Abolisher [Drothiker #2]

15.

Syrene told Kefaas everything as he led her into an arena. All the hitches and blockades—about Eliver and his knowledge. He listened intently, and pondered on it silently with a deep furrow between his brows.

They sneaked in without many efforts—the guards, exhausted, weren't much vigilant at this hour. And Kefaas, to his credit, seemed to have much experience in sneaking in and out of this place—the man seemed to have the whole map engraved in his mind.

"You have to filch these luxuries when you're poor, kid," he'd said when caught her gaping at him. "Good thing your position as a duce doesn't really equal a queen."

Syrene didn't know what she'd expected to feel when she entered the arena—nothing, perhaps?—but a rush of anxiety hadn't been it. Needles of images piercing in her mind hadn't been it. For the instant she stepped out of the hallway and open air greeted her, she was faced with an assault of baeselk memories so fierce that Syrene gasped, falling a step back.

There, at the heart of the platform, a mirror of her lay bleeding in the sand as otherworldly monsters came at her in chorus. There, in the balcony above the seats knelt a prince, blood cascading from his back, dripping from the edge of the floor—a firebreather and a jaguar flanking him, dresteen-tipped whips held tight in their hands. And there, at the end of the platform, stood Deisn Rainfang, lips twisted in a spine-chilling grin, foul darkness rippling around her.

Syrene's heart was beating out of her ribcage, her throat tight.

"Everything good?" Kefaas was already standing at the platform, waiting for her to descend.

But Syrene ... she couldn't move. The floor seemed to remold in on itself and strap her feet, her legs. Her neck throbbed where she'd been bitten a year ago—where her new skin was still pink beneath the zegruks.

She saw, so vividly, as a mirror of her screamed and rolled around the floor, ducking the swift attacks with all she was left with. Saw as the prince never took his silver eyes off her.

She'd died here.

She'd died, and returned as a monster.

She'd died—

She'd died.

She'd felt life leaving her and she'd grabbed onto it as a cat might to a fish. She'd felt as one by one a piece of her tore away, her grip on the rope of life peeling off—

"Syrene!" Kefaas shouted from the platform. "Today, kid."

Syrene couldn't breathe. She couldn't breathe—

The screams and the growls and the hisses of that ... that darkness towering Deisn were too riotous.

Syrene shut her ears, turned—unable to watch as those baeselk tore at her flesh, sucked at her life—and curled in a crouch.

What was happening—what was happening—

She'd fought past this a year ago, she'd beaten her demons and escaped. Then why this impulse, why did her heart agitate? Why did she feel weak again?

"Hey, kid."

Cold air grazed her soaked cheeks as she lifted her head to Kefaas towering her.

"Bad experience with arenas?" he asked, pity on his face.

Pity. Hadn't she grown past this? Hadn't she proved that she didn't need their pity? Why was she back in this state—this weakness?

His hand came for her shoulder and Syrene shoved it away—more rudely than she'd intended. She lifted to her feet and descended to the platform, ignoring the illusions casted by memories at the corner of her eye.