Drothiker

9.

Bright, hot tower of fire swapped with Vendrik.

Thanks to Felset's command, Azryle's prime concern was forging a barrier around Syrene when fire broke free from Vendrik on the courtyard's pavement. Stepping back from him and towering her was an instinct.

The fire burned so bright that the whole courtyard had illuminated in the dark night, Vendrik was not perceivable beyond the flames. Cool temperature arose to the extent it felt as if sun stood before him. Ashes of Rik's clothes had fallen to the pavement, yet greone fell unharmed, his hair harmonized with the fire.

Drenched in sweat, as Azryle advanced a step, Vendrik shot a warning, "Stay away, Azryle."

Soldiers rushed out to the courtyard, equipped, following the boom that had barked. The cub muttered behind him, her voice heavy with either shock or fear, "He needs water."

There was a pool behind the fortress. But for that, Vendrik will have to walk on the grass; his fire burned so hot and raged that it wouldn't take more than mere seconds for it to sweep and swallow the whole place. Azryle yelled to the soldiers crammed outside, "Call a water-wielder!"

"There isn't any," Rik imparted from the heart of his flames.

"A sorceress," Syrene mused. "Faolin Wisflave can summon water from any nearby stream. She's a slave here."

If she was a slave, there must be xist coursing through her, keeping her mejest from her veins. Azryle swore filthily. He could hear Vendrik's frantic heartbeat, could feel the clotting scent of fear from everyone.

One look from Azryle had soldiers and sentries running inside, to bring out buckets filled with water.

The courtyard cleared out soon. "What in burning Saqa have you been up to," Azryle snapped at Vendrik, wiping away the sweat from his face. "Are you—"

"Ablaze Kosas."

The female whisper and that scent had Azryle turning, hand reaching for Silencer at his side.

A white-haired, dark-skinned woman stood behind the cub, lilac eyes and dresteen bracelets spoke enough. Faolin Wisflave. Aazem Shinkel towering behind her, eyes widened. It was when Alpenstride peered up at him did she seem to realize someone loomed behind her, and turned.

The sorceress' gaze drifted from the fire to the Heir of Raocete. Blinked when noticed the sword and the lack of dresteen. Lilac eyes lifted to Azryle then. "That fire will not die away with a few buckets, he needs to be set in contained, freezing water." He waited. "I can freeze the pool behind the building."

It was Shinkel who spoke, lifting a brow, "What of the xist in your system?"

Wisflave said to Azryle, "It wears out every ten hours, doesn't it, Your Highness?" Azryle was not surprised that she had noticed it, sorceresses missed nothing; he had learnt that the hard way. "It was shoved down my throat at dawn." More than ten hours had swept by.

She lifted her braceleted wrists.

Fool. Azryle would be immensely foolish if he unconstrained a sorceress that powerful—he could scent the degree of her mejest even as it was numb, could sense the depth of her sea. But Syrene snapped, as if reading his thoughts, "His skin will begin melting soon, Prince. That fire is burning too bright and hot."

Azryle supposed if Wisflave even tried to play clever, it wasn't like she could do any harm to anyone here. Definitely not to Azryle himself.

He approached her and slid out the slavekey from his pocket—one key to unlock all the bracelets of slaves in Cleystein.