Page 110 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

Especially when he didn’t deserve to live.

“No.” Sasja tugged on his arm until he looked at her again. “We need you. Stay alive.”

As though on cue, Paerish stepped forward to him and said, “Let’s go.”

He followed the guard, teeth chattering as he wiped his palms on his trousers. At least someone had found him clothes and shoes to wear. The last thing he’d known, a mere sheet had been wrapped around his waist. The new fabric stretched across his body awkwardly, clearly too small for someone his size.

At the edge of the fighting pit, Azriel paused. No one yet stood at the other end. There was no telling who his opponent would be this time or how many of them he’d have to kill to make it out. The very thought was daunting.

Before Paerish, or—gods forbid—Melia, could push him into the stone hole, Azriel began his descent. He moved slower than usual, each hold on the wall precarious.

By the time he made it into the sand below and turned around, the other fighters had also entered the pit. Only two large fae men stood across from him. On any other day, Azriel wouldn’t have been worried. On any other day, he would’ve laughed. If he could take down a half dozen dhemons on his own, he could raze a couple of fae to the ground.

But it wasn’t any other day. His stomach roiled, and his hands shook as he took in the weapons tossed into the sand between them. Daggers. Only daggers. Such small blades could be thrown by someone with a steady countenance, which he didn’t have. These would force him to close the distance between them, opening the number of opportunities they had to kill him, too.

The two men spoke in a fae dialect he didn’t know. Perhaps it was from outside Myridia, though their hooded eyes and olive complexion reminded him of the avians from the south.

Azriel started forward, his legs jerking beneath him. He might be able to see clearly and comprehend his surroundings for the first time in days, but his body still didn’t want to cooperate. Each strained step felt cumbersome.

The fae made it to the daggers first, collecting the weapons and leaving him with nothing. Azriel blinked hard to clear his vision and recalibrate his strategy. No blades and being unable to dodge any potential throws meant he’d end up on the lethal end of someone’s attack. No matter what Sasja said, he didn’t see a way out of that hole. Like so many before him, it’d end up his soul’s crypt.

And he’d deserve it.

That was the point of the Pits, after all. Trial by combat was the heart of their existence in Algorath. The gods determined the prisoners’ fate, and no one made it out alive for once you chose to take a life to save your own, you were damned anyway. He was not the first, nor would he be the last, to come to that conclusion.

The fae on his left stalked forward first, holding a dagger by the tip of the blade, poised to throw. Azriel tracked him with his eyes and took a step back to create more distance. His only hope would be to either have the speed to dodge the attack or find an opening to get closer without dying.

Neither of the options seemed likely. So, as the first dagger turned end over tip in his direction, Azriel heaved in a breath to brace for the pain. Though he shifted his body, mind screaming to move, to fight back, to survive, it lodged in his thigh deep enough to strike bone.

Something about the white-hot agony stunned his body into obeying, so when the next dagger was hurled at him, Azriel sidestepped the attack. His leg—the same leg Ehrun had broken all those months ago and that Phulan had had to re-break in order to heal it correctly—threatened to give out. He shifted his weight to the other side, shooting up a prayer of help to whichever god deemed him important enough to listen. If he removed the blade, he’d be in trouble like his last time in the Pits, so he left it buried in his thigh, hoping it would stem the blood flow long enough to figure out his next move.

But the second fae was on him before he could recover. The man sliced at the air between them, forcing Azriel to reel backward again and raise his arm like a shield. A gash opened up, raining blood on the sand underfoot. He hissed a curse.

They would bleed him out, just like the last fight. Wear him down and hit an artery to finish the job. Little nicks and scrapes were all they needed when his body stumbled through commands.

The second fae lunged again, this time aiming for his chest. Azriel swept a hand between them, forcing the man’s momentum to the side long enough to grab his wrist. He yanked the fae in close, and upon seeing his back, he realized the truth of those he fought: they were avians. Their wings had been severed, leaving naught but horrendous stumps as reminders behind.

So Melia wasn’t the only cruel Desmo in Algorath. Cutting off their beautiful appendages to keep them compliant seemed extreme when most had their wings clipped but not removed. The full amputation had likely been meant to make a statement to any of their comrades.

Azriel didn’t have time to mourn for them. Having their wings removed would have been the most traumatizing event of their life, much like how it would feel if his horns were sawed away. Even that couldn’t compare to what they’d felt in those horrific moments. Wings were as vital to an avian as legs to anyone bound to the land.

“I’m sorry,” Azriel hissed in the avian’s ear before digging his fangs into the man’s neck.

Not only did he need to kill the fae, he needed the sustenance. The blood, though not as rich and beneficial as another vampire’s—particularly not anything like Ariadne’s—could help him focus. Maybe even walk out of there.

He wrapped his arms around the avian, holding him close so he could not use the daggers at his disposal as Azriel pulled the blood from his artery. When the other fae yelled in dismay and attacked, Azriel turned, using the avian’s body as a shield.

When at last he let go, he expected the man to fall to the ground. Instead, the avian swayed on his feet and plunged his dagger into Azriel’s gut.

The surprise attack had been the avian’s last deed in his life. He collapsed a moment later in a twisted heap of limbs, eyes open and empty. Azriel watched it happen in what felt like slow motion. Then he choked, blood pouring from his lips as it filled his mouth with that familiar metallic tang.

Fuck.

Foolish. He’d been so foolish to believe, for even a split second, that he’d survive the Pits. Draining that avian had been his last-ditch attempt at revitalizing his muscles and steadying his still-shaking body. For those few draws of blood, hope had filled Azriel’s chest, and he saw his way out of that wretched place.

And he’d wasted it by not ensuring the damn fae had died in his arms.

If Azriel had thought he was cold before entering the fight, it didn’t compare to what he felt as the blood continued to rise in his throat. His body shuddered violently, and when he tried to step back from the furious, advancing avian, his leg buckled.

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