Abolisher [Drothiker #2]

12.

When Vendrik regained consciousness, he was back in the damp cell, arms shackled up.

Each inch of him was in agony—killing, piercing agony. Even breathing invited volleys of pain. They'd beaten him, he realized, after he'd fallen unconscious.

He tried lifting his head, but pain shot through his face, his head, as his skin—burned skin—pulled. He let out a muffled, painful grunt.

"How long ... have I been ... unconscious?" he croaked too low. He could barely move his lips—was fairly certain he was moving only half his mouth.

He'd sensed Maeren in the cell before he'd even fully gained consciousness.

As if droplets pulled out from a soaked cloth, the wraith took shape against the stone wall across from him. He could still only see her outline, disclosed by the dim light stretching from the hallway—but it was enough to reveal the scars on the naked skin of her hand. Very recent.

"Hello," she whispered, as if unsure what to say.

The last time they'd spoken to each other was a year ago—when Ryle had revealed her part in baeselk attacks on Syrene Alpenstride.

"A few days," she answered, just now grasping his question.

He'd never seen Mae at unease—she was always confident, always had a proud set to her jaw. She was the only one who'd withstood Felset's torments better than even Azryle. Not because she was terrified of Queen Felset—which she was, weren't they all?

But because there was nothing left in Maeren to break. She'd been broken for as long as Vendrik had known her—a lost spirit going along with her life. Broken before Lilith's death, before she'd encountered the Queen of Cleystein. Though she was too proud to admit it, he knew.

Maeren was that cat who would bolt if made a sudden movement—a delicate feather that would crumple if held too tight.

There was no hope in her, no fight left.

Today, here, Maeren looked it. Broken, hopeless, abandoned. Her shoulders were slumped, there was no stubborn set to her jaw. She looked scrawny—as if she'd been starving for the whole year. The skin beneath her eyes had grown dark.

He supposed she'd once looked strong before because Maeren had had a tether to her stability.

Ryle.

Vendrik had always known she'd never been in love with his friend, not really. She'd thought she was, but it'd just been her useless attempts at convincing herself that she was not ... beaten. She'd been trying to hope—that Ryle would budge someday. But even that hope ... it'd just been an imagination she'd fabricated to get through her days.

Azryle had been her chain to that fantasy.

Azryle was now gone.

Leaving Maeren without her illusions.

Vendrik didn't ask what the queen had done to her—he knew that was one of the questions that would send her skittering away. So he simply waited for her to speak.

She did after minutes. "How ..." she whispered. "How does it ... feel?" Her fingers moved across her own face to indicate his burns.

"Saqa," he muttered. That small word sent pain firing across his face. He winced.

"You probably shouldn't speak," she said, and slid down against the wall. "Just nod or shake your head, alright?"

Pity pierced his chest when Maeren weakly hugged her legs to her chest. A girl—that's what she looked. A scared girl she'd been when Queen Felset had found her. Vendrik saw it now—why Azryle had chosen to protect her against Felset, what he'd seen that had led him to build wards around Maeren's mind to keep Felset out, and risk his own sanity. What he'd endured two extra years in the dungeons for.