Abolisher [Drothiker #2]

19.

She didn't step away.

Didn't fight him, didn't wrench her hand from his grip. She only ... stood and stared. Looked as stricken as he felt.

Azryle had reached here hours ago, been hiding behind the rocks, plotting out an escape route, surveying the guards, noting their rounds. He'd heard her when she'd torn out of the wall of trees, panting. Watched as her face twisted into confusion, then the crumpling devastation that'd lain claim to her, streaked her scent. As she collected herself.

And then as she tilted forward, towards the gap, and Azryle's body had yanked itself to her.

Now, cold wind howled around them, whipped her hair—once honey, now brunette—into her still-fragile face, and that seemed to be the only movement in the world.

She looked different, and not only because of the dyed hair.

She seemed to have aged centuries in a year—the azure eyes, though defiance remained, and so did that utter helplessness, the fighting there was somehow fiercer. As if she'd spent the whole year being caged and tormented, been taught how to endure.

Her face, once bony, was full, and yet it lacked the glow.

Her body, once gaunt, now shaped curves that would have any man on his knees. Azryle was surprised how he managed to stay towering.

Her hand was trembling in his grip—her entire form was trembling against him. And then—

There was no warning given.

Pain lashed up his arm, his veins, as their hands began glowing in the dark night, the way they had when she'd shown him how hemvae shared their mejest.

Azryle grunted, daggers of agony shooting through him. It went from his arm, to his shoulder, and then spread in his entire torso. The veins in his neck began burning as something raced to his skull, his head. White glazed his sight and Azryle felt dizzy.

He lost his footing, staggering a step back, but Syrene didn't release him. He tried to jerk his hand back, tried to shove her away—tried, and failed.

"What are you doing," he snarled. But his voice came out weak, cunning power scoured the corners of him, coiled his insides.

Then came the bellowing in his head.

Bleeding, burning Saqa.

Azryle lost all senses, all control. He thought he would melt away, thought he would tear apart.

Somewhere, Syrene screamed.

Azryle fought the power, released the inky darkness slack within him—more than he'd ever let it be free—let it discover and destroy all light she'd discharged into him. Power coursed through him, ruled him. His own, and hers. Where hers was abolishing, his was possessing, vile, unholy.

Neither was this world's.

The smoke from his head dispelled to some extent, the roaring in his skull turned to quiet hisses, his sight cleared.

Syrene was on her knees. She wasn't screaming, no—

Her head was tipped back. Light leaked out from the cracks in her skin, where the veins should've been—as if moon and stars had been streamed inside her. The vessel was cracking. Her eyes were milky white—the azure and burnt gold of immortality hidden somewhere behind the white layer.

Her breathing was calm. Azryle doubted her insides were. He swore.

What in Ablaze Saqa had she been up to this past year?

"Syrene," he called, crouching before her. When there was no response, his free hand settled on her thin shoulder and gave a shake. "Syrene."