Page 142 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

The Crowe. His father. How had she remembered him in such clear detail? Not a scar out of place. The same twist of his mouth as he sneered.

“Melia!” Azriel called again.

This time, the mage looked at him. Her silver eyes widened a fraction at his renewed vigor.

No weapon in hand, he didn’t slow. He couldn’t. Not after Raoul’s sacrifice. Not after what she’d done to Ariadne.

The Crowe pushed forward, knocking Sasja back. He towered over her with his usual ax in hand, ready to strike. Ready to carry out Melia’s bidding.

“Let her go, Melia,” Azriel snapped and held his arms wide. “You have me instead.”

A shadow passed overhead too fast for a cloud. He didn’t dare look up. Didn’t dare to take his eyes off the Desmo as she focused on him. The illusions refocused as well, turning their full attention to his approach.

“And I’ll have you for a very long time.” Melia flicked her wrists, and the dhemons started forward.

The shadow, so perfectly blending in with the night sky, landed with a deafening roar on the outer wall just above Melia. Black claws dug into the red stone that crumbled beneath it, and a burst of flames illuminated the training grounds, highlighting the corpses littered across the sand.

Razer roared again and reached his long neck forward, snapping up a screaming guard with his massive jaws and tossing them across the grounds. But it wasn’t his dragon’s sudden appearance that made Azriel’s steps falter. It was the rider on his back.

Ariadne, clad in black leather armor engraved and shimmering with magic wards, clasped a black spike with one hand. A short sword pointed at Melia, she said, “He’s mine.”

Razer rumbled beneath Ariadne as she slid down his foreleg into the sand below. She gripped the sword tight, praying to any god listening that Melia would not see her hands shaking. Such a grand entrance could not be marred by the absolute terror lancing through her. Even with a dragon at her back, facing off against Melia scared her more than anything.

Particularly after what had happened in the chateau.

Images of Emillie strung up, screaming—of Azriel dying in her arms—of Ehrun dragging his blade through the flesh of her friends and family—of her world shattering slammed to the forefront. They made her heart skip. Her breath catch. Her blood run cold.

She shoved the memories aside. Now was not the time to dwell on what Melia had done. Now was the time to remind the mage that Caersans were not to be trifled with. There was a reason a peace treaty had been signed between their people. Vampires were dangerous, and Melia would do well to remember such things.

“Get the prisoners to safety,” Ariadne said to Razer, one hand still resting on his blue-black scales. “Kill the guards.”

The dragon almost grinned in response before starting forward. Melia stumbled out of the way, her silver eyes wide. It was almost comical.

“You wretched bitch,” the mage hissed, rounding on her once the dragon had busied himself with terrorizing the guards. “I should’ve killed you.”

“Should have?” Azriel snarled and stepped forward, stopping only when Ariadne pointed her sword at him in warning.

She took a step closer to Melia and agreed, “You should have. Now I will have the pleasure of killing you as I intended.”

A wicked smirk curled the mage’s lips, her pretty face already speckled with blood. “I don’t think you will.”

The world shifted around her, taking on a very different appearance. Where the night sky had been, a ceiling of pale pink and gold stretched above her. Great chandeliers hung down, and Caersans moved to the beat of the quartet. The scent of florals and cedarwood drifted by as the dancers twirled.

Ariadne stood at the edge of the dance floor wearing a gown of periwinkle. It shimmered as she shifted to study herself and for a long moment, her mind scrambled to keep up with what was happening.

The illusion was so complete, even Azriel had disappeared from her line of sight. Melia no longer existed. Screams of dying guards and the steady beat of Razer’s wings faded away.

And none of it was real. Ariadne clung to that one simple fact. Her heart raced, each beat slamming into her ribs like a drum. She knew just how dangerous Melia’s illusions could be. She had witnessed firsthand their power.

This time, she came prepared. Phulan’s wards, imbued into the leather armor Kall had been secretly making her over the weeks, lessened the illusion’s hold on her mind. Unlike the last time she encountered Melia’s mind trap, she knew precisely what was happening around her. The mage held no power over her thoughts—only the images she planted in her mind.

So Ariadne stepped forward, gripping hard to the sword she knew she still held even if she could not see it. Another step, the sand shifting beneath her feet despite the white marble appearance. Around her, Caersans whispered amongst themselves about her strange behavior as she stalked across the dance floor.

Until, of course, her way became blocked by the one vampire she did not want to see. Loren looked down at her, a smile curling his lips. His face was a perfect replica. But that was all it was: a replica.

“Stop hiding,” Ariadne snapped, shoving against Loren’s chest. He felt real, just like every other illusion she had experienced. “Are you truly so cowardly?”

Another push. Loren did not give. Then he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her in close, and she cursed in repulsion. His hold on her only grew tighter. Tighter. Until the air pressed from her lungs.

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