Drothiker

44.

A sacrifice.

There was meant to be a sacrifice.

She wasn't supposed to be alive, wasn't supposed to be standing—

This was the loophole—to drive Drothiker through herself when Ianov's destruction had commenced—become Drothiker—and get killed during the duel. No Kaerions needed to be surrendered.

One life for four others.

But this power coursing through her, this undeniably wicked force whizzing past her veins, cracking them with this blazing might, was another beast within her, rebuffed this one last step.

She felt like she would turn to ashes.

She felt like she could soar to skies and sprawl this ... this cunning force threatening to consume her.

Her legs were buckling, her limbs strong and yet ... so, so weak.

It felt as if this beast would leap out of her skin, would dislodge each bone in her body.

She could hear nothing but the hammering of her heart against her ribs. Hammering of her hemvae heart ... robust and powerful, each beat a thrust.

Her each instinct, each sense had taken a razor-sharp edge.

The prince was kneeling before her—his face bone-white ... but there was an odd clearance in his eyes; that sharp mind had already deciphered the riddle. What Windsong was, why it needed to be protected.

"Rene." Levsenn behind the prince was grinning like a fiend, though her eyes were soaked with tears. Scent of her fear still lingered.

And behind the siren, stood Faolin with her dagger on Deisn's throat. The scent of her sorrow and fury could cut through the world; white hair as bright as her lilac eyes with that anger. And ...

A man towered Levsenn, tears welling in his eyes, a small smile on lips.

Syrene's breath hitched as she beheld the golden hair, the blue eyes cored with gold mirroring her own, the sharp angular cheekbones.

Despite the roaring in her head, her whole body, despite the circumstances, a sob began surging to her throat as she beheld Vurian Alpenstride after forty-one years. And the world went to Saqa as that last scrap of her family grinned at her with triumph in eyes.

That bit of content proved short-lived.

As the light from her veins vanished, Syrene attempted to shift back to her human form, unable to take this world of boisterous power.

But could not find that tether to the human part of herself.

She tried again and again and again.

Until quiet claimed her, until she comprehended what had taken place, why she'd shifted to this hemvae form involuntarily.

The sacrifice.

Syrene peered down at herself, well aware of her widened eyes.

Half her spirit taken, her life broken. Half of herself gone, vanished.

Human no more.