Page 123 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

Azriel grew more and more ashamed of how difficult it was to not eat the food laced with the mind-numbing drugs Melia kept giving him. Each meal, he stared at the bowl of gruel given to him, wondering if that would be the one to give him the relief he so desperately desired. After the brief encounters with Ariadne, the bond roared for release, forcing him to remember every painful moment of being locked away.

Yet despite struggling to cope with the daily life of Algorathian imprisonment, Azriel pressed forward with Raoul’s idea. Band the prisoners together, and together, they would revolt. So as the human made his rounds through the training yard, speaking with the remaining fighters and convincing them to join, Azriel and Sasja pieced together the final element: how to complete a blood oath.

The idea had occurred to him after a volley of hazy, drugged memories resurfaced. Someone had mentioned blood oaths not long before the mage, Ada, had taken him away. When he’d brought it up to Sasja, she’d leapt at the idea.

While he’d never orchestrated his own or had been asked to complete blood oaths, he’d seen many performed. On the other hand, Sasja had given a blood oath to only one before: Ehrun.

But it’d been Sasja who pieced together the plan to use the blood oath as a way to maintain a hold on the prisoners. With everyone so tight-lipped about why they’d ended up there, she’d determined it to be the best way to ensure they wouldn’t run off and repeat their crimes. If they could successfully bind them to Azriel with the oath, he’d have some dangerously strong fighters at his beck and call.

The more he and Sasja discussed the workings of it, however, the more it weighed on him. Too many of the procedures were reminiscent of the Caersan wedding ceremony.

He couldn’t dwell on whether or not he’d accidentally forced Ariadne into a blood oath with him. The vampires had likely stolen the ceremony from the dhemons in the early years of their occupation in the Keonis Valley and didn’t understand its significance. It wasn’t as though they could complete the blood oath themselves, what with their suppressed magic. Only a dhemon, as a descendant from Keon, could make it work.

“I don’t know if it’ll hold,” Sasja admitted with a frown as she looked at the scar on her palm. “If I’m near him…the oath I give to you may be overruled.”

“There’s only one way to know.” Azriel drew the sharp edge of the arrowhead over the palm of his non-dominant hand—the hand he hadn’t used during the wedding. He hated that he may have bound his wife to him unwittingly. He’d been so blinded by his bond that he couldn’t see the similarities. He pushed the thoughts aside and began the incantation, “I stand before thee, Keon, God of the Underworld, and he we serve, to ask thee to accept this blood as offering for this union. May thee recognize our mutual devotion and worship in the days to come.”

Sasja sighed and cut over the scar made by her oath to Ehrun. “With this blood, I give unto thee my undying loyalty and servitude.”

They clasped hands, bringing the cuts of their palms together so very much like the wedding. Azriel resisted the urge to squirm and, until Sasja’s squeeze, almost forgot to say the next phrase. “With this blood, I bind thee to me, to carry out my will, and to me thee shall be faithful.”

“To thee, I shall be faithful.” Sasja peeled her hand away and drew her tongue over the slowly healing cut. The final piece—ingesting the shared blood.

Azriel hesitated. It felt wrong to say those words, so similar to what he promised Ariadne, and then bind another woman to him. Perhaps the Caersan’s version had been different enough to keep the oath from kicking in. It churned his stomach all the same.

Nonetheless, he licked up the blood from his palm. Sasja’s unfamiliar taste made him want to spit it out. At least he didn’t have to drink from her, as required during the wedding ceremony.

“Don’t look so excited.” Sasja rolled her eyes at his revulsion.

Fixing his expression, he shook out his hand. “Thank you for walking me through this.”

“Let’s just hope it works.”

Before Azriel could respond, Paerish crossed the training grounds, eyes locked on him. He stifled his groan of displeasure. There was no time for whatever game Melia wanted to play. The guard never took him to the chateau unless she had some new torment waiting for him.

“The Desmo requires you.” Paerish didn’t so much as glance at Sasja, who pretended to fix her braid as she tucked the arrowhead into it.

Azriel crossed his arms, forgetting their previous ploy to pretend he remained under her drugged control just long enough to ruin it. “And if I say no?”

Sasja grumbled in annoyance.

Paerish cocked their head at him, a light frown forming between their brows. “You won’t.”

Of course they were correct, but he didn’t like the idea of giving Melia’s pet any satisfaction. “She would just as soon kill you if it meant she could use your corpse as a stool. You’re better than that.”

“Come.” Paerish’s crisp tone demonstrated the exasperation hidden by the shemagh. “Now.”

Before any magic could sting him through the collar, Azriel grunted in response and followed the guard. The chateau loomed above them like a watch tower, though when he looked up, he didn’t see anyone standing on the balcony.

When they reached Melia, seated casually on a sofa near the dining room, Azriel couldn’t ignore the dried splatter of blood on the furniture. Any mage could have cleaned up such a mess—someone had tried, and it muddied the scent of the blood, though something about it scratched at the back of his mind.

“Desmo,” he spat and adjusted his stance, feet wide.

“You’re looking much better,” Melia said with a small smile. “I was certain you wouldn’t make it back the other night.”

“I’m sure you’re disappointed.”

“Disappointed?” Melia laughed, tossing back her hair. “And miss out on more opportunities to make you miserable? Darling, why would I want that?”

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