Abolisher [Drothiker #2]

16.

Ferouzeh woke first.

Azryle was at her side when she groaned, a hand immediately approaching her bruised jaw where Faolin Wisflave had struck her. She swore, slowly lifting her lids.

Then her eyes widened and she jerked up.

"You're fine," Azryle spoke from where he stood leaning against the wall beside her bed.

Her gaze snapped to him, alert. For moments, she just scanned his face—the dried blood and still-healing bruises no doubt—before those hazel eyes slowly surveyed the entire room, taking in the broken vase, the table, the shattered armoire. And then, at last, the two women roped tightly on the floor—both bruised. Faolin Wisflave was still comatose; Delaya Fairdust was muttering to herself, incapable of keeping her mouth shut for even a moment.

"I don't even want to know," Ferouzeh grumbled, rubbing at her jaw.

Azryle avoided his own urge to lift his fingers to his cheek—where that featherlight touch still weighed, despite the beating he'd gotten after ... still on his face like sun's warmth in a freezing winter.

He hated it.

Delaya's dark eyes flicked to the healer. "Oh look, my favorite human has finally roused."

Ferouzeh narrowed her eyes.

Azryle was already rubbing at his temple. "Her ankle is still twisted. Needs healing."

The healer gave the shapeshifter an incredulous look before rolling her eyes. She looked to Azryle. "You know we'll have to pay for the mess you've made, right?"

"Then it's a good thing you happen to be traveling with a prince."

Azryle dodged asking about Faolin Wisflave and her history with Ferouzeh. Ferouzeh had never mentioned the sorceress—not once—and he supposed if it were something important, she would tell him. Wouldn't she? Ferouzeh had only had four lovers in the three centuries they'd known each other, none for too long. Many casual flings, yes, but only four she'd fallen in love with. And Azryle happened to know all of them.

But Wisflave ...

He shoved those thoughts away—there were worse matters to deal with at the moment.

He straightened the letter still balled in his fist, his chest tightening, as he stepped towards the bed.

Her hazel eyes lifted to him as he stretched the paper. She took it, cautiously, already knowing it wasn't good.

Azryle watched her as she read it. As her eyes widened, chest rose and fell quicker, heard as her breath hitched and tasted the fear that polluted her scent.

She knew better than to not believe Felset's letters, especially when they were about torture.

"Judging from your faces," Delaya began, "whatever's written is not good. Rumor has it that the Pall Moira has left his queen's side—hasn't been seen for a whole year. Possibilities were that you've either been sent away, or you've fled. And since you're here, staying at some cheap inn despite being a prince who could've rented a suite, and should've had a few sentries guarding his back, no matter that you're a ripper, I'm going to guess you're in hiding. From your queen?"—she lifted a brow, still gazing directly at the ceiling as if she were reading a script carved there—"If that's so, that letter has got to be from Her Compassionate Majesty, because what else would make a ripper so scared—"

Her voice halted. Those obsidian eyes went wide when she spoke and no voice slid past his mejest. Her head whipped in Azryle's direction, nose flaring.

Then mouthed a foul word.

"What are we going to do?" Ferouzeh looked horrified. "Vendrik—"