Page 28 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

Refocusing on the dhemon kneeling before her, Ariadne shifted with discomfort from foot to foot. She had been raised as the daughter of the Princeps, the highest ranking Caersan in Valenul, and as such had been trained to act a certain way. Conduct herself with grace and humility in tribute to her father’s successes.

But a princess? No such monarchy had ruled her people since the beginning of the curse of night put on her people during the Mage War. How was one supposed to present themself as a royal?

“I do not know what to do as…ydhom.” The word felt strange on her tongue and to her ears. She looked at the dhemon, then Madan again.

“Be yourself,” her brother said and shrugged. “Azriel’s never done anything special.” Then he looked to the dhemon still kneeling before her. He smirked and crooked a finger around the lower curl of his horn to give it a small tug. “Stand up, you big oaf.”

The dhemon bumped Madan’s shorter arm with his horns and stood, mumbling something in his language. Ariadne did not know what he said, but by the way Madan’s face turned red, it was obvious he understood just fine. What had been said had clearly been something she was not meant to hear.

Realization dawned, and she turned back to the enormous dhemon—so much taller than Azriel in his dhemon form. “You must be Whelan!”

A broad smile cracked across the dhemon’s face, and his chest swelled with pride. “So you heard of me.”

The last of her tension melted away. She crossed her arms and glowered at her brother. “You should have said who he was in the first place.”

“Would you have been any less frightened?” Madan raised a quizzical brow.

She glanced at Whelan, still adjusting to just how far up she had to look to see his face, and said, “Perhaps.”

Madan snorted with amusement. “Then I’ll be certain to introduce the others right away.”

“The others?” The blood drained from her face as the two laughed at the look of terror. No one else joined them in the foyer, but she had the gut-sinking feeling that she had not been entirely paranoid upon her entrance to the Caldwell Estate. There likely had been others watching her, waiting to meet her…to meet their ydhom.

Chapter 7

To Azriel’s bemusement, Melia didn’t make any indication she recognized him during the exchange between her and Nikolai. The lack of acknowledgment was, perhaps, more unnerving than if she’d accosted him the moment those metallic eyes had slid to him. He’d been prepared for her wrath. What he hadn’t prepared for was her utter detachment.

Melia led him, surrounded by a small and unnecessary band of sentinels, through the maze of streets lit only by the moon and stars above. The silent journey only proved to shake him more. She had to remember him. To remember the threat on his life were he to ever set foot in the mage city again.

Yet even as the sentinels bid their farewell and they continued onto the grounds of her regal chateau alone, she didn’t speak. She didn’t so much as look at him as her guards, dressed so similarly to the city sentinels, intercepted to redirect him to the lower levels of the grounds. As Melia disappeared into her massive home covered in jasmine—her favorite flower—and surrounded by lush, beautiful gardens filled with foliage he couldn’t place by sight or scent, he turned down a small path to a solid iron gate haloed by a thin barrier of magic.

With the lower reaches of the grounds cloaked in night, Azriel’s eyes couldn’t pinpoint anything of note as he followed the guard to a single-story adobe building. Its flat roof and no windows underscored his place in the world: a prisoner to be contained on the far end of a powerful mage’s estate. A single door at the center of the building shimmered with more magic, and upon their approach, he noted the way the guards along the surrounding walls turned to supervise their movements. No one got in or out of the barracks without their knowing.

The magic flared as the leading guard opened the door. The black depths of the hallway stretched in either direction. Doors lined the walls on both sides as rough hands shoved Azriel to the right, where he was forced to bow his head to keep his horns from scraping the ceiling. The silence grated on him, either due to the magic swaying like heat waves over each threshold or the prisoners’ slumber, Azriel didn’t know.

They reached an empty room—no, cell—almost at the end of the hall. He strained his eyes, wishing his mother had granted him more of her vampiric night vision. Through the near-total darkness, he found a straw mat on the floor and a small clay bucket in the corner that smelled foul. No blanket to shield from the desert’s nightly cold. No window for light. Hardly enough space to stand and pace.

The door snicked shut behind him without warning, and when he turned to look back at it, the same rippling effect he’d seen along the hall blurred the wood grains. Azriel reached out a tentative hand to touch the magic. It seared his fingertips, and an electrical shock leapt up his outstretched arm. He jerked back with a snarl before his body could lock up.

He settled on the small mat, his dhemon body too large for it so his lower legs and feet rested on the cold, stone floor. With no light aside from the faint magic on his door, he had nothing to focus on other than his thoughts.

And what a horrible place to be that was.

Azriel got no sleep that night, his mind gliding from one memory to the next in an unbearable circle of anguish. Every wondrous moment with his wife collided full-force with each terrible deed, each mistake, each agonizing choice that landed him in that cell.

The night they’d tried to leave Laeton, he’d woken up to Ariadne beside him in their bed. She’d been draped across her pillows like an angel, her midnight curls a dark halo around her head. The gentle slope of her breasts moved in the steady rhythm of her breath beneath the sheer nightgown she’d worn.

He’d left her there to sleep—a foolish mistake. He’d wanted to ensure the preparations for their departure were underway. The sooner he got her to Monsumbra, the sooner he would be able to indulge in her body. Of course, she hadn’t been so patient in the carriage, but if only he’d spent that extra time with her in the comfort of their first home together…

At no point had he considered that to be the last night he’d have with her. Azriel had been selfish and taken those moments together for granted. He’d planned to shower her with affection throughout their journey to Monsumbra. Gods, he’d warned Madan to be out of the manor when he arrived, for he planned to utilize every damn room to make her come again and again—to rewrite every memory he had associated with the wretched place with the woman he loved.

He’d watched every one of those plans wither and die the moment they’d been stopped on the highway. They burned on a pyre when Loren drugged him with the liquid sunshine, forcing his change. Every ash blew away in the breeze as he watched Ariadne struggle to get back to him, as that fae collar went around his neck, as they traded his soul for profit in the desert city.

So Azriel didn’t sleep as the sun rose over the dunes to the east, somewhere beyond the dark walls locking him in. Rather, he wept for all he’d lost for not remaining vigilant. For all he’d lost because of his desperation to cling to all that’d gone right in his world. He curled in on himself and clutched his own horns, tugging them down to hold himself close.

Only when the magic vanished from his door did Azriel wipe away the tears and stand. He brushed himself off and left the barracks into the golden morning sun that painted a very different image than what he’d seen on his journey across the estate grounds hours before.

Melia’s chateau, a grand building made of red sandstone, massive windows, and a pergola-shaded deck, stood at the top of a sheer cliff overlooking the training yard. Rich emerald vines full of large, colorful flowers curled up the corners of her home and around the open windows. The ivory curtains fluttered with a breeze unfelt by Azriel, and her guards, clad in mulberry and russet uniforms and shemaghs, stood at regular intervals along the cliff edge. Half looked out at them. Half turned in, protecting their mistress as though she didn’t hold enough power to level the entire estate.

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