Page 13 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

“General Gard.” Markus Harlow’s voice cut through Loren’s thoughts.

Shaking the mental image of Ariadne strung up naked from his mind, Loren turned to look down the corridor again. “My Lord Princeps, what can I do for you?”

“I am glad to have caught you here.” Markus clasped Loren’s forearm. “I had hoped to have a moment to speak with the prisoner.”

“Of course, my Lord.”

“Privately.”

Something cold twisted in Loren’s gut. The last time they had rendezvoused at the prison to speak with Azriel, it had been together. No secrets between them—aside, perhaps, from Loren’s own intention of foregoing their agreed-upon punishment of fifty lashes. That the Princeps now wished to speak with the bastard on his own only made Loren suspicious.

Despite his misgivings, Loren nodded. Markus outranked him, after all. That he had not merely demanded the private setting was a sign of the Princeps’ full forgiveness.

Loren placed the key in Markus’ hand and stepped aside. “I shall wait in the next block, then.”

“Very good.”

Markus shoved the key into his pocket, then waited in silence as Loren retreated down the corridor. Of course he would not begin speaking until he was out of earshot. Loren would do the same.

Closing the door between cell blocks, Loren could not shake the feeling that all of his plans were about to change.

Azriel had known this moment would arrive as soon as he shifted in the Harlow Estate foyer. Not only Loren’s poor attempt at goading him into a violent reaction but Markus’ inevitable questioning. Even as he’d ripped through the soldiers holding him back from Ariadne, he’d seen the sudden, jarring understanding on the Princeps’ face. All Markus needed now was confirmation.

And Azriel had yet to decide if he’d give it to the Caersan.

When Loren retreated, the door of the cell block closing and locking behind him, Azriel leveled his gaze on the man left before him. Once upon a time, he’d feared Markus Harlow—feared the man he’d called Father for so long. It’d only grown to sheer terror after those violent moments in the woods outside the Caldwell Estate.

After cutting down Azriel’s mother, Markus had turned to him, face dripping crimson and twisted with hate. Behind the then-General, his mother watched in horror and uttered the final word he ever heard from her: “Run.”

Azriel had been young. A teenager in years, but his body had been small. His short legs and frail muscles were no match against a full-grown Caersan vampire. He’d listened to his mother’s final request and turned, heart thundering in his little chest, to race away.

At first, he’d stumbled, the ground damp with slick fallen leaves. Markus’s footsteps behind him were slow and steady. The vampire stalked him like a lion, relishing the moments before his kill. Still, Azriel had scrambled away, blinded by panic and the desperate wish that it was all just a bad dream.

Markus never spoke during those moments, but Madan had. The tiny, toddler-sized boy barreled into his father’s legs and clutched him at the knees. His small voice had cracked as he screamed, “Please, Father! Stop! Stop!”

Then, the Crowe had appeared. Azriel reached for him, and like a true father, the Crowe clasped his hand firm to pull him away from the murderous Caersan. At the sight of the dead woman on the ground behind them, the Crowe had lost all senses. He’d yanked Madan back from Markus and barreled into the Caersan with a roar.

Azriel had covered Madan’s eyes as they fought, but he could not peel his own from the carnage.

Now, as he stared up at Markus Harlow, shoulders aching from the strain of the chains, Azriel felt nothing more than an empty void. He’d trained for centuries to become strong enough to face Valenul’s previous General and make him pay for what he’d done to his family.

“I have questions for you.” Markus didn’t lean casually in the doorway as Loren had. He stood, feet spread and arms crossed, as he surveyed Azriel with cool calculation.

As he had done with Loren, Azriel said nothing. The murderer before him didn’t deserve any answers. He’d already gone too long pretending as though he had nothing but respect for the Caersan. There was no need to continue the charade.

Markus’ lips thinned at the silence. “If you do not answer them of your own free will, then I will make Madan answer them by force.”

Cold dread pooled in Azriel’s gut. Madan could withstand torture—he’d proven that time after time. But after he’d been taken and nearly killed by Loren, Azriel wouldn’t gamble on his brother’s life again. If he were to die soon anyway, the least he could do was keep his wife and brother safe.

So Azriel let his head drop onto his shoulder, his horns curling around his arm, and responded, “What do you want to know?”

A small smirk of triumph curled the Princeps’ mouth. “Who are you?”

“Lord Governor Azriel Caldwell, half-dhemon and your son-in-law, whether you like it or not.” Azriel noted the tension in the Caersan’s shoulders building.

“Marriage to dhemons is unlawful, therefore—”

“There is no law stating such,” Azriel cut in. “Arrogant Caersans assumed it unnecessary to make it official.”

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