Drothiker

2.

It had been a few days, yet Syrene wasn't entirely certain how to feel the air of clouds encircling her, how to let it seep in her skin, wasn't certain how to look in the sunlight as she stood in what they called a birdship.

The vehicle hadn't existed thirty-five years ago; nothing had existed beyond simple carriages. But now she stood on the quarterdeck of an airborne gilded ship with wings and parachute atop her steered by the captain who sat in the cabin, with a few sentries around.

The firebreather—Vendrik Evenflame, Second to the Queen of Cleystein, was airborne beside them, on his personal griffin. The enormous mount's feathers were, too, gilded as if the kingdom Syrene was being hauled to was bathed in gold and jewels. The thought made her cringe, she had never felt jewels on her skin.

The birdship was the definition of luxury, if not the firebreather's eagle-headed creature beside it. The white and golden ship only a few rulers could meet the expense of, she had no doubt. Its lean white wings sprinkled with gold flapped like any other living bird's; almost made her wonder whether they'd slain a creature to forge the vehicle. The shade beckoned by the golden parachute atop her was no help when the sun felt as if it loomed beside Syrene.

Out of the fifteen slaves, only four—including Syrene—were being transported to the luxurious country, Cleystein. What Saqa others were Destined with, she hadn't the faintest idea.

The four, however, were all purchased by Queen Felset. At least they weren't purchased by a lowlife who would have quite possibly made the remaining life a Saqa. Worse than the sort Jegvr had been, perhaps. The immortal Enchanted Queen, however, was not very merciful, Syrene had gotten the wind. She'd lived millennia, they said, and still managed to look young.

There were tales about her captivating beauty, too, even in the Voiceless Pits. People had melted upon her sight. Sometimes literally.

Syrene remained on the quarterdeck, despite the sun, while the others had decided to hang about in the quarters they were treasured with. She had wanted to feel the air, wanted to let the rays of sun settle in her bruised, scarred skin. Thirty-five Abyss-damned years without the light of day.

First thirty years thanks to her being cursed and wallowed in a creature's body, and then the last five years in Jegvr. Her eyes had stung and burned when she'd stepped out of the Voiceless Pits, at the strike of the first light of sun. It had taken her an hour to wholly open her eyes to it.

That was when Syrene had trod in the birdship, the sight of the enormous vehicle marveling her enough for her eyes to widely snap open.

And the moment all four slaves had stepped in, they were all immured in quarters for a few hours. Had them drink something that numbed mejest in their veins—and a tracking liquid no doubt, lest someone played clever and attempted to flee.

No one would be that foolish to gamble this one chance at freedom from Jegvr, yes, but also their names be forever eliminated from the list of ranked Chosen. Forever in the Saqa of Jegvr.

Syrene allowed herself to survey the griffin beside the birdship. The luxurious saddle and treacherous talons. And the red-haired rider that patted the beast as if it were just an ordinary hound. Maybe it was—maybe griffins had become common in past thirty-five years.

Windsong—her mother's sword—was still in their possession. Hadn't let Syrene perceive it, if only a glimpse. Said Queen Felset would elect when to hand it to her. Whether to hand it to her. Her gut had roiled at that, but she'd said nothing.