Page 69 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

“The Noct will protect you.” Phulan’s voice drifted from the garden. She sounded so far away beyond the thrumming. “If you don’t believe me, believe your brother. Believe that I wouldn’t dare put my own life at risk for killing Azriel the Crowe’s mate.”

Ariadne froze, the words washing over her as she had never heard them before. Two parts of her statement stood out. First was Azriel the Crowe. Though she knew his father’s name, she had never heard it used in such a manner. A surname of sorts. She filed it away to ask about later. The second, however, made her heart ache.

Mate.

Gods…Azriel was out there somewhere. Somewhere so close, she could find him right now if she so wished. Find him and bring him back to her.

And if the hollowness she had so desperately tried to hide from was any indication, she knew his suffering would be tenfold. A fae bond dug its claws in soul-deep. It held the fae almost against their will to the other individual, and when separated, those affected often grew…volatile. At least, that was what she had learned over the last month.

If nothing else, Ariadne had to trust Phulan for Azriel alone. He—her mate—had given up everything for her, and now he needed her more than ever. Without her finding a way to break him free of his prison and return him to his people, she did not want to think of what would happen. Too many lives were at stake, hers included.

So she straightened her back. She lifted her chin as she had the night of the Reveal so many months ago when she received her title as the Season’s Golden Rose. She heaved in a deep breath, opened her eyes, and laid a gentle hand on Kall’s arm—a signal to step aside.

She was ready.

At least, she thought she was as she moved around the dhemon and slid into the low morning light. Though her mind and body screamed for her to run, she held firm and ignored her vampiric instincts.

And, gods, was it a sight to behold.

The sun rose above the distant horizon, casting tints of pink and orange across the frail, wispy clouds overhead. Shadows stretched out long and dark from sandy red dunes that rose high enough to be seen from her vantage point at almost wall height. The city below crept into life as, bit by bit, the light crawled across the flat roofs and doused the adobe in fresh color.

Because she had forgotten what color looked like in the sunlight. Though her eyes had compensated for her cursed vision by drawing in light from meager sources and alighting the darkness, they could not match what she saw now. What her heart had remembered the world to be before the transition, even if her recent memories had dulled its hues.

Warmth rose in the dry air. Where she had become accustomed to the crispness of a desert night, she now felt the beginning of what the days here had to offer. Even the taste and smell shifted as the sun awoke over Algorath into something arid and raw.

“It is beautiful,” she breathed and stood beside Phulan at her garden gate. She could not stop staring at everything, lapping it all up as though she may never experience it again.

The mage nodded, a small smile curving her mouth and softening her beautiful, aging features. “Indeed, it is.”

Ariadne hummed with excitement. With the Noct, the world had opened up to her. “When will we go into the city?”

“Tomorrow.” Phulan looked at her and grinned at the dismay. “You need to bathe and rest. We will explore soon and after that…” She nodded to where the shadows still lay in the southwestern reaches of Algorath, hidden behind the wall. “After that we will find your husband.”

Chapter 17

Madan had avoided Alek Nightingale’s ball for several reasons. First and foremost, as the only living relative to the late Lord Governor Azriel Caldwell, he’d be expected to remain in mourning for quite some time. In doing so, he’d effectively remove himself from the list of eligible Caersan bachelors in want of a wife. As if he’d had any intention of marrying a Caersan woman. Ever.

Secondly, he continued to actively dodge Markus Harlow. As Emillie would’ve been with Alek, their father—as if Madan could ever consider that vampire to be so to him—would also be in attendance. By the way the Princeps had watched him in the Council Chamber, he got the awful feeling that, perhaps, his thick-headed brother had said too much. He had a tendency to spill secrets when under emotional duress—as evidenced by his inability to keep his mouth shut with Ariadne about literally anything.

That did not mean, however, that he wanted to avoid Alek himself. Though he hadn’t had many interactions with the Lord Governor alongside Azriel, he trusted his brother’s judgment enough to know Alek Nightingale wasn’t who the rest of the Society painted him to be. Whatever rumors surrounded the Caersan were likely twisted, taken out of context, or falsified completely.

So when he went to meet up with Alek a couple of nights later, Madan wasn’t worried about what others would think of him. He doubted anyone thought much good about either of them as it was.

Boone’s was Laeton’s finest gentlemen's club. It sat at the heart of the city in a building as grand as the Council Chambers. Three floors of white stone rose above the surrounding merchant businesses, a mere street away from Madame Ives’ modiste, like a moonlit beacon of aristocracy. With a strict guest list, only the most prestigious Caersan lords were welcome within. As a newly appointed Lord Governor, Madan was one of the fortunate few now welcome. Azriel had never accepted an invitation, finding the restricted club too elitist as a half-vampire.

Inside was just as impressive as out. With high charcoal walls and dark wood accents, the rooms loomed like caves of posturing Caersan men. Thanks to the Season being in full swing, even more were in Laeton than typical. Madan could recall a time in the middle of winter when he accompanied his sisters into town and stopped in briefly with Markus. Then, there had been a couple dozen strewn about the rooms, enjoying their drinks and cigars while playing games of chess or billiards.

Now, with so many men searching for prospective wives amongst the debutantes attending the capital’s many balls, the rooms were filled with chatter, smoke, and the raucous laughter of vampires enjoying their time away from responsibilities.

Madan made his way through the front entrance, where a large bar sprawled at the far end of the foyer with crystal bottles of liquor displayed on neat shelves behind the keep. Though the games and boisterous talk were similar to that of the Drifter’s Inn and Bistro, the atmosphere, tailored suits, and overall cleanliness set it far apart from the dredges Azriel had carried Ariadne out of mere months ago.

He leaned into the bar and the keep set a glass atop a cork coaster, waiting for his order. “Whiskey. Neat.”

The keep nodded, his oiled, slicked-back hair gleaming in the moody lighting. With a flourish, he poured the drink. “Anything else, my Lord?”

“Lord Governor Nightingale?”

“Ah, yes.” The keep gestured to the stairs leading up. “Top floor. Enjoy your evening, Lord Caldwell.”

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