Page 29 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

The enormous training yard swept out from the barracks door, surrounded by a tall stone wall. Golden sand gave way underfoot as he stepped out to survey the other prisoners—men and women he may one day be forced to partner with or, worse, kill. Rattan weapons were heaped at the foot of the cliff; swords, spears, pikes, maces, and even bows and arrows were left untouched by those who passed by without looking twice.

Instead, the others formed a line. They carried a wooden bowl and spoon and paused long enough by a large cauldron to collect a ladleful of questionable food from a household servant. A handful of the rare magickless humans were scattered amongst the dozen mages whose powers were bound by the thin inhibiting cuffs around their wrists. A mere three fae, their ethereal grace and beauty marred by the battles they’d endured, wore collars similar to his own to keep their own brand of magic and agility tempered. No avians or lycans made their way to collect their morning meal.

The one Azriel found most interesting, however, was the only other dhemon. With a lighter blue complexion and thinner horns that didn’t quite curl around her ears yet, the dhemon was clearly young—perhaps not even a century old. The sides of her head were shaved, and her long, black hair was braided down the center in a tight weave. The way her deep, cherry-colored eyes sized Azriel up, however, told him the dhemon had been under Melia’s thumb for a while.

Or, perhaps, she noted the dirtied Caersan clothes Azriel still wore. He’d need to change into something more suitable for fighting soon.

Azriel stalked across the yard, well aware of the prisoners watching his every movement like wolves ready to strike. Though they sat together, spoke together, and laughed together, each of them were one another’s enemy. No one was safe from even those they considered friends, for once they faced off in the Pits, only one of them would walk away.

Picking up a bowl and spoon from a stack, he stepped into line behind a burly human mage with short-cropped blond hair and a deep tan. The man glanced over his shoulder, his hazel eyes narrowing a bit before raising a brow and saying in a drawled common tongue, “When did you get in?”

With a snort at the irony of the question—at the top of the list for any prisoner—Azriel cocked his head and said, “Here? Last night.”

“What’s a dhemon doing in such finery?” The man flicked the open collar with a dirty finger, the cuffs around his wrist glinting in the sunlight.

Now Azriel grit his teeth, letting the displeasure settle on his face. “Living a lie, it’d seem.”

“M’name’s Raoul.” The human stepped forward in line and looked at him expectantly.

He hesitated. This was the moment he needed to make himself known as someone worth allying with. He could align himself with Valenul, with the vampires, and make a name for himself as the only dhemon to infiltrate them. But that didn’t sit right with him. His wife was still one of those Caersans, and he’d protect her—somehow, some way—until his last breath.

“Azriel the Crowe.” He surveyed the human carefully. His father’s name had influence in and out of the Keonis Mountains. Just how far that reached was unclear.

But Raoul’s eyes widened with acknowledgment, and he didn’t say anything as a portion of the morning stew slopped into his bowl. Azriel followed suit, accepting his meager ladle of questionable food, and the human beckoned for him to follow into the sun, where they sat leaning against the tall stone wall.

“You related to the Crowe of Keonis?” Raoul dug into his stew, the mixture of meat and vegetables with no correlation a clear indication of them being leftovers from the chateau.

Azriel grunted in confirmation, then pushed the chunks of food around in his bowl. The unappetizing combination of colors and smells didn’t stir his appetite despite his meager helpings throughout his journey from Valenul. He scooped up vegetables and tried them.

Raoul chuckled at his grimace. “You get used to it.”

“Doubtful.” Azriel pushed the meat aside again and shot a glare up at the chateau. Melia no doubt found this hilarious. She knew he couldn’t eat cooked meat, and neither could that other dhemon who kept glaring at him from across the training yard. He returned the hard stare and asked Raoul, “What’s her name?”

“Sasja.” Raoul raised a hand in greeting to the woman, who scowled in return. He chuckled. This man had no qualms with talking about anything and everything, it seemed. He would be a well of information. “She speaks very little common and usually fights solo.”

“How long has she been here?”

“About two months.”

“And how often do we go to the Pits?”

Raoul cast him a miserable look. “About once a week.”

Far less than Azriel had anticipated. One fight per week wasn’t as horrible as he’d imagined. He could survive that. For how long, he wasn’t certain. Particularly with the meager helpings of edible food. “What do you do in the meantime?”

“Train.” Raoul’s expression soured even more, and he threw a sneer toward the chateau. “Entertain.”

An oily feeling squirmed through Azriel’s gut at the prospect. If this human found the very memory of entertaining so terrible, he could wager a guess as to what it meant. Melia as good as owned each and every one of them. They were her property to do with as she wished.

“How often does she require entertainment?” Azriel tipped the bowl into his mouth, using the spoon to hold back the meat so he could drink the broth.

“She enjoys throwing extravagant parties.” Raoul set his bowl in the sand and crossed his ankles out in front of him. “Many of the Desmos take turns to show off their fighters.”

Desmos. The wardens across the eight districts of Algorath. Once, Melia had shown them as much disdain as Azriel. She’d hated the Pits and the barbaric practices of using violent prisoners for entertainment in any way; she’d been particularly vocal against the practice of trial by combat. Now she ruled over the small Suin District’s prisoners in the south sector of the city and seemed to bear the title of Desmo with pride.

As though she’d known he would one day end up right where he was: in the perfect place for her to torment him mentally and physically—all in the name of justice.

It made him ill.

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