Page 27 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

“It’s dangerous.” He squeezed back, that soft pressure so much like Emillie’s comforting hold. “Azriel would never forgive me if I let you.”

Now Ariadne pulled back. She stared up at her half-brother in mute shock. After all she had done to rescue him from Loren, how could he keep her from doing the same for her husband? For the man who had bonded with her.

For the first time since learning her relation to Madan, she saw the familial resemblance beyond the physical. Yes, she could see the same curls in his hair and gold in his eyes as their father, Markus Harlow’s sharp jawline, and even the way Madan stood. But it went beyond that, proving that despite being raised by a very different father, her brother had the same mind.

Their father did not become Valenul’s General, then Princeps, out of pure luck and family name. Those had helped, certainly, but he had always been sharp of mind and skill. His analytical thinking and the paths he created for himself and his family had propelled him into those high-standing positions. He sought to care for those he loved and protected them at all costs, even if it meant locking them in a manor or marrying them to a foul, cruel man who would do the same.

Madan’s hesitation at accepting her assistance mirrored Markus to a fault. The way his brows pinched at the thought, and how he brushed her offer aside without serious consideration, underscored the fact that no matter how estranged they were…they were still father and son.

“I will go to Algorath with or without you,” she declared and took another step toward the door to demonstrate her determination. He would not keep her in Monsumbra, away from Azriel, the same way their father had tried to cage her in Laeton. “You cannot stop me.”

A beat of silence drew out between them. She swallowed hard and gripped the front door’s handle behind her, staring at him with what she prayed looked to be confidence.

“Alright!” Madan held his hand up in surrender and closed the space between them. He laid his hand on her shoulder, sucked in a deep breath, and repeated on a breath, “Alright. I will accept your help.”

That spring of hope gushed forward again, filling in the cracks and crevices of that deep, dark chasm in her chest. She searched his face, drawn tight with concern, and smiled. “Thank you.”

Madan smiled back, but worry glinted in his marbled eyes. “You may be taking that back when you meet my…associates.”

As though summoned by Madan’s words, a figure made its way down the curving staircase behind him. At first, Ariadne thought nothing of it. Black boots and rough leather trousers appeared first. Then, a midnight blue hand slid down the rail.

Ariadne’s heart skipped a beat, and she jerked back as though the inches between her and the wood door would provide enough space to escape. His hand still on her shoulder, Madan squeezed gently and put his face in her line of sight. The dhemon disappeared behind the Caersan.

“You know who Azriel is.” Madan’s eyes flicked across her face. “You know who raised us. Who our friends are.”

She swallowed hard, shoving down the memories of similar blue hands reaching for her in the dark of her cell. They had pinned her wrists to the stones, locked them in shackles, and taught her the meaning of fear and pain. Whoever walked down those stairs was not the same dhemon who hurt her. Madan would not allow such a man into his home.

“Ariadne.” Madan squeezed her shoulder again. “Come back. This is not Auhla.”

Auhla. The dhemon keep in the mountains. She had heard that name before. The title of that horrible place. No. She was not there—she would never go there again, not so long as she had anything to say about it.

“Monsumbra,” she breathed and refocused on her brother’s concerned face.

Relief flooded Madan’s eyes, and he nodded. “Yes. We’re in Monsumbra. I need you to understand that these people will never hurt you.”

She gaped up at him, no other words forming in her mind.

“They would die for you.” Madan took a small step back, his hand still lingering on her shoulder. “You are, essentially, their ydhom.”

Now she frowned, looking over his shoulder at the dhemon behind him. She recognized that face. It had burned into her mind during her rescue. He had been with the Crowe—the dhemon who had stopped and stared at them but said nothing. Done nothing. Just kept running back to the keep. To Auhla.

“What does that mean?” she asked quietly, never breaking her gaze from the dhemon who wisely lingered at the far end of the foyer.

Madan chuckled and stepped aside, gesturing to the dhemon to come forward.

At first, the horned fae did not move. He looked between her and her brother and opened his mouth as though to decline the offer to join them. Then, he took a hesitant step forward. His deep ruby eyes glimmered in the chandelier’s light, and when she did not try to flee further, his long legs ate up the distance between them, so she was forced to crane her neck back to look up at him.

But not for long. The dhemon knelt on both knees before her, a small smile on his lips.

Her heart thundered. She sucked in a deep breath. He would not hurt her. He was friends with Madan. With Azriel. With the scarred dhemon who had intervened on the highway to protect her from Ehrun. She would not fear him.

“Ydhom,” the dhemon said in his heavily accented voice, “means princess.”

Ariadne could not help the scoff of disbelief. “I am not a dhemon!”

Now he chuckled, his deep voice rumbling in his chest. “No, but Azriel is dhom, so you are ydhom.”

She looked up at Madan with wide eyes. He shrugged and said, “Azriel is their prince—in a way. He hates it, but it’s who he is. You are his wife and, therefore, their princess.”

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