Page 38 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

“If you believe I want to be here,” Azriel ground out, “then you’ve learned nothing about my sense of self-preservation.”

Melia turned on a sandaled heel and paced back to a waist-high table behind her, where she poured a glass of water from a pitcher. The very sound of the liquid hitting the glass brought Azriel’s full attention to the dryness of his mouth. A dangerous place to be when in the desert. Dehydration placed one foot in a grave.

“Self-preservation.” Melia drank from the glass as she turned back to him, the fabric of her gown seeming to move like the very water she indulged in. She set the cup down and leaned an elbow on the table. “I’d heard you’d made a name for yourself amongst the very creatures you swore to annihilate.”

Guilt twisted in his gut. Indeed, he had used that exact word. Annihilate. And he had leveled villages with his small companies of dhemons, set fire to buildings with vampires still inside, and listened to their screams like music.

“That was a long time ago.” He kept his face straight. She believed him to be the same man she once knew.

“Lord Governor Azriel Caldwell.” Melia scoffed and poured another glass. His eyes locked on the water before he could stop himself. The corner of her mouth twitched up. She continued, “A step down from dhom, wouldn’t you say?”

Azriel dragged his gaze from the water again and tried to summon enough saliva to coat his throat. He swallowed dryly. “I was never a prince, and you know that.”

“Then you were as blind to your devotees as you were to your own father’s plans.”

“I had nothing to do with—”

“I didn’t ask for you to be brought up to me for us to banter about the past,” she cut in, her lips pinching. “Your first fight is tonight.”

He blinked. “Why do you care?”

A small smirk played on her lips. “You have been given to me as an experiment of sorts for those fanged freaks in Valenul.”

Now Azriel grimaced but said nothing.

“And Mair Solt has informed me that if all goes well,” she continued, “Lord Governor Nightingale will get precisely what he’s desired for quite some time: permission to build an arena of sorts not unlike the Pits here.”

Azriel grit his teeth. The entire prison system in Algorath was barbaric. For people so much farther advanced as a society than the vampires in Valenul, mages clung to their most ancient of traditions. Their justice system allowed the gods to determine the fates of criminals. Prisoners always had a choice: endure the years behind bars or step into the Pits and fight their way to freedom. Those the gods favored won enough matches to secure an early release. Those the gods deemed unworthy died a brutal death.

Each crime equated to a correlating number of years in prison or matches to win. Even a lowly thief either served three years…or fought three matches. For someone unskilled, they often chose the long way through paying their debt. But someone trained in combat could potentially walk out of the Pits after two hundred matches and continue their nefarious ways.

If, of course, the Desmos didn’t stack the odds against their prisoners, as Melia was sure to do to him. Azriel didn’t even know how long he had to fight before freedom. He didn’t know if freedom would even be an option.

She must have seen the realization in his eyes, for she stepped closer. He made to back away only to find his body locked into place thanks to the collar around his neck. The magic felt different than that of the fae—harsher and far less natural, thanks to his strong fae blood.

Melia stroked her fingers down his cheek, a mischievous glint in her silver eyes, and said, “It may come as a shock, Azi, but I want you to win.”

His skin crawled at her old nickname for him. She had stolen it from Phulan, the mage who’d once been a mutual friend between them, and had healed his leg after Ehrun broke it and turned it into something vile. A taunt not unlike the way some dhemons called him dhomin.

“Why?” He bit out the question as though it tasted rancid.

“Because if the vampires see how lucrative this business is,” she explained, “they’ll be more likely to open an entirely new avenue of trade between us.”

Azriel stared at her in horror. “People are not goods to be sold.”

“No.” Melia ran her fingers over his horn’s annuli. “But documented crimes are.”

“You speak of slavery.”

She clicked her tongue and shook her head. “Indentured servitude. Do not conflate the two. Slavery assumes there would be no way out of the contracts. Indentureds are free to walk away after their final bout.”

“It’s sick.”

“It’s business.” Melia tapped the tip of his nose and paced back to the table to pour a third glass of water. “I’d had no idea Desmos made so much money from the Pits when we were together. Perhaps that Azi would’ve seen things differently.”

The slow release of the collar’s magic had him lurching forward from the strain to break through it. He caught himself before stumbling into her and reeled back. “That version of me is long dead.”

“I do hope not.” Melia snapped her fingers, and a servant scurried out from the chateau bearing a tray with a plate of raw meat and another pitcher of water. The small woman placed it on a low table next to a chair and disappeared back inside. “I need you in top shape for tonight.”

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