Page 15 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

Azriel frowned and retreated again. The walls and ceiling pressed in on him. What sort of arrangement could Alek have with the Princeps, and how did it pertain to him? Cold seeped into his bones, and for a long moment, Azriel couldn’t comprehend what was happening.

“Lord Governor Nightingale,” Markus said, his voice returning to its usual imperiousness, “thank you for meeting me here.”

“My Lord Princeps.” Alek stopped to grasp the other Caersan’s forearm, then turned to peer inside the cell. He winked before turning back to the other vampires. Strange. “My men are ready to leave immediately.”

Loren balled his fists, face red with rage. “What is the meaning of this?”

The corner of Markus’ mouth ticked up in a sly smirk. He glanced back at Azriel. “I swore an oath to protect Valenul from all threats. This particular manner of beast threatened not only the lives of those I love most but the livelihood of our High Society.”

All around Azriel, the air grew thin. He looked between each Caersan with wide eyes. He’d expected an execution—a swift end to the life he’d taken for granted. This was not what he’d planned.

“Lord Nightingale wishes to open a fighting arena,” Markus continued, “to profit from violent prisoners and make their executions a bit more…entertaining.”

No. Azriel knew what came next. He scrambled to keep up with the sudden shift of his fortunes.

“How does this pertain to that monster?” Loren jerked his head toward Azriel.

“Algorath already has a similar system in place,” Alek replied, his black eyes glittering with mischief. “I suggested a demonstration of just how much gold such sports can bring in. Much of it would go towards the military.”

Still, Loren shook his head. “This prisoner is not for sale.”

“Oh,” Alek chuckled, “but he is.”

Markus nodded once. “Very good. He is to be sent to Algorath immediately, General, to fight in the Pits. If he dies there, then his execution is concluded. If he survives…perhaps we will bring him back as our first fight in Valenul.”

Azriel couldn’t breathe. If he went to Algorath, there’d be no coming back. He had enemies in the mage city. Enemies he couldn’t hide from if he were to become a spectacle. If Melia found him…execution would be a dream come true in comparison to what she’d do.

“My Lord Princeps,” Loren hissed, “I must insist he remain for—”

“It has been decided.” Markus looked to Azriel, a grin displaying his long fangs. “This monster will finally get what he has been owed for centuries.”

You will not return the same. You never do.

Ariadne’s father had said those words to her at her wedding reception. Unfortunately for him, he had no idea how true they were. When she had been taken to Ehrun in those far-off mountains, she returned half the Caersan she had once been. She barely ate, woke frequently from day terrors, and could not withstand the din and pressure of Society balls. A ghost of her former self had roamed the halls.

Then she had returned after learning of Azriel’s true lineage—after learning it had been he who abducted her from her own home. Again, she had felt broken and betrayed, though she had stood up for herself. She demanded more from her husband in every aspect to earn back her love and trust.

Now she returned a thunderstorm at midnight, billowing through the manor without regard and leaving wreckage in her wake. She had worked too hard for too long to regain her sense of self, and Azriel had been an integral part of that. To have him taken from her so swiftly and without any true accusations aside from his parentage—a fact he could not control—opened a chasm within her from which every shadowy piece of herself crawled.

“I am going to the prison,” her father had announced to her and Emillie at breakfast. “Would you care to join me?”

Ariadne had glared at him. “Are you releasing my husband and allowing us safe passage to Monsumbra?”

He had looked at her with exhaustion written across his face, golden eyes flashing. “That monster deserves nothing more than—”

She stabbed the tip of her cutlery knife into the wood of the table, making Emillie jump at the sudden show of aggression, and stood to seethe down at him. “Release him.”

“Never.” He had sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closed for a long moment. “Daughter—”

“You are not my father,” she snarled, shoving away from the table. Across the table, Emillie sucked in a sharp breath. “You are no better than the dhemon who carved his name into my back.”

He looked at her, aghast. “What?”

“You have imprisoned me here,” she bit out, “sentenced my husband to death for a crime he did not commit, and expect me to see you as anything other than the true monster?”

“Ariadne, enough.” He shook his head and turned back to his plate. “You are acting like a child.”

“Fuck you.” She had backed away from him, unwilling to turn her back to the Caersan. “I pray Keon finds you in the end.”

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