Page 41 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

For over a century and a half, Ariadne believed herself to be capable of many physical feats. She could run as swiftly as any vampire, much faster than a human or mage, and her strength outmatched many her size. The only time she had doubted herself had been at the hands of Ehrun. Though vampires were exceptionally strong, they could not compare to the horned fae.

There had been a reason Keon created dhemons to protect his mortal love, Anwen, long before the vampiric curse.

There had also been a reason the dhemons thrived for millennia and continued to outmaneuver vampires in the war-torn Keonis Valley. Their training regiment would drive any vampire soldier mad, as Kall proved again and again.

The first time Kall had called on her to begin her training two nights earlier, he had woken her from a deep sleep. A mistake he had not made since, nor would he ever again.

Ariadne’s screams had ripped through the manor after she opened her eyes to find the dhemon hovering over her bed. His silhouette the only thing she could see, it had been akin to waking up in the dhemon keep once again. Though he tried to explain himself, his words had reverted to the dhemon language in his alarm, serving to frighten her more.

When Madan had hurtled into the room half dressed, Whelan hot on his heels, he scolded Kall and collected her into his arms where she cried on his shoulder. The shoulder of the one who had saved her from that hell. She had not seen Kall. Could not discern his face from those of her waking terrors.

Rather, she had seen Ehrun. Lhev. Mikhal. Every dhemon who tormented her in the dark underbelly of their keep. The last time she had awoken to the silhouette of curling horns leering over her, the dhemon they had been attached to had dragged her across the stone floor as she shrieked, his hands roaming her body before—

Ariadne slammed her fist into Kall’s open hand, shoving the memories down deep. He called numbers in his language. She responded with a different strike. Punch. Jab. Hook. Jab. Knee. Switch stance. Knee. Hook. Elbow. Any time she forgot to bring her hands back into place on either side of her head, he swatted at what she left exposed. Sometimes, she ducked or slid back a step in time to avoid it. Other times, his fingers slapped her temple or ear or cheek. Each time he struck, he reported the possible outcome.

“Sleep.” He flicked her jaw.

She groaned and lifted her hands higher. No wonder Azriel always grunted his acknowledgments to things. They did not need words when a simple sound did the trick.

Jab. Hook.

Kall tapped her temple. “No see.”

Gritting her teeth, she kept swinging. Kept forgetting to bring her hands back up. Kept moving despite it all. Likewise, Kall blocked with expertise even on his blind side.

Any discomfort she felt faded quickly—a vampire blessing—and allowed her to train longer, harder, and more often than Kall could keep up. When they were not practicing striking, they grappled or ran or strength trained. No practice blades. Not yet. Not until he was certain she could wield a sword and not gut him by accident. That required coordination she had not yet gained. With her history in dance, she doubted it would come easily. Striking was hard enough.

When at last Kall lowered his hands and stepped back to get a drink of water, Ariadne let her fists drop and shook out her arms. They ached, and sweat ran down her face and back at an alarming rate.

If she were to leave for Algorath soon, she would need to be able to hold her own. She therefore spent every waking moment doing something—anything—to strengthen her body, mind, and spirit. For learning those new skills would either make her better…or break her completely.

Kall leaned against the tree beside him, watching her with a wary eye. “Rest also good.”

Ariadne shook her head and drank. “I can keep going.”

“I rest, then.” He nodded to her. “You run.”

So she ran. Her breathing rasped in and out with each stride, heart thundering in her chest as she pushed her legs to carry her farther and farther. Faster and faster.

She hated running. Not because she was bad at it. In fact, she outran Kall every time. Her body could keep up with every command she gave it. It moved when she told it to, stopped when she needed, and while her movements were sloppy, her reaction time was impeccable.

No, she hated running because her mind did not need to think about it. Did not need to strategize or listen for Kall’s next instruction. Did not need to recall how to break an arm or off-balance an opponent.

Instead, it wandered. She thought of her sister, entrapped in an engagement with the nefarious Alek Nightingale, and of her friends to whom she never got to say goodbye. She thought of her husband, wrongfully imprisoned and fighting for his life in the Pits. She thought of her brother, now shouldering the responsibilities of Lord Governor and too often gone from the estate thanks to his duties around Eastwood Province. She thought of how she had most recently been forced to partake from a vein that was not her husband’s but a willing Rusan servant’s.

Most thoughts, however, led her back into the dark recesses of her mind. She recalled the sound of the guards’ dead bodies as she and Azriel shoved them down the guardhouse cellar steps. They had disappeared into the darkness that had entrapped Madan for too long—the same darkness she once endured.

“I have a history lesson for you tonight,” Ehrun had said one night as he led her from her cell. She had not struggled against him. Not that night. Instead, she followed like an obedient dog too frightened to disobey. She had even held out her hands to him so he could fasten the shackles to her wrists before hauling them above her head. Pain lanced through her shoulders as they dislocated again.

She had stared at the door, her head leaning listless against her arm. She had given up hope that anyone was coming for her. Not after so many nights missing. Not after Darien had died just inside that threshold.

“There once lived a dhemon who knew the ancient ways of our people,” Ehrun started, sliding a knife along a whetting stone. The steady sound of sharpening metal had become the symphony of her suffering. “A priestess for Keon. She and her disciples kept us all connected to our patron god…and to the Underworld.”

That had been the moment he began cutting his name into her skin. He brushed her hair off her shoulders in that familiar combination of gentle and rough. His fingers had slid so softly across her skin as though not wanting to touch her more than necessary. It had always been that way. Sweet caresses accompanied by pain.

Most nights, she stopped listening to his words. Gods, she could not hear him above her own cries. That night, however, she had been too tired to scream.

Ehrun took advantage of her quiet sobs and continued, “One by one, the disciples were hunted across the Valley. They tried to run—to escape into the mountains—but none survived.”

---