Drothiker

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Twilight's hollow wind swirled by in a low howl and brutal touch as Azryle Wintershade walked in a frigid, snow-laced forest, crunching the snow beneath his feet as he went, leading Raswell by reins.

Tonight—only tonight would he harbor in this city and get the damn task done, he could adjourn to his own then. Olkfield. Because otsatyas knew Azryle longed the warmth of his country, never minding that he'd been in Yharia for only a week or so.

The Otsatya City, he'd heard people call Yharia in his own country. Everywhere, really.

Azryle had been to fair share of places in the world, he wondered why his queen had never assigned him here before, not that he particularly gave a shit. But ... the Otsatya City, indeed.

If otsatyas were considered snow. Lots and lots of it.

Azryle would prefer to never revisit such gelidness ever again, but that wasn't entirely his verdict. His queen could have him nose-dive into the Abyss if she willed. Literally.

He felt, before he heard the distant steps approaching, munching the snow as they did. Hastened, hushed.

One person. Light steps.

Though Azryle knew better, he found his gloved hand reaching in closer distance to the hatchet dangling from his hip as he turned.

Female figure, cloaked and hooded, clad in purple gown. Not a well-trained warrior, but powerful with mejest, he knew even as he hadn't scented it. Heard many whispers tattling about Deisn Rainfang. The Sorceress of Yharia, worked for King Leonast Onriemn.

As if recognizing the silhouette, Raswell knickered at her sight.

The sorceress lifted her purple hood to reveal the mass of curly golden-brown hair and freckled face. "I mean you no harm," she stated as she came to a halt a few steps from him. "Deisn Rainfang."

Azryle didn't particularly relish the recoiling feeling he discerned from the sorceress—but he wasn't fool enough to let that on. His only reply was a dip of chin, even as his each ripper instinct protested against her statement.

"What they say is true, then." She angled her head, lilac eyes glinting. "Prince Azryle Wintershade, not a chatty one." The grin that followed was purely animal.

Azryle repressed his cringe. "I suppose I wasn't assigned for chitchatting?" He ran a hand over Raswell's silken cot of dark hair. "And I'm fairly certain the monster is nowhere near this forest."

Her heavy-lidded eyes narrowed, then she smiled like a fiend. "I'd gotten the wind of your haughtiness, Your Highness."

Azryle waited. As patiently as he could in the frigidness.

"Your heart is unnaturally calm, ripper." Her gaze sloped to his chest, as if she could see right beneath the coat of leathers and skin. Maybe she could—sorceresses were as much of a riddle as any enigma. "Is your kind immune, or have you done mejest for tonight's task?"

Not many were left of his kind, unfortunately, to tackle this task tonight in his stead. And he had no doubt the Sorceress of Yharia was already aware of that. "One would think a sorceress as powerful as yourself would be able to tell where mejest was utilized."

He hadn't meant it an insult, but she seemed to have taken it as one—if the cold chuckle she gave was any indication. "Whom you call monster, ripper, is a friend of mine." She added coolly, "You make a mistake and kill her tonight, and I will see how calm your heart remains with my mejest on your throat."