Page 60 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

Ariadne sucked in another breath, the exercise doing nothing but causing more frustration the longer it took her to understand the magic. It burned in her chest, coaxed by each sharp breath.

Three…

She grit her teeth and reached toward the empty space. There was something there. There had to be.

Two…

A soft, bell-like laugh floated through the open door. Ariadne’s heart skipped. She whipped in its direction to see Phulan standing there with her arms crossed.

One…

She released the final breath, and Phulan disappeared. The other version of her flickered out of sight as well.

“You let yourself get distracted.” Phulan stood beside her, right where she had reached out.

If Phulan was not practiced in illusions and had been able to confuse her so thoroughly, what hope did Ariadne have in sensing Melia’s magic? None. She could continue to practice all she wanted, but she would never be prepared enough to face the Desmo. Especially if she was going to do so before Azriel was killed.

Chapter 15

After narrowly dodging soldiers who’d swept through the Caldwell Estate searching for Ariadne, Madan returned to Laeton for his first Council meeting. Word had quickly spread of Azriel’s death, and he was met with tearful greetings by Petre and Bella at the family manor in the capital. He dared not reveal the truth despite their discretion over their many weeks together. Azriel’s true fate needed to remain unknown in case of the worst.

He shuddered to think what would happen to his brother if Ariadne failed to free him. He’d armed her with knowledge of Algorath’s legal systems, though he feared she wouldn’t utilize it. As different as she was from Azriel, his sister was also brash and acted before thinking.

The gutting she’d given Madan during her rescue attempt at the Gard Estate weeks prior, almost to his demise, only proved her lack of foresight.

Yet as he entered the Council Chambers, grimacing at the depiction of dhemons carved into the door, he sent a silent prayer to Keon to watch over both of his half-siblings and to protect them from their own tumultuous emotions. While Azriel often used his to fuel his rage, Ariadne’s caused her to shut down entirely. Neither could afford to lose their heads as they waltzed into their own battles—his brother’s matches in the Pits and his sister’s against Melia.

Alek Nightingale was the first to approach Madan as he strode into the room. His onyx eyes glittered, and he stretched out a hand. Madan accepted, grasping his forearm, and gave him a subtle nod. Of the Caersans in the Council Chamber, only the Lord Governors and the Princeps knew the truth of his appointment. Assuming, of course, Loren told his father. Madan didn’t doubt it.

“My deepest condolences,” Alek said as he pulled back. “You missed a beautiful pyre.”

Madan sighed. “Thank you. I am certain it was and am heartbroken to have missed it.”

The Lord Governor of the Waer Province leaned closer and said, quieter this time so only they could hear, “The General lit the pyre. Tread carefully.”

The very mention of Loren Gard made Madan’s heart skip a beat and stomach clench. If not for his meager breakfast, he would have likely emptied the contents right then and there. To be back in this gods-forsaken town, so close to the vampire who’d put him through so much pain…

He could still feel Loren’s hand grip his ankle and knee. He could still hear the General’s question—You would die for a traitor?—as he snapped Madan’s leg with ease.

Oh, how Madan had screamed. With nothing to bite down on, his teeth cracked from how hard he grit his jaw as again and again, Loren shifted the broken bone.

“I want to see if you heal like him,” he’d said, prodding the leg out of place. “But I will stop if you tell me the truth: Is Azriel a dhemon?”

The bastard had known long before any of this happened. He’d pieced the truth together, and all he needed was proof. Any shred of evidence to condemn Azriel.

Madan had refused to give it. Again and again, all he did was scream.

A heavy hand landed on his shoulder, jolting him from the memories of that dark basement filled with agony—not only his own but that of the fae shifter who’d been brought down to join him after the first week. Madan released the hold he’d had on his own amputated arm. His gaze refocused on the Caersan before him, and Alek’s dark brows pinched in concern.

“Lord Caldwell?” He glanced up at the others filing to their seats around them, then flickered to the place where Madan’s sleeve rolled up to reveal the pale, scarred end of his arm. “All is well?”

Madan forced a strained smile to his face. “Quite.”

“To your seat then,” Alek instructed and nodded to the table across from the Princeps. “Your notes are in order?”

“Yes.” Madan heaved a breath. “Thank you.”

They separated and took their seats. He hadn’t spent much time with Azriel and Alek during their evenings together. Waer’s Lord Governor hadn’t seemed to be a valuable asset to Madan at the time. Now he saw it. He understood his brother’s insistence on having the Caersan’s guidance. Alek was not only discreet, but he took his business seriously.

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