Page 18 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

Her only advantage remained her head start. The moment Markus discovered her missing, every soldier would be searching for her. Again.

No time to worry. Ariadne gritted her teeth and limped forward as fast as she could muster. Pain lanced up her leg. Every rough or uneven step sent daggers through her, twisting her stomach.

None of it compared to what she had endured at the hands of Ehrun. She had learned to live with pain—physical and mental. Running on a sprained ankle, though unpleasant, did not hold her back.

By the time she reached the stables where Thom waited, holding Astra’s reins and scanning the grounds with an anxious expression, her uninjured leg burned from compensating. She gave the stablehand a weak smile. “Thank you, Thom.”

Thom’s face paled. His mouth twisted in a grimace. “My Lady…where are you going?”

Ariadne winced as she hauled herself into the saddle and repositioned her feet. “When the Princeps asks, tell him you last saw me riding in the fields.”

“I can’t lie to him.” Thom glanced at the manor again.

“Then do not.” Ariadne turned Astra toward the same fields through which she had once raced Azriel. “I will ride in the direction of the fields, and you will walk away.”

Again, Thom made a wry face. “But, my Lady—”

“Good night, Thom.”

With that, Ariadne shot into the field, barreling east. As she reached the treeline on the far side of the grounds, she looked over her shoulder to find Thom nowhere to be seen.

Chapter 5

The enchanted fae collar returned to keep Azriel under control during transport. Though at first the General seethed at being denied his execution, the Princeps and Alek agreed to a full company of Loren’s hand-picked soldiers to ensure his arrival in Algorath. It appeared Loren was not satisfied with Alek’s hired men to keep him contained.

Captain Nikolai Jensen, feeling much improved since enduring Ariadne’s blade, was then assigned as their leader.

As iron shackles locked around Azriel’s wrists outside the prison, Alek edged closer. With no prying ears, he said in a low voice, “You must survive those Pits.”

Azriel tempered his frustration, refrained from strangling the Lord Governor, whom he’d once begun to consider a friend, for his short-sightedness, and stared straight ahead as he replied, “No one survives the Pits.”

“No.” Alek’s tone hardened. He’d used such sternness when instructing Azriel on how to present himself before the Society at his wedding. The man didn’t use it lightly. “This was not done on a whim. You must.”

Narrowing his eyes, he turned his attention to the Lord Governor. The Caersan’s black hair shone in the low moonlight, and his onyx eyes gleamed with mischief. “What did you do?”

“Me?” The corner of his mouth ticked up in wry amusement. “This was also not my idea.”

“Then who?”

“The lovely Miss Harlow—the younger Miss Harlow.” Alek winked. “My future bride.”

Did Emillie wish to see him dead as well? Azriel lifted a lip in a sneer. “You’re in for some surprises with that one.”

If his words had any impact on the Lord Governor, Alek didn’t show it. He merely shrugged and glanced at Markus and Loren. They continued discussing transportation specifics and not paying them any heed. Alek continued, “If my timing is correct, then your wife is on her way to Monsumbra.”

Azriel’s heart stumbled. “Alone?” The word left him in a rasp.

“As it must be for now,” Alek said and pivoted his body away as the others turned in their direction. “Keep your wits about you and this will not be the end. Have faith, dhom.”

With that, Alek stepped away and called to Markus, a vicious grin replacing his fervent stare. Azriel watched him go with wide eyes. His world turned upside down. If he survived the Pits, he could be free. Ariadne knew of the plan, and Madan would know how to help him.

Yet above all, Alek’s casual and correct use of the dhemon tongue surprised him the most. For too long, Ehrun and his cronies had mocked Azriel’s position at Auhla. They’d spent centuries calling him dhomin—little prince. A jab at his size and half-breed blood despite being the Crowe’s son. Alek, however, used his true title: dhom—prince. Just prince.

The company started forward, and he followed obediently, his chains attached to the saddle of Nikolai’s horse. Each step brought about another question. What could Ariadne do for him in Algorath? Did Alek know Emillie’s true nature? What would happen to Madan? How did Alek know who he was?

The next week whipped by in a whirlwind, leaving him little time to consider the answers to any of the questions. Instead, he scrabbled for the one connection to keep him sane throughout the long, arduous journey—made longer, even, by the Caersan vampires’ inability to travel in the sunlight and summer’s short nights.

His link to Razer, though faint, reassured Azriel. While he walked and sometimes ran to keep up with the company of soldiers, he conversed with his friend. At first, Razer insisted on rescuing him. It would’ve been simple enough. He could, after all, tear through such a small number of vampires.

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