Page 55 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

And then she understood. Loren Gard was an absolute snake. He had offered to light the pyre, guiding Azriel’s soul home, as a gesture of good faith. As a way to demonstrate before all of the Society that he held no ill will against the dead Lord Governor. He’d then seal his proclamation by marrying Ariadne. As though he were doing her a favor.

She could puke at the very notion.

“Ariadne is in mourning,” Emillie repeated with a pointed look at the pyre, still burning bright. “I do not believe she will be entertaining suitors of any sort for quite some time.”

Dierdre sniffed. “She cannot be running about as a widow with nothing to her name like some tramp.”

That was the moment Alek appeared to have had enough. Emillie ruffled at the insult and moved a step closer to Lady Kolson, but he held tight to her arm. “Enough. You both have crossed a line. Allow the Harlows and Caldwells to mourn in peace. Good evening.”

He did not move. Instead, he glared until the Caersan women finally turned and walked away, whispering to one another. Their absence left them standing in silence as her father made his way through the gathered throng to answer others’ inquiries about Ariadne’s absence.

Emillie stared into the flames of the pyre as she lowered her voice to ask, “What became of the soldiers who know the truth?”

Beside her, Alek nodded to a passing lord before matching her tone to answer. “They made up the escort to Algorath with strict instructions to keep their lips shut. Since their return, I heard they have been sequestered at the Hub.”

“Including Captain Jensen?”

A single nod. “The Captain is in charge of ensuring their discretion.”

“And if they tell others?”

Alek turned his coal-black eyes on her, no humor glinting in them and no twitch of his lips to demonstrate his amusement. “They and their confidants are to be put to death.”

Her blood ran cold, and she whipped her attention to her father, not far from them now. She was certain it was he who gave the order. He would not stand by and watch as his elder daughter’s reputation was tainted. Not before he could secure her another husband—one of his choosing, and likely Loren.

What, then, would he do if she were to speak of it?

“What do you mean the Desmo had a party?” Azriel stared at Raoul, scrambling to keep up with what his friend—what a terrible word for a place like this where none of them were likely to survive—told him. None of it added up.

Raoul ran his hand over his short blond hair in agitation, his hazel eyes squinting as though attempting to see if Azriel had been injured. Or perhaps determining whether or not he’d mistook Azriel for someone not prone to memory lapses. Though, in his defense, he hadn’t had any issues with recalling anything when he’d been with Ariadne.

That damned bond would end up getting him killed in the Pits. The last thing he needed was to forget what he was doing one step into another. Gods, how had Ehrun kept his mind from fraying at the edges and unraveling into nothingness? At the rate Azriel declined, he feared he’d be naught but a puddle by the end of all of this.

“She won the night of the Pits,” Raoul explained for what seemed to be the third or even fourth time based on his level of exasperation. “The Desmos always throw a party to mock the others. We were all brought up to the house. Do you not remember?”

Azriel frowned at him and sorted through his mismatched memories. “I remember getting a drink of water when Paerish came down.” He shrugged. “I thought we’d all been sent to bed early for our injuries.”

The human gawked at him as though he’d grown a second head. “Ani died in the sitting room where she had him face off against one of her friends.”

Ani, one of the three fae, had been a young, quiet lad. He’d never spoken to Azriel, though his absence was obvious amongst those who remained. His death would’ve certainly been noted.

“I swear to you,” Azriel said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

A shadow fell over them, and they both looked up at the wall they leaned against. The silhouette of a guard bent over the edge, their face obscured by shadow. “Get back to training.”

Azriel bared his sharp teeth but pushed off the wall nonetheless. He needed to distance himself from the conversation and whatever was causing him to forget things far more rapidly and frequently than the last time he’d been separated from Ariadne. Perhaps Madan’s presence, with his Harlow blood, kept the bond from shredding his mind more than he realized.

Or, perhaps, he just couldn’t remember how bad it’d been the first time around.

He stalked to where rattan swords leaned against the wall and scooped up two. For a human or mage, they would have been a decent size and weight. For him and even the remaining two fae, however, they appeared comically small. What a dhemon considered a short sword was merely a human’s standard size.

When he turned around, he found Sasja across the training yard, sizing him up. She held two of her own rattans and shifted her weight from foot to foot before stepping forward and gesturing for him to join her.

Fantastic. He’d been hoping for a moment to train with her. Finally, he wouldn’t need to worry about crushing his training partner. While Raoul was eager to learn to grapple, Azriel couldn’t quite help what happened once they started moving. At least when he rolled with Madan, he knew any broken bones would heal quickly and without assistance.

Against Sasja, however, he trusted her sturdy dhemon skeleton to keep her from balking at his size. By the glint in her deep red eyes, she trusted them as well.

“You’re forgetting,” Sasja said in the dhemon language and held out the rattan in her dominant hand. “You’ve bonded.”

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