Abolisher [Drothiker #2]

10.

Azryle saw her—a bright beacon of light, but he knew it in each inch of himself that it was her. She was glowing as if she were a star shaped into a human, as if light flowed through her instead of blood.

His heart was thudding against his ribs, threatening to burst forth like a caged feral animal.

He didn't think how he got here, or whether she was real—only that he needed to be nearer. Needed to feel her on his skin.

It was the strangest feeling—he knew it wasn't the bond between them prompting all these urges, not any sort of mejest. Everything rushing through him was his own, his to command and control.

Only he couldn't.

He hadn't felt a thing for three centuries, and now ... now she was here. Tugging everything in him without even trying.

Neither of them moved for moments and moments, then she lifted a delicate hand to his face. The fingers grazed his cheek gently—a ghost of a touch, not even there, like air stroking his skin. But it seemed to have rattled him. Azryle's skin came alive. But then—

The world rippled. Like it had a moment ago—he'd been at the inn one moment, and then here the next.

Now the ripples were different, stronger.

The glowing forest began fading away, and Syrene dispersed away like a dandelion. The whole place did. Azryle moved to grab her, keep her from leaving again—tried, and failed.

Until only darkness remained.

Azryle jerked awake to a freezing river pouring in on him.

For a moment, he thought he was drowning. The moment passed, and Azryle opened his eyes to Ferouzeh towering over him, a bucket in her hand.

Azryle didn't think, hardly registered that he'd collapsed on the floor, and attacked on an instinct roaring in his body to move, fight.

He went for Ferouzeh's waist, to knock her to the floor with himself.

But Ferouzeh was good at defending—so good that Azryle had spent centuries marveling at the way she moved when an assault came.

She moved out of his range first. Then her knee brutally came in contact with his temple. Azryle toppled to his side. And remained there, groaning—adjusted himself to face the ceiling.

For moments, he breathed heavily as a ringing echoed in his head, pierced his ears. But he couldn't deny the satisfying ache in the back of his skull—a soothing pain.

He'd needed that.

Ferouzeh placed her hands on her hips, looked down at him, and merely said, "You picked a wrong damn fight, boy." Then she crouched beside him, hazel eyes bore into him with a sisterly concern—as if he were an Abyss-damned child. "These nightmares of yours are getting worse."