Page 12 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

Chapter 4

Nothing tasted better than victory. Aside from, perhaps, vengeance…and Loren had both. Witnessing Azriel’s downfall after all he had done since the beginning of the Season had soothed the wounds to his ego. For the brooding bastard to have proved him right by tearing down soldiers like a savage beast had only sweetened the moment.

The scene replayed in his mind’s eye again and again as he arrived at the prison the following night. Ariadne’s screams. Azriel’s look of utter defeat. The Princeps’ disgust at what he had allowed into his own home. Even the blood of his soldiers, Nikolai included, had been worth it.

Everything had gone exactly as he had planned, short of one thing: Madan’s absence. Somehow, Azriel had been wise enough to send the traitorous Caersan away. After the nights Loren had spent attempting to extricate any incriminating information about the disgraced Lord Governor, he was shocked the vampire survived. No one survived aegrisolis.

Reining in his stallion, Loren dismounted in a sweep of his crimson cloak. Wearing his uniform without critical Caersans leering at him stoked his pride. News traveled fast through the Society; his instructions for soldiers to spread the word had helped. In truth, he never truly set the uniform aside and, indeed, continued many of his duties as General during his leave of absence. Still, he had not enjoyed the glares from the men and women of the Society. They were beneath him in more ways than one, and now they would all see him for what he truly was: a leader and threat to any enemy, in or out of their great kingdom.

The prison loomed behind the Court House where the Council met, and many of the capital’s crimes were sentenced. Though hidden from the main highway, a large courtyard sprawled before it where a wooden stage stood. Atop it were various tools for punishment: the stocks, pillory, noose, and Loren’s personal favorite, the lashing post.

Azriel would not receive any of those punishments for his crimes. No. Loren could not risk him surviving another beating or his strong dhemon bones saving him from such a short drop. He could not even leave the bastard’s body hanging for the sun since it would not kill him.

No. He would not make such mistakes again. This time, he would not be satisfied until the filthy dhemon’s head was mounted on his wall.

At the doors to the prison, the guard placed his fist over his heart and inclined his head in the traditional salute of a soldier. Loren’s mouth curled, and he swept by without a word.

The last time he had gone in search of Azriel in the prison, the bastard had been held in a common cell easily accessible by any soldier or guard. This time, Loren did not stop until he arrived at the block containing the most terrible offenders: murderers and rapists. They sat behind doors of iron in cells with no light and hardly large enough to lie down. The key for each lock remained separate from the warden’s key ring to prevent any mass break-outs.

Loren alone held Azriel’s.

He pulled the thick skeleton key, hanging by a silver chain, from his pocket and stood in silence outside the cell for a long moment. Too soon, he would bring a greatsword down on the half-breed’s neck. The motion would put an end to that chapter of his life. Until then, he would relish every second he had lording his victory over the pathetic horned fae.

Several clicks sounded as the lock tumbled and gave way. The door swung open, allowing the torchlight of the corridor to bleed into the tiny cell.

The dhemon knelt at the far end, navy arms stretched taut in either direction by chains, and his face tilted away from the sudden rush of light. The annuli of his black horns appeared to ripple as he turned his squinting red eyes back to the corridor. He bared his sharp teeth like an animal, and his expression shifted into a glare.

“Come now,” Loren simpered. “Is that how you treat your General?”

Azriel said nothing. His mouth closed, and as his eyes adjusted, he looked at him fully.

“I came to let you know,” Loren continued, unperturbed, “all has been settled between the Princeps and me. I look forward to ending the Season as it was meant to start: with Ariadne in my bed.”

Rage pulsed from the dhemon. His fingers closed into fists, and his muscles rippled with the strain of self-control. That ruby gaze hardened from hatred to pure loathing.

Loren did not hide his smirk. “Tell me something…did you love her?”

Again, no response.

“Or…” Loren leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, crossing his arms as though the one-sided conversation were a casual chat amongst friends. “Did you bond to her, as you ridiculous fae are wont to do?”

A muscle ticked in Azriel’s jaw. Though he did not verbally confirm anything, he let his gaze drop to the floor. It was enough of a confirmation for Loren.

“You did.” He chuckled at the absurdity of it all. “That explains a lot, I suppose.”

Azriel’s nostrils flared, eyes wide as he studied the stones between his knees. What Loren would not give to listen to the bastard’s thoughts. To taste that tang of hate. To revel in the gut-twisting defeat he no doubt felt.

“I want you to rest assured,” Loren continued, “she will be well taken care of—night and day. I will see to her every want and need, and she will forget you ever existed.”

Then Azriel did what Loren least expected. He laughed. The dhemon raised his gaze back up to him and laughed, dark and filled with heartless mirth. The sound, hollow and cold, echoed off the prison walls.

“Perhaps I will keep you alive a little longer,” Loren spat, heat rising up his neck. “And make you watch.”

The dhemon leaned forward, arms stretching and face twisting with wicked glee. When at last he spoke, his voice was not as Loren expected. The lower tones and gravelly crackle pushed him fully into the category of monster. “If watching her put a blade in your throat is to be my final moments, I will greet death with open arms.”

Loren stared at him for a long moment. How was one meant to respond to such statements? The idyllic threat of a dead man. He pushed off the wall and squared up to the prisoner. “If she wants to play with knives, I will gladly show her how. I get the sense she is not only accustomed to such activities but will do precisely as I tell her once I have made her a little more…agreeable.”

The glare returned in an instant. So the bastard knew something Loren did not, it would seem, though he guessed correctly. Ariadne had been so tight-lipped about what occurred in the mountains with the dhemons, Loren was uncertain he would ever get any useful information from her. Now he knew why: she had spent her nights at the mercy of monsters, enduring a similar level of agony he had inflicted on Madan.

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