Page 14 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

Markus narrowed his eyes. “I will make it so that wedding never happened.”

“You’re quite good at that.” Azriel sneered, lifting his head again. “Not the first time you’ve made a marriage disappear from history books and silenced those who knew of it.”

The Princeps stilled. His nostrils flared, and that golden, hawk-like gaze seared into him like an inferno. He shifted his footing. “Interesting. So I ask again: who are you?”

“Lord Governor—”

“No.” Carefully tempered rage radiated from Markus. “How do you know of my past?”

Now they were getting somewhere. Azriel smirked at him. “Before I tell you anything, I want you to understand one thing: Ariadne knows everything. Everything. And if you so much as look at Madan wrong, she will expose you. She’s stronger than you believe.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Tell me something, Father,” Azriel hissed and slowly pushed to his feet, using the chains to stand so, despite the awkward position from the shackles at his wrists and ankles, he towered over the Caersan. “Did you get pleasure out of killing her? Drinking her blood to save yourself? Trying to murder a young boy who’d idolized you?”

The color drained from Markus’ face. He set his jaw in defiance and glared up at Azriel with disgust. “Isaiah.”

“Did you love me once?” Azriel asked, tilting his head and taking a small step forward. To his credit, Markus didn’t balk. “Or did you always hate me?”

“I am the one asking questions.”

“Are you ashamed of me?” Azriel pressed, fists curling.

“Enough.”

Another step forward—as far as the chains allowed. “Or have I finally made you proud?”

“You are not my son.” Markus’ voice dropped to just above a whisper. He glanced behind him as though to reassure himself no one could overhear their conversation. It had taken a turn he hadn’t expected. “You were never my son.”

Azriel lifted a lip in a snarl. “But you were my father—Mattias’s father—and we both loved you more than anything.”

“Lies.” He let his arms fall to his sides as though preparing to block a blow that would never come. “You always knew of the Crowe. And Mattias—”

“Was always your blood-born son.”

“The Crowe killed him.”

The laugh Azriel let out turned cold. “You’ve tried so hard to ignore what’s right in front of you.”

A crease formed between Markus’ brows. Azriel watched as the calculations totaled up and the Princeps’ lips parted in understanding. He said nothing, however, as he glared back.

“Perhaps,” Azriel continued in a low growl, “things would’ve been different if you’d just accepted us all rather than run from your responsibilities. If you hadn’t abandoned us in Eastwood, we never would’ve known—”

“I kept you in Monsumbra for your own safety.”

“Now who’s lying?”

Markus stood a little straighter. “You dare to understand—”

“I do understand.” Azriel leaned forward, his full dhemon height still enough to scowl down at his would-be father. “And I hope the rest of our life is filled with regret and sorrow, for now you know: your only blood-born son lives, now rules Eastwood Province as a Caldwell, and despises you. Your daughters know the truth of your lies. You will never escape the choices you made.”

The door to the cell block opened, and two voices filled the corridor. Markus shot a final glare at him, then stepped back to look down at who entered.

“You have no business here,” Loren snapped.

A low chuckle, then Alek Nightingale replied, “Oh, but I do. The Princeps and I have an arrangement.”

“With him?” Loren’s voice bordered on hysterical.

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