark, Syrene closed her eyes, and listened.

She focused, and there it was.

A second pulse, so in sync with her own. Faint—so faint, as if slumbering, there was an echo of her heart, not solely in her chest … no, it reverberated in her entire body like a thrum.

Drothiker was a living thing in her body, as if a shadow of her heart. Its beat calmed with hers, agitated with hers—and when it did, whenever she was anxious and her heartbeat accelerated, the power endeavored to grow to her skin, to reach out and defeat whatever threat she was facing.

But of course, thanks to those icy baths, it failed to do so. Those icy baths kept this unearthly, vicious power at bay. And Syrene was more than glad that this cunning power was not unbound—that it could be confined.

Had she been someone else, had she been any other Vegreka, the power would have killed her, obliterated her.

But Syrene was not any other Vegreka.

No—she was an Elite Kaerion, bound to destroy Drothiker. It was her enemy—to her nature, to her very existence.

So what happened when a Destiny-bound enemy happened to be not only your blood or something in your veins, but your soul, your mind, your skin, your hair, your sight too? What happened when the enemy became you?

Syrene sighed. It was then she realized she was fidgeting with Quemcet again. The locket a gift from another enemy a year ago—another enemy with an intention to protect her. The emerald embedded in the center of the bronze locket faintly gleamed in the dark, like a dying bulb, almost unperceivable. Almost.

Azryle had said it would protect her from anyone with an ability to creep into minds, and he’d made it sound like there were so many of them. The most common trait in Vegreka was preternatural speed. And the rarest, so rare that those who bore it were considered cenas—blessed, gifted, cursed, everyone had different definition for the word—was mind-controlling.

The prince himself had stolen that particular trait from baeselk—those grotesque beasts from the Crack, as the ripper had demonstrated once.

But whatever Quemcet did, there was no denying that the locket was what made her feel safe, unlike the power asleep in her. It was as if Quemcet had built an otherworldly wall around, protecting her, provided a different sort of warmth.

It wasn’t easy—leaving everything behind, starting a new life over and over every time she was caught by an assassin. No, it left a hollow pit in her—an unknown yearning so strong that she was surprised it hadn’t destroyed her.

Even with Renavy and Kavous, the pit only deepened every passing day, an emptiness she couldn’t bolt from, couldn’t abandon like everything else.

It felt as though even if she ran from everything, and managed to survive, in the end, this emptiness would be the one to obliterate her. End her. Reduce her to ashes.

Syrene curled to her side and waited for darkness to claim her once again.

And when it did, she dreamt of him. Dreamt of him smiling gleefully for once, of him taunting her, teasing her the way he did. And then smirking in a way that had her seeing red. Only, in her dream, it didn’t. Dreamt of him sliding his hand into hers, its warmth so tender that she shuddered.

And then, there they were, hand in hand, walking towards a life full of light and joy. Towards salvation. Towards the freedom she’d once dreamt for both of them.

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