Drothiker

7.

Cub. Azryle called Syrene cub. Young wolf.

She did not know whether he did it to piss her off, but if he did, it was working impeccably. But when she called him Your Highness, the man flashed her a look and said to cut the bullshit. That tattoo on half his cheek and neck was enough to make her piss herself, but when he clenched his jaw and the inking bulged ...

Enough for Syrene to bristle and back the Saqa down. So she called him Azryle. No referents of respect as one might expect from a slave.

They'd left the Glass Palace two days ago, and there was no vehicle like the birdship for the prince. No, they'd been roving through forests afoot, even when he had his stallion—Raswell, Azryle called the horse. He said she needed to walk, a segment of training.

For the Pensnial Duel. Syrene cringed and repressed that thought deep in.

Azryle was basically training her just to kill her later. It was as absurd as it sounded. She had no doubt that Queen Felset calculatedly set her up with him, had no doubt that it was prompted by Deisn herself. World will watch as the Heir to Wolf Tribe will fall as a weakling before the ripper. It'll crumple the fear the Lady of Wolves had sowed in the world for past the centuries, begetting Sorceress Tribe in power.

Just what Deisn Rainfang wanted. The Duce of Tribes her ass. The sorceress may be powerful, but she was not inhumane as Syrene was. As Deisn had made Syrene by driving her to kill Lucran in that tower.

Yes, Queen Felset had been right that it had been Syrene's lethality that had enthralled Raocete. Lethality, more like savageness. The Human Wolf, they'd begun calling her, begun knowing her as.

Until she was cursed at age sixteen.

She hadn't the faintest idea where Windsong was—whether the Sword of Ondes was with Queen Felset or was it sent with Azryle. Whether she would be handed it after the duel, or during the course of it.

Syrene sighed.

There was no dresteen on her skin, but xist was shoved down her throat this morning by the prince. Even when it was declared by Deisn that Syrene did not possess any mejest, that she was a Grestel, not a Vegreka. He might call her cub, she was not actually a shifter.

Sunlight waned wholly from the sky; moon ascended. And Syrene was still walking, thankful for the cool temperature that bloomed.

Azryle advancing towards a tree, leading Raswell by reins, was the only indication they were halting here for the night. Only indication for her to grab the weapons he'd handed her—so confident that she will not be able to make a run—and begin the session.

Of course, Syrene was not offered any rest, excluding the few hours of sleep after training. Though her training wasn't meant to commence until they reached Nofstin, the prince had decided to make this trek a Saqa too, as if endlessly marching and he calling her cub was not enough to piss her off.

"Here's a deal:" Syrene suggested, "you're going to kill me whether I train or not, right? How about we spend some time and you return to Her Immortal Majesty and tell her I've been trained. I receive my sword and we provide Cleystein a duel. Outcome; we both know." Upon his silence, she went on. "Spare us both from this Saqa. Neither do you want to kill your time with this," he'd made it pretty clear, "nor do I."

He didn't turn, but chuntered, "How about you shut up and begin your session, cub."

Syrene's jaw clenched to the point of pain. "Stop calling me that."