Drothiker

20.

      

 
Killer. Monster. Coward.

You left his body to rot, did you feel any remorse? Did you even recognize Lucran?

Don't you think your predecessor would be disappointed to see you so incapable of fighting?

You run from it all, carrying terror in your heart. So afraid of honing it, so terrified you might harken back to that beast.

You weren't even there when your duce was slaughtered.

Something in her had snapped. Snapped so violently, so loudly, that she was surprised they didn't hear it. A shriek began in each inch of her, an unfelt agony throbbing in her bones and flesh and soul, and hadn't ceased even as night consumed the bedroom. Even as she slumped down against the bed, hugging her legs in the dark, dead-quiet bedroom—that might as well have been that tower.

That earsplitting, soul-crunching shriek did not cease.

She glared into the dark, willing herself to melt in it, her whole body trembling—from the terror seizing her or ... or just those words ringing in her flesh, she did not know.

"You've been too quiet, Rene," Starflame's voice was gentle from where she sat on the drapes of windows behind her. Her wings dim. Those were the first words she'd spoken since the moment Syrene had returned from that fortress. Or maybe those were the first Syrene had heeded.

Killer. Monster. Coward.

She felt empty—so, so empty. Only these silent screams, only this miserable breathing. Even that was too loud, echoing in this abyss inside her. There seemed to be nothing left, nothing to fight for.

But you can do nothing because you're too weak.

She was. She was weak, and lifeless. A mocking, petty bulk of flesh and bones. A coward, a monster, a murderer.

Flarespirit, her mother's heavenly voice sounded past the shrieking, and the massacre within her. My sweet girl, are those tears? Did someone hurt you?

For long, long moments, she let that ghostly voice settle in herself, let that sweet memory lay claim to her. That was all she was left with, alone and wandering, homeless and suffering, her mother's faint memories were all she had. All she will ever have. Her beautiful, strong face. Her abiding will, balmy touch.

Oh, my poor girl. Something sharp coiled Syrene's throat. Come—come home to me. World is too harsh.

Home is lost, she replied. And I'm far from it, Mama. I'm far—so far.

She could have sworn a mythic hand cupped her cheek. Let your heart beat, my child, home will not seem so foreign.

A sob declared past Syrene's throat, her heart bleeding and suffocating. It's so difficult. I'm so tired, Mama. I'm so tired.

Her mother's reply did not come, and that touch vanished, leaving the cold air to come itching in her skin, as a knock at the bedroom's door sounded.

Each ounce of warmth in her eddied, and there was nothing but hatred—lethal and irreverent—now polluting Syrene's hollow self. So silent that she hadn't even overheard the steps approaching, she knew just who stood on the other side of the door. And she wanted nothing more than to drive a weapon through his chest.

"I can scent you, you know," Azryle said, voice soft. Gentle, to an extent.

She remained glaring into the dark, one corner of the room moonlight didn't stain.