Page 86 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

He wasn’t certain how long he sat like that, wheezing through the dull pulsing in his chest until the hum of the magic barrier over his door disappeared. Footfalls told him someone had entered just before foreign hands took hold of his shoulders and eased him back to the floor.

“This is our final round of healing,” said a low man’s voice. “I have blood and fresh meat for you now that you’ve sat up.”

Azriel’s stomach growled in response, and he blinked his eyes open again. The mage surprised him. He was a small pale man with freckles and auburn hair. Glasses teetered precariously at the tip of his thin, upturned nose. His deep bronze eyes followed his hands as they moved over Azriel’s side, warmth emanating from them.

“Who are you?” Gods, his voice was raspy from disuse.

The mage sighed. “Once again, my name is Fetor.”

With a frown, Azriel stared at Fetor. “Have we met?”

“You have asked that question each day I have come to see you.” Fetor’s gaze didn’t waver from his work. “And before you ask, this is the fourth morning now.”

Four days. Four days since the Pits. Four days since he watched Sasja take on almost all of those fae on her own. Four days since he truly believed he wouldn’t be walking out of the match.

Which, in all technicality, he didn’t walk away. He’d been carried.

“Sorry.” Azriel slid his arm past his horns to cover his eyes.

“You’re bonded, then?” Fetor asked.

Azriel chuffed and peered out from under his arm to see sweat beading on the mage’s pale forehead. “Why do you think that?”

“A common symptom of a dhemon separated from his mate is amnesia.” Fetor pulled his hands away from the wounded area and sat back on his heels. “Your memory loss is worse than any patient I’ve treated, even those with brain injuries. I took a guess.”

“Well, I have no mate.” He let his arm back down over his eyes. They stung at the words as her face swam through his mind. Gods, he missed her more than anything. Each breath he took during their separation seared his lungs.

Fetor snorted. “If you’re worried I’d tell the Desmo, don’t be. That wretch pays me to be here for her injured fighters and that’s it.”

The pain no longer pulsed in his side like the deep-set wound it had been. Azriel shifted his body, then pulled his arm away from his face again to push himself back into a seated position. The room swam around him again, and his horns clacked as they hit the wall. “Where’s that food?”

The mage slid a plate of red raw meat toward him, then set a glass of blood beside it. “You need to be eating better. I saw your match. You weren’t yourself.”

How many times had Fetor observed him to know that he’d been so malnourished going into the Pits? He’d only fought once before, so it was likely the mage had seen him train. Azriel didn’t linger on the thought as he tilted the cup to his lips just enough to draw the blood up through his fangs. He ignored the way Fetor stared at him as he did so, then raised his eyebrows as Azriel dug into the raw meat with zeal.

Faster than he cared to admit, his vision cleared, and his body stopped shaking. True sustenance did wonders. He’d always hated how he needed both blood and raw meat for survival when he never received the full benefits of either side of his heritage. Greater agility and speed from his vampiric side, yet he healed slower than a Caersan and had terrible night vision. Increased strength and cold durability from his dhemonic side, yet he couldn’t eat cooked meals without getting sick, and using his thermal vision gave him headaches.

The gods had a real shitty sense of humor.

“You should be fine to train today,” Fetor said as he got back to his feet. “So long as you don’t push yourself too hard.”

Azriel stood, unfurling to his full height beside the small man, and if he were a voyeur to them together, he would have laughed. The tiny mage craned his head back to look up at him with wide eyes. He had not expected Azriel to be quite as tall as he was, it would seem.

“Thank you, Fetor.” He inclined his head, his massive horns closing the distance between them fast enough to make the man step back.

“You’re quite welcome,” Fetor squeaked. “Be well.”

“And you.”

With that, Fetor scurried out the door. Azriel watched him go for a long moment before following, a slight sway to his gait. He made his way back out of the barracks and sighed in relief when he was greeted by the desert sun. It wasn’t often he enjoyed the arid heat, but nothing felt better when he was unwell.

It didn’t take long before Raoul looked up from his training. His mouth stretched into a grin while his partner—a fae man with silver curls and eyes as black as Alek Nightingale’s—glared openly. A memory of the fae’s bloody face resurfaced, along with a phantom rage and the image of Azriel’s split knuckles. Someone had been yelling for him to stop—that he’d kill the fae before long. Guilt curled in his gut. Who had he thought the man was?

Raoul peeled away nonetheless and made his way across the training yard, his rattan sword swinging by his side. “You just refuse to die, don’t you?”

“I certainly should have.” Azriel accepted the human’s embrace, his head growing clearer every minute. He looked around the grounds and frowned. “Where is she?”

“Sasja?” Raoul followed his line of sight and shrugged. “She was out here not too long ago. Probably taking a piss.”

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