Drothiker

1.

"Alpenstride."

Syrene Alpenstride's eyes cracked open at the overseer's harsh voice. The sound she didn't have to ponder carefully over to decide she hated the most in the world. After the whispering and snaps of whips.

One would expect light to itch in their eyes at the wakening of dawn, but thirty-five ceaseless years in the dark, light itself would be a curse to her eyes. And she secretly wished they would never have to endure such brutishness.

Only this four-walled stone room for five years her eyes had encountered in the wake of dawn. Only this cell, where she'd wake up and be provided the dim light venturing from some door open far down the hallway of the Voiceless Pits.

Jegvr, the Voiceless Pits were the dungeons where planet Ianov's criminals were incarcerated. Those whose crimes were worse than the ones that fitted death an end. Worse punishment than decapitation was keeping alive for myriad years, torments bestowed until one lost his mind, lost any will to live. A Saqa for immortals like Syrene.

A literal bloody Saqa.

One would also expect to feel softness beneath themself when they awoke, but having felt nothing but cold stone for five Abyss-damned years, Syrene had long ago called a halt to that dream to find softness and the soft light of morning she'd long forgotten after these constant thirty-five years of dark.

For moments and moments, Syrene blinked and stared at the boring ceiling, unheeding the overseer deeming her still asleep. He could go to Saqa. They could all go to Saqa.

"Alpenstride."

First years, that tone had had her trembling with fear, terrified of that whip she didn't have to look to know he held in his right hand, gripped tight enough.

"What on Ianov do you want." Her voice flat. Dead.

She hated that her body felt the need to stiffen when the lock of cell unbarred. Hated that fear still seethed deep in her gut as the overseer stepped in and the whip whispered to the stone. Hated that the hair on her neck arose as he grinned down at her, as if tasting her fear.

The dresteen of the shackles in her wrists clanked as she sat up. Dresteen, a steel-sort metal to keep mejest from her veins. To refrain her from shifting. These bastards didn't even know Syrene held none. That being the Heir to the Lady of Wolves did not mean that she was a wolf.

For someone who relished in whipping Vegreka, the overseer seemed too cowered from all those who bore mejest at all.

Tribes from forests represented the countries, more so than soldiers did. There were myriad tribes; wolves' and sorceress' being the burliest ones. But wolves were feared the most, thanks to their prime—the Lady of Wolves, Raocete. Each tribe was elected a prime, had to maintain peace, despite the sparking rivalries. Though many primes bore stronger mejest, the Duce of Tribes happened to be a half-hemvae—one of the weakest Vegreka. Simply because the woman had gained everyone's respect, demonstrated the power she held without much mejest innumerable times.

Syrene respected the duce—lots. The duce had proved that no matter what mejest, real power kernelled deep within oneself if held the heart sturdy.

She had also allowed the Lady of Wolves—Raocete, one of the mightiest Vegreka to ever exist—to accept Syrene as one of the wolves, never minding the fact that Syrene was not.

She had not been to forests in past thirty-five years, so it was arduous to say what befell there. What changes had arisen.

Snapping her out of it, the overseer rolled the whip in his hand and Syrene's swallow was audible. He chuckled, another sound she loathed, that chilled her very bones because it hinted what was coming. And she braced herself for it. But he spoke, "As much as I would relish in the last round," disappointment molded his features as he said, "you have been Chosen."