Page 78 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

It was like the air had been punched from Azriel’s lungs. The woman, whoever she was, couldn’t have been Ariadne. By the way his mind scrambled to accept the information, his bond roaring with pain, he couldn’t tell whether or not he was grateful for that.

On one hand, he hoped Ariadne would be wise enough to stay far, far away from Melia Tagh. That Madan had given her enough of his history to make her understand the dangers of it. He’d find his own way out of this mess. On the other, however, the mere mention that maybe—maybe—she was close by had soothed that rabid part of him. It lifted the cloud of forgetful rage and agony just enough to see clearly.

But with those few words, the fog returned, and it weighed heavier than ever.

“Who were you hoping for?” Raoul asked, the words cutting through the dense murk of his mind.

Azriel clung to the image of her in his head. The only clear memories his bond allowed him to keep. He swallowed hard as a wash of emotions threatened to drown him again. “No one.”

To his credit, Raoul didn’t push. Instead, those hazel eyes swept over him, disbelieving his words before giving a stiff nod.

It wasn’t often that Azriel was thankful for the appearance of Paerish, their commanding voice echoing across the training yard to get the prisoners into order. It never even occurred to him to be thankful to be summoned to the Pits. It certainly had never before been a possibility to be thankful for the chance to rid himself of his all-consuming wrath.

As the sun made its way toward the western horizon, however, he found himself thankful for each of those things. He fell into line with the others, allowing the chain that kept them together to be magicked onto his collar without reproach and focused on how he could use the burning pain to push him through his next match.

The walk across Algorath didn’t take long. It never did. Not when Azriel’s mind wandered and lost track of everything around him. By the time they were lined up along the wall again, deafened by the din of the crowds gathered around each hole in the ground, he’d walked himself through each stage of grief for what felt like the thousandth time since the moment Loren’s blade had cut his arm. Though his heart broke again and again, he dared not shed a tear. No one could see his weaknesses. Not here.

He kept his gaze straight ahead as one prisoner after another was called forward to their fight. Of the four ahead of him, only two returned to the line sporting injuries. He didn’t take note of who’d died. It was precisely why he didn’t try to learn their names. Even befriending Raoul had been dangerous.

Losing more people he cared for wouldn’t help his slipping sanity.

“The Crowe!” Paerish’s voice carried down the line of prisoners, and he stepped forward. “Sasja!”

The dhemon woman slid into position beside him without so much as a glance. Whether they were to be pitted against one another, Azriel had no idea. Nonetheless, he stared at her, face neutral, to study her thin figure. He’d lost weight as well during his time under Melia’s care, though nothing in comparison to Sasja. Her frame seemed even more frail as time passed.

Yet when they made their way to the pit assigned to them, five high fae leapt down on the far side. He and Sasja were to work together, then. A display of dhemon strength against high fae cunning.

As if either of them were in fighting shape with such poor diets.

Nonetheless, he glanced at his partner. This had to be some sort of sick joke of Melia’s. After their fight in the training yard, she wanted to see them both suffer. Not by one another’s hand but by refusing to help.

As satisfying as it would be to see Sasja have her ass handed to her after all of her plucky comments, letting her die in the Pits would only make his life more difficult. Therefore, as he crouched at the edge of the carved-out rock, he made the silent decision to ensure her safety. She might hate him even more for it, but he’d never live with himself if she died as his partner.

Leaping into the hole on his own accord was far less demoralizing than being shoved. He landed, knees bending to absorb the impact, and surveyed the fae across the way as Sasja joined him, nearly buckling as she hit the stone. The five opponents spoke in low whispers, barely audible even with his half-vampire hearing, to create their plan.

Like Sasja, their eyes remained glued on the weapons strewn halfway across the pit. A pair of short swords, several long knives, one whip, a few throwing daggers, and a bow and quiver of arrows. No defensive equipment. Not enough long-range choices to give to his companion.

“Weapon of choice?” Azriel asked Sasja in their language. No need to keep his voice down—not when most couldn’t understand them. Few high fae cared to learn it.

Sasja glared at him. “I can take care of myself.”

He returned the glare. “Let me help.”

“No.” She shifted forward at the same time two of the high fae on the far side moved. They froze, as she did, and surveyed her.

Then, all three darted forward at once. The two high fae, a man and a woman, made for the short swords. Sasja dove to wrestle one away from the woman. With a sharp jab to the face, she won the weapon and scrambled back, the blade swinging in her hand.

But the fae man advanced on her, a snarl pulling at his lips. The woman behind him clutched her nose, blood pouring into the sand at her feet. Above them, the crowd cheered as those waging money on first blood won or lost their bets.

Behind the pair, the rest of the fae—all men—moved forward. They charged for the weapons, and the sudden shift drove Azriel into action. He rushed toward the pile and snatched up the nearest item, a single long knife, before dodging back to avoid a redheaded fae’s wicked slice through the air.

The first arrow pierced Azriel’s calf before he could register what happened. He snarled as the pain jolted up his leg, and he stumbled back to take in who had shot him. A silver-haired fae slunk to the rear of his company, loading another arrow as the rest gathered up the supplies at the center.

Sasja was on her feet again, facing off against the man who’d advanced on her, holding her own with the short swords. For now. He’d keep an eye on the pair, but for the moment, he needed to focus on the others and keep them as far from his partner as he could manage.

After breaking off the fletched end of the arrow, Azriel yanked the shaft from his leg. Adrenaline pumping and heart hammering, he stalked forward again. If he could walk away from a handful of dhemons, he could take on the high fae before him now. He had no choice, just like they had no choice. In the Pits, it was kill or be killed, and gods…he’d burn the entire city to the ground before he let someone keep him from Ariadne much longer.

The thought frightened him, stilling the blade in his hand as he adjusted his grip on the handle. Even in his own head, he sounded like Ehrun.

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