Drothiker

33.

Azryle looked as if Syrene had electrocuted him.

He hadn't moved an inch from where he was kneeling, even as Deisn tumbled to ground—which should have had her losing her hold on him.

Hazily, she heard the steps approaching, and shifted back to her frail human form—glad for that human form. It was a reminder that she was still human, this body was the only tether she had to humanity. And as she shifted, zegruks vanished from her skin like water drying, leaving slight itching in their wake.

"Can you move?" she asked Azryle.

He recovered soon—or sheathed everything too well—and lifted to his full height. A wave of hand from him had Deisn's collapsed body glamoured under his mejest. Not saying a word. Of course, being the Duce of Tribes made Syrene one of the most powerful beings on Ianov, made her slightly more than a queen, equally influential to Queen Felset.

But ... she hadn't expected Azryle to get all respectful, or conduct himself differently towards her at all—or even care, for that matter. This changed nothing for the duel they were to have, after all, didn't make him any less of an enemy. Disappointment washed over her, but Syrene masked it before it could stretch to even her scent. If he was to get all formal, that was on him.

She will not stop him.

Vendrik, Maeren and Ferouzeh emerged from the trees, looking for all the world as though they might swipe to their knees. Breathing hard.

"Where in Saqa have you—" Maeren began.

But then her eyes went wide—all three's eyes went wide as they scanned Azryle and Syrene.

"Oh," muttered the wraith.

When Syrene followed their gazes and spied down at herself, she understood what they'd seen.

Azryle was coated in sweat, his torso bare—clean, thanks to Deisn.

Syrene's hair was tousled, was wearing nothing but the ripper's shirt.

Oh no, no, no—

Vendrik stammered, "We'll give you two privacy."

Ferouzeh grinned. "When you'd said these were your last days," she said to Syrene, "I didn't think you'd go wholly wild, girl. But good job." She winked.

Syrene's face burned. "I—"

"You could have informed." Bitterness in Maeren's voice was too apparent. "We were concerned," she snapped.

Guilt oiled Syrene's gut—for that kiss earlier. She opened her mouth, not sure what words were to pour from her mouth, but she was spared by Azryle's interruption.

He shot back, "You know exactly where we were."

Maeren blinked. But then she grumbled, gazing down at his half-nakedness, "It's pretty obvious, Azryle."

"Don't you try to lie to me," he ground out, stepping towards Maeren, nothing but fury on his face—that look, Syrene had no doubt, must have had his enemies running. Because she certainly felt like it. That tattoo—the zegruks—on his face seemed to be there only to urge people to bolt.

Ferouzeh quickly stepped between Azryle and Maeren—who had fear in her scent. "What is happening?" the healer asked.

Azryle's silver eyes were pinned on the wraith. "Are you going to speak or am I going to have to make you?"