Page 68 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

The contradictions made Ariadne’s head spin. The color. The presence. The weight.

And the longer she held it, the more she felt the cool embrace of night. It curled out from the Noct, twisting around her hand unseen, and crept up her arm to stretch across her chest and neck before flooding to the rest of her body. Like shadows, it beat back the warmth of the adobe house, and made her shudder.

“As you can likely tell,” Phulan said, “it’s most effective when touching skin. I don’t believe Madan ever did so. He kept it tied to him in a pouch.”

“Could I wear it?” Ariadne rubbed her thumb over the smooth surface, still acquainting herself with its strangeness. “Like a necklace?”

Phulan nodded and held out her hand. After Ariadne gave it to her, the mage stood and walked away with a gentle hum. She disappeared from the room for a long moment, leaving Ariadne and Kall alone.

She looked up at the dhemon she had come to trust. It had been easier to accept him as a friend and partner after he had come to her rescue on the highway in Laeton. If she had not trusted him, she did not want to know what would have occurred.

“Thank you,” she said out of nowhere, her voice quiet as she studied the scars carving down his face, wondering, not for the first time, how they had come to be.

Kall gave her a quizzical look. “Ydhom?”

Ariadne almost laughed at his uncertainty. “Thank you. For…everything. Protecting me. Keeping Azriel safe. Helping me in so many ways.”

He must have seen the unspoken words in her face. The mixture of awe and sorrow she felt. That this dhemon, despite knowing how much vampires hated him—how much she had hated him—had done everything in his power to ensure her safety, was bewildering. Inspiring. Heartbreaking.

Though she knew without asking that he and Whelan, Azriel, and Madan had killed hundreds or even thousands of vampires over the centuries of this war, she now understood Ehrun’s lessons. Those horrible nights of agony had actually taken hold…though likely not in the way the wicked dhemon had intended. For it had not been he who showed her the errors of Valenul. It was her husband. Perhaps dhemons had killed, raided, and burned villages.

But vampires had stolen land, appropriated customs, and murdered families.

No one was innocent. Every single one of them had blood on their hands, whether they had done the killing themselves or not. Ariadne was not safe from it. Not even Emillie, Camilla, or Revelie, for they lived and benefitted from everything they gained from the war.

So, as Ariadne sat with her new friend and mentor, she let the turbulent emotions roll through her. When he did not reply right away, no doubt searching for the correct words in the common tongue, she laid a hand on his and said, “I will never stop saying it. Thank you.”

The hard lines of Kall’s face eased. His brows released tension, and his eyes softened. He smiled—a rare sight, indeed—and laid his other hand on top of hers. “Ydhom.”

Phulan returned with the Noct and a thin chain. Settling back in her seat, she ignored the way they pulled their hands apart, purposefully oblivious.

Then Ariadne leaned in to watch the mage work. So rarely in Valenul did she actually see the magic-wielders use their craft. Too often, their work had already been completed for their wares and were ready to sell by the time they reached Laeton. Seeing magic at work was always a treat.

Yet, as it always was, it began and ended far too quickly. Phulan laid the Noct in her palm and twisted the chain around the outer edge. No incantations were uttered, but the air vibrated with the call to magic, and the chain seamlessly melded to the stone. She crossed the chain, like the letter X, over one side of it before pinching the free ends together and sealing it off.

“This should fit over your head,” Phulan said with a twinkle in her eye at Ariadne’s slack jaw. “It’ll rest on your sternum, I think.”

Remembering her manners, Ariadne accepted the necklace with a word of gratitude when the mage handed it over. She slipped it over her head, and the Noct’s coolness washed over her as it settled between her breasts.

“Excellent.” Phulan sat a little straighter, inspecting her handiwork. “It looks stunning on you. Now let’s go outside.”

Ariadne’s heart skipped. “What?”

Even Kall stilled and fixed a hard stare at Phulan. He spoke low in the dhemon tongue, his crimson eyes flicking from the necklace to the mage, those hard lines returning between his brows. In response, Phulan narrowed her eyes.

If ever Ariadne wished she could speak the language, it was at that moment. What had he said to make her so wary?

As though reading her mind—something Ariadne had a sneaking suspicion the mage was capable of—Phulan spoke to her without taking her eyes off the dhemon. “Do you trust me, Ariadne?”

“Yes.” She gave the answer so quickly, she startled herself. When had she become so trusting of people she had just met? But if this woman had tended to her husband, kept Madan alive through midday, and made someone as stoic as Kall laugh, then she must be good.

Phulan gave Kall a look that clearly stated her unspoken words: I told you so. Like a sister taunting her little brother. As though anyone would ever consider Kall to be little.

Then the mage stood and motioned for Ariadne to do the same. She did, her still sweat-damp trousers sticking to her legs uncomfortably as she moved. If they were to go into the city, she would need a bath and fresh clothes. She felt like a drowned rat and likely smelled something similar.

But Phulan didn’t lead her to the front door. Instead, she flung open those to the garden where Ariadne had spent the night exchanging blows with Kall and magic lessons with Phulan.

On instinct, Ariadne flinched away and slipped into the shadows, closing her eyes hard against the morning light. Her heart thundered in her chest. Each beat roared in her ears, drowning out the sound of Kall getting to his feet and stepping between her and the doors. She only knew he had moved when his body bumped hers, and she heard him grumble something in his language.

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