Drothiker
39.

The enormous doors behind Alpenstride and Azryle shut.

Vendrik watched as the color leeched from the human’s face, leaving her paler than the morning sky, even as she disciplined her features into neutrality. Ryle remained impassive, shoulders and chin high, hands held behind, watching everything, missing nothing.

Alpenstride frowned. “Your desperation for me to accept this bargain is showing, Your Majesty.”

Otsatyas above, annoying Azryle had been one thing, but speaking to the Enchanted Queen in such manner … Vendrik had yet to decide whether the human was utterly foolish, or overly confident. He supposed the latter automatically resulted in the former.

Queen Felset simply said, “Don’t let my desperation turn into something tortuous for you, foolish Grestel.” There was no amusement today, only an intent to butcher in his queen’s tone. Vendrik grimaced. “Or for my ripper.”

At that, Alpenstride’s fragile jaw began working. But the prince remained unbending beside the human.

The Duce of Tribes snickered. “You two have grown quite closer than any of us would have anticipated.”

As if Deisn Rainfang’s voice was a poison, Alpenstride’s eyes grew lively with that irreverent ire he’d only witnessed directed towards Azryle before. “I’ll let you know when I give a shit about just what you anticipate.” Her voice was calm, deadly. Maycusen, perched on the throne arm beside Vendrik, bristled. Indeed, the position of the Duce of Tribes equaled to any ruler’s. And Alpenstride’s boldness …

Human Wolf—no other title could have described Syrene Alpenstride more.

Vendrik felt power rising in Felset. “Prince.”

Azryle seemed to have straightened, though he remained frozen.

“Why was the Duce of Tribes found tied in a slave’s chamber?” Her voice was calm, gentle. But the demand in her tone was hostile.

Azryle only moved his lips when Alpenstride cut him off. “Why don’t you ask her?” She crossed her arms, utterly calm. “Why was she in the woods hunting us, veering baeselk.”

The sorceress hissed through her teeth. “I was sent by Her Majesty herself.”

Alpenstride didn’t spare her a second glance, her eyes were trained on Felset, confronting silently. “But is Her Majesty aware you have a passion for her assets?” A glance in Azryle’s direction at that.

Rainfang bristled.

But Felset’s mejest erupted.

Alpenstride fell to her knees the next moment, hand going to her straining neck. Vendrik could have sworn something passed over Azryle’s face, but it was gone the next heartbeat.

The human’s face grew scarlet, a few veins at her neck corded from the strain. Her hand went from clawing at her neck to clutching at her chest.

Queen Felset had closed her airway.

Moments passed, no one moved, no one blinked. Vendrik willed to look away, but Felset’s hold had him watching as Alpenstride fell to her side, tears rolling down her eyes. Then—

“You’re going to kill her,” snapped Azryle. Snapped—at the queen who held his leash. Vendrik couldn’t so much as blink to warn him.

“Ah.” Was it fury, annoyance or amusement saturating Her Majesty’s voice? Vendrik couldn’t tell. “But shouldn’t you be grateful—you never wanted a duel after all, Prince. As I recall, your words had been: I could use my time in countless better ways.”

Azryle gritted his teeth. “She’s done everything you’ve commanded. She only wants her sword back—for that, she’s even going on this ridiculous duel of yours with a fool’s hope to survive. What do you want from her.” The last words were a snarl—Vendrik felt every bit of fury rising in the queen’s mejest, riling his witch-bound fire.

Maycusen had stilled wholly; the surprise Vendrik felt was tattooed on the Jaguar’s face. The faerie on his shoulder seemed to have gone as still as he.

Felset simply said, “Don’t be so forgetful of your place, Prince.”

Alpenstride had stopped struggling, her chest rose and fell in heavy, sluggish maneuvers. Then—

She gasped for air as Felset loosened her hold. “Too bad I need you alive, little human,” Felset crooned. She glared at Azryle as she said to Alpenstride in that dangerously calm voice, “I thought I made it clear as day that I wish to know how a Grestel like yourself made the Plunge.” She continued to Azryle, “But for now I only wish to know why our ally was being kept tied in a slave’s chambers and I wasn’t informed. And why was Lord Crevim found dead—with your dagger in his neck, Prince.”

Azryle didn’t blink. “You’ve made me hungry for killings, Your Majesty,” he drawled, mocking on his face and tone too obvious with that ghost of cruel smile. “When I saw his hideous face, dagger found its target.”

Vendrik was beginning to believe this was nightmare.

“And as for the sorceress,” his silver eyes trailed to where Rainfang stood towering the Lady of Wolves, “I could care less about her whereabouts.”

Azryle’s gaze snapped to Alpenstride when the latter began clawing at her neck again.

“Do you wish to swap places with her, Prince?”

Ryle didn’t reply—his eyes jammed on the frantic Alpenstride. Fury in them.

“Answer my questions,” the queen gritted.

“I’ll tell you why I was there,” the duce spoke. The mass of her curly golden-brown hair swayed as she angled her head at Alpenstride. “Or would you like to speak, Rene?”

The queen loosened her hold again, having Alpenstride gasping and coughing on the porcelain tiles. Azryle’s jaw was working, a message Vendrik could not read written in his eyes.

Alpenstride’s red-rimmed eyes locked with his, seemed to have had countless conversations in that one moment before she gazed down at the tiles—contemplating whatever Azryle had conveyed. Then she met Felset’s gaze and croaked, “I have a different bargain.”

Shock flashed over Azryle’s face—concealed so quickly that Vendrik doubted anyone else glimpsed it.

Queen Felset’s chuckle was cold as a fireless hearth. “What could a slave have in stow for me?”

Alpenstride weakly lifted to her feet, legs buckling, but she towered, her chin lifted. “I’ll tell you how I made the Plunge before I die in the duel tomorrow.” She pointed to the sorceress, eyes on the queen. “In exchange for her.”

Rainfang flinched. Then burst out laughing. “You think the queen owns me? I can defend mys—”

“I wasn’t finished.”

The look on Alpenstride’s face intimidated Vendrik more than he would like to admit—it was the look of a queen, a powerful Vegreka everyone’s knees bent before. He was half-tempted to kneel.

Alpenstride looked directly at the queen. “I want you to compel her to answer my questions honestly, do as I say for the next few hours.”

Felset barked out a laugh. “Do you think me a fool?”

“Foolish enough to divulge the extent of your desperation.”

As soon as the bold words slithered from Alpenstride’s lips, the Lady of Wolves began choking as the lilac fog coiling her neck tightened.

Alpenstride’s eyes flashed in warning.

But Rainfang said softly, “You will think your words over before speaking, Syrene.”

The human’s throat bobbed—first sign of fear she’d divulged. A mistake.

The sorceress went on, smirking. “I’ll tell you why she wants me.” The Prime of Wolves breathed as lilac fog loosened, and Rainfang’s gaze moved to Alpenstride.

“My friend Syrene here wants to free your ripper.”

Alpenstride’s face remained unyielding, though the air in the room seemed to shift. The shock on Azryle this time was disclosed by the tension in his shoulders. Queen Felset’s face had gone hard. “Is that true?” Her voice was cool, steady in a way that had Vendrik straightening his spine.

Alpenstride didn’t budge. “That’s an assumption.”

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This time, the human didn’t speak.

Her Majesty rose from her throne, and Maycusen shifted slightly. “Surely, you’ve asked the prince himself whether he wants to be freed,” she murmured as she descended the dais, advanced towards the ripper and the human.

Alpenstride seemed to be falling into a fighting stance, fear sparking and vanishing and back again in her azure eyes, as if suppressing it every time it roused.

“Haven’t you?”

Alpenstride didn’t reply.

Queen Felset halted two strides from Azryle, and Vendrik’s heart paused. His fire began crackling.

“Tell her, Prince,” commanded Queen Felset. “Tell her whether you want to be freed, truthfully.”

It was now hope that sparked in Alpenstride’s eyes as she gazed up at Ryle. Hope, and a silent request.

But they vanished when Azryle replied, “I don’t.” The bite in his true words had Vendrik grimacing. But he found himself bracing for the worst as Azryle looked at Felset with pure hatred in his gaze—so abhorrent that Vendrik’s throat closed, as if it were him Ryle’s loathing was directed at.

But Her Majesty ignored it like his feelings were no more than a child’s plaything, her gaze shifted to Alpenstride beside them, who seemed as if she’d been slapped. “Have you your answer?” the queen cooed.

Alpenstride seemed to snap to attention. “You put too much trust in the sorceress, Your Benevolent Holiness,” she drawled.

Only a heartbeat—Felset waited only a heartbeat before her fingers moved slightly and Azryle was slammed to his knees, choking, his hand went for his neck.

Vendrik felt the tightness in his throat, and tried to move.

Only the desperate crackling of his fire replied. Maycusen’s shoulders tensed as he felt the heat oozing from Vendrik in ripples, but didn’t turn.

Alpenstride’s gaze flicked to Azryle, concern and fear wholly on display. “You wouldn’t kill him,” she snapped.

“Wouldn’t I?” There was another movement in Felset’s fingers, and Azryle choking only intensified. Strange, Vendrik thought. The queen usually didn’t move her fingers as she … punished Azryle. Usually, a thought from her was enough. But now … it was as if she was using her mejest, and not her leash on him. “He’s been more burden than useful lately,” she finished.

Azryle gasped down a breath, but then continued choking as the hold tightened again.

“You have a few seconds before he falls, Syrene Alpenstride. I will ask again: how did you make the Plunge?”

Alpenstride’s teeth gritted.

Tell her, Vendrik pleaded silently. Please. But—

“Kill him, then.”

Felset flinched. For the centuries Vendrik had served her, not once had she divulged even the faintest shock. It put him at great unease.

Alpenstride stepped towards Felset. Air seemed to dispel as two queens glared at each other—power radiating around them in monstrous tendrils. “You wouldn’t dare,” Alpenstride spat. “It would be too great a loss. One ripper on whole damn Ianov, and he belongs to you. You adore having that power, wouldn’t lose it even if the world went to Saqa.”

Azryle began gulping down whatever air he could clutch.

“You’re right.” Felset sighed, then motioned to Rainfang.

The sorceress released the Lady of Wolves and advanced towards the queen; the unnerving smirk only grew.

Her hand lifted as she went, lilac fog spiraled around her arm.

It surged to her hand and extended horizontally.

When Rainfang stepped before the human, the fog flowed past a shiny sword divulged in her hand, extended to Alpenstride.

Color drained from Alpenstride’s face, her eyes went wide. Her chest heaved. Once, twice.

“Take it, Syrene,” Felset said. “You’ll need it for the duel in two hours.”

Alpenstride paled further. “What.”

“The duel—did you forget that part of the bargain too?”

“It’s at night,” protested Alpenstride.

“It’s whenever I wish it to be.”

Alpenstride looked up at Azryle with desperation and fear.

But the prince’s eyes remained on his queen.

“If you win the duel,” said Felset, “the sword will be yours forever, and we’ll move on to the second part of the bargain. And if you don’t,” she added, “then I guess the Lady of Wolves and your faerie will be mine to command.”

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