Chapter 15
Syrena
Syrena sat on her throne of carved ivory and pearl as her fingers drummed impatiently against the armrest.
Azarian stood next to her. “We’re running out of time,” he warned, eyes sharp. “The Moon of Malya won’t wait forever. If we don’t act soon, our plan will fail, and we’ll need to wait yet another year.”
Syrena’s lips curved into a thin smile, but inside, irritation flickered like a storm beneath calm seas. She’d known this for months. How could she forget when it was all he’d spoken of this past millennium?
But caution was key.
“Not only is Esmyra cunning,” she started, “but also stronger and smarter than either of us anticipated. We can’t rush and risk losing everything.”
“Yes, but—”
“I understand,” she cut him off as she tried to steady her voice, masking the impatience. “But we must be precise. The moment will come soon enough. We strike when she’s weakest. When she doesn’t see it coming and there’s no room for error.”
The grand doors burst open, and they both whirled in its direction as Esmyra entered. How had Syrena not felt her power the moment she arrived in Maerinys? Her sister was limping and bloodied, a look of pure fury on her face, her onyx hair hanging in wet tangles, streaked with crimson.
Now what in all the realms could’ve caused this? It tasted like a tiny scrap of victory, but if Esmyra was already wounded this deeply by someone else…
“Sister,” Syrena gasped, feigning false concern. “What in all hells happened?”
Esmyra’s jaw clenched. “I had him. I almost had them all. And then—” Her voice cracked before she met Syrena’s gaze. “Velsinyte.”
Fuck.
Syrena stood, storming down the steps as her gown billowed behind her. “How did they get this close to you?” She observed the leaking, infected wounds, and met her sister’s stare. “These are holes?”
“Bullet wounds,” Esmyra admitted. “They have so much of it. I don’t understand how.”
Azarian stepped up to them then, remaining silent as his eyes roamed over her injuries.
Syrena’s eyes widened, her throat tightening. Bullets?! The mortals now possessed the most lethal substance to all creatures of magic, including the gods. Her stare darted back and forth, refusing to land on any one thing. “Esmyra, if these bullets struck your heart—”
“I know,” she cut her off. “I know, it could’ve killed me.”
Syrena bit her bottom lip. “How long ago did this happen?”
“Three days,” Esmyra admitted, her knees buckling. She would have crashed to the floor if Syrena’s arms hadn’t caught her.
“Now’s our chance.” Naerysa’s voice echoed through her.
A delicious thought bloomed in Syrena’s mind then. With Esmyra severely weakened, her defenses were fraying. And this might be the only chance Syrena had to do what she set out to do these last thousand years without risking a bloody fight.
Syrena’s gaze met Azarian’s. They said nothing, but a silent understanding passed between them as tiny, cruel grins crept up each of their lips.
“Azarian, I need you to hold her,” she ordered. She stepped back after passing Esmyra to him, and her sister instantly sagged into his arms.
“We’re going to extract it,” Syrena said quietly, nodding once.
Esmyra stirred weakly in his grasp, her brows knitting together in confusion. “Now?! Right here in the throne room?”
Syrena’s eyes narrowed. “It must be done before it burrows any further. Waiting will only make it more difficult, if not impossible.”
“My Goddess, if it’s festered too long and you cannot remove it, we may need your blood,” Azarian said as he lowered Esmyra carefully to the stone floor, still cradling her limp form.
The veins in Syrena’s neck tightened, straining as she tried to reel in her temper. She hadn’t told Esmyra the truth of velsinyte’s antidote.
Velsinyte was forged from the blood of Asyris, the Divine of Life and Death, the source of all divinity and destruction.
Infused with that ancient essence, velsinyte wasn’t merely designed to harm gods, but to unravel them to their core.
By body, soul, and magic alike. Once it entered a god’s veins, it corrupted from within, twisting their very nature until their power began to devour itself.
Without removal, overtime the substance would turn its victim into nothing more than a living husk, even without being stabbed in the heart. A god without power would be a shadow of divinity, cursed to remember eternity while bound by mortality.
The only known cure was just as rare and divine: the blood of another god, freely given. Only something born of the same origin could counteract the rot left by the curse.
And of all the gods of Rymelle, only Naerysa and Kaelypso possessed the ability to draw the cursed substance from its victim’s veins. Their magic, with their ability to wield the tides, could slip between the folds of spirit and flesh to gently pull the poison free.
It was how Syrena was able to heal Esmyra’s cut when she first arrived in Maerinys. But that had been a mere, shallow flesh wound. This was now something entirely different, and Esmyra’s body was riddled with holes and lesions.
“What is he talking about?” Esmyra asked.
Syrena blinked through her racing thoughts and cleared her throat before lowering herself to the floor next to them.
“These wounds have been left to fester, and their edges are blackened. There’s a possibility even the cleansing tides of Naerysa’s power may not be enough to reach the heart of this infection, dear sister. ”
“Indeed,” Azarian added. “But only if the velsinyte’s essence has rooted itself too deeply.”
Esmyra swallowed. “And blood is the only cure for this?”
“The blood of another god. Obviously it cannot be your own, for that is what’s being corrupted.”
Esmyra let out a huff and dramatically threw her head back. “Why can’t any of these things be fixed with a normal salve and call it a day?”
Syrena and Azarian both just stared at her in silence, unamused.
She slowly brought her stare back to them and sighed. “Aye, then. If you must.”
Syrena held out her webbed, taloned hands above Esmyra as she lay between Azarian’s legs, summoning the velsinyte curse to extract itself.
Slowly, the onyx veins plaguing her body began to retreat to the sites of the wounds.
Her sister let out a hiss, wincing a few times from what she could only assume was pain.
The vile black substance lifted from them, levitating in the air above Esmyra, and Syrena guided it into a nearby vase perched on a column.
The once vibrant florals it held wilted the moment she placed the poison within it.
“Gods, that’s disgusting,” Esmyra said, squeezing her eyes shut. “I’ll never get used to that.”
“And hopefully it’s not something you’ll have to get used to.”
“Thank you,” she said, though a slight tremor remained in Esmyra’s body as the curse leisurely faded from her darkened veins.
The velsinyte’s stench stuffed itself in Syrena’s nostrils. It was sharp, metallic, acrid with the memory of their past long buried. The sight of it writhing beneath Esmyra’s skin pulled something jagged from her chest.
The feeling wasn’t pity. She would never have it in herself to feel that for anyone, let alone the sister she loathed.
It was fear.
Syrena’s—or Naerysa’s—memory of the last time this poison had been unleashed upon them had bile climbing her throat. She remembered how it ate through their power like acid, how even the screams of gods had gone silent once it was plunged into their hearts.
Her eyes dropped to Esmyra, chest rising and falling rapidly as her body healed. Syrena couldn’t help but think how her sister deserved this.
Kaelypso was radiant, desired by the only male Naerysa had loved, and her power was untouchable until that male betrayed them both. And then Esmyra had lived several lifetimes thriving above the waves while Syrena rotted in the pits of the depths.
“They deserve this agonizing living death.” Naerysa’s thoughts surfaced like a bitter tide.
Kaelypso and Esmyra deserved it. Every inch of pain. Every crack of failing power.
But they couldn’t die. Not yet.
Syrena hated this. Hated Esmyra, but she needed her. They needed Kaelypso’s power to complete what Naerysa had set out to do long ago.
Once the healing was finished, she glanced down, watching as Esmyra’s flesh mended itself. Which meant the velsinyte curse was no longer in her bloodstream.
“Now. You must strike now before Kae stirs within her,” Naerysa demanded.
She would only get one opportunity for this.
“Wait. Something’s not right!” Syrena gasped, eyes going wide. “I think there’s still some left in her.”
“Fuck. This isn’t good,” Azarian said, playing along.
“What?” Esmyra’s voice cracked in panic. “How would I heal if there was still some left?”
“I don’t know,” Syrena whispered as her stare lifted to Azarian’s.
He gave her a small, subtle nod.
“Look at me, Esmyra.”
Syrena’s gaze turned back to her, her eyes gleaming while the irises tightened, shifting into their serpentine slits. She tilted her head just enough to lock eyes with her sister, who was still weak from being freshly healed.
The moment their stares met, Syrena let the compulsion flow, her voice low and velvet soft. “You will do exactly as I say, and you will hold no memory. You are only a vessel for what I need until I release you from my hold.”
She had never compelled Esmyra before, and it was like plunging into icy, dark water. The edges of her sister’s consciousness pushed back, a furious, pulsing barrier screaming for freedom.
But beneath that fierce roar was a flicker of exhaustion. The long battles, the slow draining of essence, had worn Esmyra thin. Syrena wove her compulsion like a net, delicate but unbreakable, threading through cracks in her twin’s mind.
The resistance came in surges, but with every breath, every whispered command, it softened.
Esmyra was different from anyone else she had ever compelled before, likely due to her possessing the same power. It wasn’t a total surrender, but more like bending a wild ocean to a gentle tide.
A subtle shiver passed through Esmyra’s body, and the tension in her jaw finally went slack. Her breath steadied as the fight in her drained.
“Good,” Syrena whispered, stroking a hand down the side of her face. “Now… sleep.”
Esmyra’s eyelids lowered instantly, her weight going limp in Azarian’s hold.
A slow, satisfied curve pulled at Syrena’s lips, already envisioning the ritual to come.