Page 19 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

But Azriel wouldn’t risk it. Not when Ariadne traveled alone through the Keonis Valley foothills crawling with dhemons. Instead, he instructed Razer, “Watch over her.”

And he trudged on, one foot in front of the other, night after night. When they reached Eastwood Province, Azriel almost prayed for Ehrun’s men to find them. The vampires wouldn’t stand a chance against one of his ambushes and Azriel? Either they’d take him back to their so-called King or kill him just as readily.

None came.

They turned into the gaping maw of the Eastern Passage after five nights. Sheer cliffs rose on either side of them, cutting off all but the thin strip of star-flecked sky along their direct path. The green soldiers who’d never seen the barren highway grew silent as they marveled at the incredible size of the mountains they traveled between. Small merchant camps, set up for the night by traveling mages or fae, speckled the side of the road at random intervals. Those on watch stiffened at their approach until the crimson cloaks came into focus.

Valenul soldiers on the highway meant peace and safety—at least it did for them.

Deeper into the Passage, snow and ice coated the road, made possible by the higher altitude and lack of sunlight during the day. The camps grew few and far between, and the cliffs eased into traversable terrain. Nikolai’s pace slowed. The soldiers around Azriel grew tense, keeping a close watch on the steep paths made from millennia of feet pounding the stone into submission.

Too far now to communicate with Razer, Azriel depended solely on his dhemon senses. Though his vision did not compare to a Caersan’s in any form, as a dhemon, his eyes gifted him with the only advantage he had: if he focused hard enough, he could see the faintest heat signatures amongst the cold, desolate mountain terrain. It often paired with a vicious headache when utilized but remained useful nonetheless.

“Captain,” a nearby soldier called out, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword, “I think I heard something.”

Nikolai didn’t look back. “Your ears are tricking you.”

Azriel scanned the high outcrops with a discerning eye. He saw nothing through the darkness. No shift of rock or glimmer of anything alive moving amongst them. The Captain was correct: they were in no danger.

Part of him wilted at the lack of life. No beat of wings nor boots on stone. It reminded him that, not for the first time in his life, he was utterly alone. As his wife fled her family home in search of freedom and hope, his brother no doubt took up the mantle he left behind, and he had no way to escape, for once he entered Algorath, no one could get to him.

Yet he wouldn’t change anything. Razer did as he always had: he protected Azriel’s heart. Too many of Ehrun’s cronies wandered the foothills of the Keonis Mountains. Too many knew Ariadne’s face to leave her alone for even a heartbeat. The others were likewise too busy guarding the clutch to prevent Ehrun’s numbers from growing.

Then he saw them. Flickers of red heat signatures slid into view, larger than vampires or humans and too far east for fae not selling wares. Quick as they appeared, they vanished again behind boulders high above the company of soldiers. Azriel tracked the movement. If dhemons wanted to attack, it wouldn’t be he who alerted the Caersans.

A low, throbbing pain inched its way out from his temple after several minutes. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head to clear it. By the time he reopened them, the thermal patterns were gone. He rarely tapped into the ability for this reason. It only hindered him.

It wasn’t long before the dhemons reappeared, this time for everyone to see. A woman emerged onto an overhang, a long, thin knife in one hand. Her elegant horns swept back from her face and hardly hooked around her ears before coming to a point. She was young—far too young to be watching the Caersan soldiers with such malice.

Her molten red eyes fixed on Azriel, and a frown formed between her brows. “Dhom?”

Azriel glanced at Nikolai, who ordered his soldiers into a defensive position, then back to the young woman. If she recognized him as the prince, perhaps he had a chance. He responded in the dhemon tongue, “How many of you are there?”

“Silence,” Nikolai snapped in common. His face had gone pale as he watched the woman studying them. Even on her ledge, it was clear how much larger she was than the average Caersan man.

“Four.” She drew herself up, holding the knife aloft as a handful of soldiers aimed their arrows and bolts in her direction.

Nikolai drew his sword and brought its point to Azriel’s throat. “Say nothing else.”

He grit his teeth, leaning away from the sharp edge. “Find my brother.”

Russet eyes narrowed, and Nikolai’s mouth hardened into a thin line. He knew as well as Azriel that failing to deliver him to Algorath would not bode well with the Princeps. “What are you saying?”

The dhemon woman smirked down at them. “He seems quite unhappy. Where’s your brother?”

Azriel chuckled in wry amusement, then choked as Nikolai’s hold on the key to his collar closed his throat. He coughed through the pain before rasping, “The ancient grounds.”

“We will free you from these leeches soon,” she swore and tapped the base of her horn once before turning on her toes and stalking back into hiding. Her dark clothes and blue skin melded in so perfectly with the terrain, she faded like a wraith. Where her companions had stood, Azriel hadn’t been able to make out.

Before he could take another step, the hilt of Nikolai’s sword slammed into his gut. Azriel doubled over with a wheeze, his diaphragm struggling to expand.

“Next time,” the Captain snarled in his ear as he gasped for breath, “it will be the blade, and your death will be written off as an accident.”

Swiveling his eyes up to the Caersan, Azriel bared his teeth. It was all he could muster as his knees shook and his brain screamed for oxygen.

“Now keep walking.” Nikolai shoved him forward.

By the time they’d exited the Eastern Passage several uneventful hours later, they were forced to stop yet again as the horizon lightened. As usual, the Caersan soldiers left him chained near the front door of their outpost like a disobedient cur to be watched by the Rusans and ignored by any passing merchants.

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