Page 105 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

Paerish screamed, then the woman echoed the sound as he turned on her.

Fuck them. Fuck the mages. Fuck Melia. Fuck that entire place. Azriel would burn the chateau to the ground and dance in its fucking ashes for all these people had done to him.

Footsteps sounded behind him. Azriel charged at the mage on the bed, who scrambled away as though forgetting her own magic. She shrieked again, an ear-splitting sound, and the terror in it awoke that terrible part of him that he’d long since locked away. It almost made him laugh.

Azriel brought the sword down in an arc that cut across the woman’s chest. Not deep enough to kill, but enough to cause her pain in the moment so she could glean an ounce of what he felt. Her scream of agony was music to his ears. He would tear her apart and revel in her misery—

Someone shouted behind him, and then his body locked up. The collar around his throat flared to life with magic. He choked on the tang of it so close to his mouth, coughing through the pain of struggling against its hold.

Voices filled the room. The mage before him scrambled across the bed, holding the light blanket to her bleeding chest.

“Well then.” Melia’s voice stoked the fire in Azriel’s blood. “What’s going on here, Ada?”

Azriel’s hand twitched forward, the tip of the blade pointing at Ada. The magic of the collar rippled through him again, and he snarled against the ice competing with his inferno. The chill melted away as he stared at the mage before him. It’d been so long since he’d been fueled by so much hate—not even Loren stoked such ire.

Because this woman took advantage of his bond to Ariadne for her own gains, whether she knew what she was doing or not.

“I only did what you told me,” Ada said. “I took him to bed, but he couldn’t even get it up—”

None of it registered through the haze. The magic snapped. Azriel surged forward to a chorus of shouts and Ada’s scream. He plunged the blade through her belly, halting the shriek and replacing it with a cough of blood.

The crimson poured from her lips, a beautiful shade of red to match the pain he felt at what she’d done to him. He twisted the sword, widening the wound as more magic wrapped around his arms and waist to haul him back. It seared into his cobalt skin, but still, he pressed forward in determination.

“I hate you,” he snarled, not quite certain to whom it was directed. Ada? Melia? Paerish? All of them? It didn’t matter. They were all his enemy, and each of them deserved the same terrible deaths. Then he switched to the dhemon language, hoping the rougher tongue would sound as cruel and disparaging as he’d been told it did. “May Keon curse your soul and bind you into the darkness of the Underworld where my people will torment you for eternity. You are vile and unworthy of Sora’s light.”

“Enough,” Melia said monotonously, and her hold on him tightened.

Azriel took a step back, unable to withstand the sudden yank. Before him, Ada crumpled to the floor in a pool of her own blood. He growled and tried to turn the blade on Melia, but the collar’s powers reignited. Again, he choked. Again, his body locked up in response to her command. Though he fought against it, the moment her fingers wrapped around his wrist, the magic swelled and slammed into him like a deluge.

“You’d better kill me now,” he wheezed down at her, lip curled back to bare his sharp teeth and long fangs. Around them, guards rushed to the dying Ada behind him. Gods, he hoped they didn’t heal her in time. She deserved to die. Just like he deserved to die if he’d done exactly what he thought. Hot tears, fueled by anger and despair, fell down his cheeks. “Or I’ll kill you for doing this to me.”

Melia’s silver eyes sparkled like moonlight. Her lips curled into a devastating smile, and she laid a hand on his cheek, from which he could not pull away, to wipe away a tear with her thumb. “Oh no, dhomin, I’m not done with you yet.”

Loren scrawled his name across the bottom of the paper, feeling calmer than he had in a long time. This was right. The decisions he had made up until this point may have been questionable, but this was the best thing he could do for himself…and for all of Valenul.

Because the choices made by the Council, particularly the Princeps, had become far more untrustworthy.

Someone had to set things right.

A knock at the door drew his gaze up from the document. Loren sat back in his chair. “Enter.”

Colonel Trev Wintre stepped through, his crimson uniform sharp as ever. He pushed back his curly crop of hair from his forehead and lifted his chin. Though not a tall man, Trev had always had an imposing figure. Even standing alone in the General’s office, he appeared just as at home as ever.

“You asked for me, General.” Trev raised a questioning brow, though he did not voice whatever was on his mind. Wise.

“Indeed.” Loren opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out the bright red stick of wax. He set it beside the candle in the corner before carefully folding the document, along with the identical copies beneath it, into a crisp envelope shape. “Three of these are to be sent to the other provinces immediately. The rest to all Councilmen.”

“Sir?” Trev took a step forward. Certainly, he was wondering why he had just become a delivery boy. Someone of his rank was nothing of the sort.

Loren held the wax above the flame before letting it drip onto the first document. After pressing his sigil into it, he set the folded paper aside and moved to the next. He did so without speaking, knowing full well that Trev would stand there and wait like a good Caersan soldier, as he had always done.

When at last he finished, Loren tapped it and said, “I want you to deliver this to the Princeps yourself. He is not to leave his estate for any reason. Take a company of men with you. They are to monitor the grounds. No missives in or out.”

“Is the Princeps in danger?”

“Of himself.” Loren stood. “I need every soldier still stationed in the Hub to assemble immediately. We must move quickly if we are to succeed.”

Trev frowned, collecting the documents as instructed. “Forgive me, General, but I am not certain what you mean.”

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