Page 16 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

He had left shortly after, and she had sequestered in her room, unable to stomach anything more. Even Emillie’s presence had done little to soothe the war raging inside her. Soon, Loren’s announcement for Azriel’s execution would come, and she had no idea how they would escape this time.

Even Azriel could not withstand a noose around his neck.

The thought churned Ariadne’s stomach. She paced her book-strewn sitting room, brushing past the velvet couches with each round before flinging open her veranda doors and stepping into the warm night. The gardens sprawled out below her, and in the distance, the forest loomed in the dark, trees swaying in the breeze.

How could she save him? No Lord Governor would listen to her pleas. Not when her own father—no, Markus, he no longer deserved such a title—so adamantly desired him dead.

No matter the direction her mind wandered, she could not discern an adequate path. Her voice, the voice of a Caersan woman, would not be heard in any setting. Her strength, great and persistent as any vampire’s, would be no match against a trained soldier. Her cunning or stealth, uncovered by Loren after she rescued Madan, would not go unnoticed.

“Ari?”

Emillie’s small voice jolted Ariadne from her thoughts. She turned to her sister, halfway across the room, and crossed her arms. “You should leave.”

Her sister bit her lip and stood a little straighter. She moved forward with determination in her eyes, twin to Ariadne’s. “No. We need to talk.”

“There is nothing you can say to make this better.”

At first Emillie’s steps faltered. Her brown hair curled over her shoulders and she lifted her small chin. “I have a plan.”

Everything went quiet and still. No gentle hum of night from the gardens. No fire crackling in its hearth. Not even the sound of her blood pulsing through her body, though she felt her heart pick up its pace.

“What do you mean?” Ariadne could not breathe. She took one step closer to Emillie, burying the spring of hope that threatened to fill that dark chasm within her. There was no room for such foolish thoughts. Not yet.

“I spoke with Lord Nightingale.”

She could not hide the light frown of confusion. What could he possibly do to help them?

When she did not respond, Emillie continued, “They will be sending Azriel to Algorath.”

The understanding dawned slowly. For months—maybe even years—Alek Nightingale had vied for a fighting arena to be erected in Valenul as a way to provide entertainment…and a way to deal with prisoners. He often cited Algorath’s Pits as an example of its success. It released the responsibility of trials from the Council and laid it at the feet of the gods. Trial by combat.

“Why would they do that?” Ariadne clutched at her throat, the air burning with each breath. They were sending Azriel to the Pits—to fight, perhaps, forever.

“Because once he is in Algorath, he has a chance.” Emillie rushed forward and took her hand, squeezing it hard to center her in their usual way. “He is not being executed. He will live.”

“In the Pits!” Ariadne’s voice rose, becoming shrill with her poorly-masked panic.

“Algorath’s laws are different,” Emillie explained, and her voice sounded so far away. “He was imprisoned under our laws which poorly state he cannot be a dhemon. In Algorath, that may not stand.”

Ariadne stared at her sister without seeing. The chasm, so deep and filled with darkness already, seemed to yawn into an unmanageable expanse, and she stood on its floor with no way out. Each word Emillie spoke chipped away at those sheer stone walls, providing a treacherous path she could not follow. Each rocky hold, filled with hope and certainty of a future, crumbled within her grips.

“They will kill him,” she croaked after what felt like an eternity of silence. “Before he even arrives.”

“Lord Nightingale assured me he will not be harmed.” Emillie squeezed her hand again, the only rope dangling low enough to drag her from the darkness. “I swear to you.”

A flash of clarity took hold of Ariadne, and she focused her gaze on her sister. When she spoke, it was low and slow. “Why did he agree to help me? To even listen to you?”

Color rushed to Emillie’s cheeks. She tried to pull her hand back, but now Ariadne held firm. “We made a deal.”

Fresh, hot dread leaked into Ariadne’s veins. “You made a deal with Alek Nightingale.”

Not a question. A damning statement. After all the rumors swirling about the Lord Governor, in what world did Emillie feel it necessary to go to such a cruel and despicable Caersan as he? They could not trust him. Ariadne certainly did not. Not with her sister.

“We are to wed.” Emillie lifted her chin again.

Ariadne knew that look. It was the same confident face she had worn when engaged to Loren anytime someone congratulated her. Tight lips, stiff jaw, and eyes that bore into the other person. It hid a well of secrets and sorrows.

“Emillie, you cannot—”

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