Abolisher [Drothiker #2]

23.

Syrene's heart felt as if it would burst out of her chest as she raced through the moonlit forest, not halting to check if Navy could keep pace with her.

He'd fought—of course he'd fought. What a fool she'd been to believe that he'd wanted to stay bound to his queen. What a fool—

Syrene was just about to enter the clear area surrounding the pit but she scurried to a pause before the mob of trees cleared. A man and a woman appeared out of thin air in the area.

The man immediately fell to his knees—the woman's hand reached for his shoulder, but he shoved it away, snarling. Hurt flickered across her face, and she stepped back from him. He was panting hard, his entire torso marred with fresh wounds so brutal that Syrene felt a faint restlessness in her own skin.

Then, the man sobbed. He was shaking, she noticed, wildly. He dug his fingers in the twigs, tipped his head back, and roared. The pure pain in it had Syrene's heart straining. The sound rustled the trees, and she could've sworn they grew somber, as if they felt his sorrow.

The woman turned to her side, a hand reaching for her sword. Doubtless, anticipating the sentries would come trailing the sound. Syrene saw her face then.

Maeren.

Navy appeared at her side, panting hard. She opened her mouth, no doubt to remark on Syrene's speed, but Syrene nudged her with an elbow to shut her up.

The water-wielder hissed, but got the point. She followed Syrene's gaze.

Maeren was saying, "I can't walltread you farther than here, Rik."

Shock seemed to have slapped Syrene across her face when she looked back at the man. Long gone was the waist-length ruby hair, the serenity from his face. Long gone was the glorious firebreather she'd met a year ago. A gaunt, tortured man was traded with him. His skin was so deathly pale—and bloody—that Syrene wouldn't be surprised if he'd risen from the dead. The burn across half his face had eaten away the undeniable beauty.

"You need to go," said the wraith. "Before the sentries—"

"Damn your sentries!" Vendrik Evenflame fumed.

Maeren's lips pursed in a tight line. "You can stay, mourn the man long dead, here of all the places, and accept a tormented death for yourself." She sheathed her sword. "But I won't shoulder that Destiny for myself." She touched his shoulder and squeezed. "Choose life, Rik."

Then she ... disappeared. Dissolved into the shadows casted by moonlight and trees.

But her words rung in Syrene's head.

A man long dead. Her heart inched to her throat. No, no, no, no—

As soon as any sign of Maeren vanished, weakly, Vendrik lifted to his feet. "I know you're here," he announced to the empty area, to the twigs. "Syrene, I can feel you." Fire burst across his arm. Uncontrolled, untamed. It winked in and out, as if he were trying to smother it in but failed. "Save him. Please." He sounded so weak. So ... broken.

"Do you know him?" Navy whispered.

Dazed, Syrene only managed a dip of her chin. Before she stepped out of the cover of trees.

The firebreather turned to her. He'd already put on the mask of a warrior—his face unyielding, unfeeling, his jaw set. As if he wouldn't allow her to leave lest she decided to help. "He's still alive," Vendrik said. "I know he's fighting. You have to help him."

Enemy.

The voice was so sudden, so officious and cold, that she flinched. She looked around, but no one else was present here.