Page 30 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

“When will she host next?”

Raoul sighed and closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall as though to soak up the sun at the beach. “Soon, I’m sure. We’re due in the Pits in three days.”

“Fantastic…” Azriel didn’t relax. He couldn’t until he understood the ins and outs of this place. So far, it seemed tame…unnervingly so. No good Desmo would allow their prisoners to sit around without training. They required each of their fighters to be in top shape to succeed so they could collect the coin and distribute any payments to others merely loaning out their captives—like Markus Harlow.

After a moment of silence between them, Azriel shifted his weight to his feet. Still crouching beside his new…alliance…he said, “I’m going to talk to her.”

Sasja still sat alone, carefully sifting through her own helping of stew. Since dhemons couldn’t eat cooked meats, they were in the same predicament. They wouldn’t be at their full strength unless given the proper nutrients, and the meager vegetables weren’t enough.

With a scoff, Raoul shook his head without opening his eyes. “May the gods watch over you with that one.”

Azriel ignored him and stood. He dropped the bowl into a basin with other dirty dishes and stalked across the training yard. Sasja sat cross-legged in a sliver of shadow alone. Her steel-blue skin glistened with perspiration as the arid desert heat settled in for the day. Upon his approach, she turned her scowl to him and sat a little straighter.

“What do you want?” She spoke in the dhemon language, her accent similar to those of the western reaches of the Keonis Mountains. How she’d ended up so far from home, Azriel now wanted to know.

Instead, he leaned a shoulder against the wall and crossed his arms. “Needed a friendly face, I suppose.”

Sasja scoffed. “And you chose this one?”

He cracked a smirk like he’d done so many times with the dhemons he’d commanded under his father. “I’m Azriel. The Crowe.”

“I know who you are,” she spat back and gestured to his clothes in disgust. “Traitor.”

The jab hurt more than he was willing to let show. His easy grin didn’t slip, though he fought the urge to grit his teeth in response. “I’d have thought you’d be pleased to see me heading into the Pits, then.”

She rolled her cherry eyes before returning her attention to her stew. “You’re already dead to me, little prince.”

A spark of heat slid through his veins at that. Dhomin. She would’ve heard that from very specific people. “You fight under Ehrun and call me a traitor?”

“At least I didn’t throw my lot in with murderers.” With that, Sasja stood and made a point to shove past him, her shoulder slamming into his with more strength than he anticipated from her slim frame—made slimmer, he suspected, by the inedible food.

He pivoted to watch her go. She spoke to no one else as she deposited her bowl in the wash basin and drank a ladle of water from a clay vase. The only person Sasja seemed to acknowledge at all was a tall guard in a slightly different uniform. Gold stitching stood out from the deep colors, and a curved, ornate sheath hung at their hip. With their face obscured by a hood and shemagh, Azriel couldn’t decipher their features other than glittering burnt umber eyes lined with thick kohl.

The guard’s attention flickered to him, and Azriel inclined his head a touch. If there was anyone in this training yard he needed on his side, it’d be the captain of the guards—and this person appeared to be precisely who he was looking for.

With the introduction to Whelan putting Ariadne on edge, she and Madan decided against meeting the other occupants of the Caldwell Estate so soon. The manor itself, minimally maintained by a butler, a handful of cooks and cleaning staff, and several busy stable hands, rivaled that of the Harlow Estate. Its many rooms were well-kempt, though mostly vacant, and despite Madan’s recent promotion to Lord Governor—much to Ariadne’s surprise that Markus would approve—he insisted she take the suite reserved for the head of the house.

“I’m quite content where I’m at,” he explained as he showed her into the enormous set of rooms on the ground floor, “and don’t exactly feel like having Azriel’s things moved. It feels too…permanent.”

She understood what he meant. His new position had happened with very little warning. Alongside Azriel’s sudden arrest and now harboring a fugitive, Madan’s entire world had turned upside down. Hers had as well.

He continued, “Your own wardrobe arrived some time ago, and I haven’t requested any change of their placement. Please wash up, and we will have dinner soon.”

After Madan’s departure, marked by the quiet click of the door shutting, Ariadne turned in place to take it all in. This was the home she had meant to discover alongside her husband, not her brother. Despite his insistence and sincerity, she half-wished he had taken the suite for himself. At least then, she would not need to find solace in a room she had imagined with Azriel inside it.

The walls and high ceiling were a deep navy, not unlike Azriel’s complexion as a dhemon. They soared above her with fine silver accents toward a broad chandelier that looked like stars falling from the night sky. Straight ahead, a bay of tall windows and doors opened to a huge, private porch overflowing into the lower gardens with a fountain at its center. Long, heavy silver drapes pooled on the floor between each window, ready to be drawn before sunrise. On either side of the wide sitting room were twin hearths with ornate mantels, each sporting a low-burning fire. Before one was a small desk with various writing tools and stacks of crisp, blank paper. Across the room sat an arrangement of plush powder blue lounges, chairs, and, nearer the windows, a settee.

Ariadne’s heart grew heavy as she entered the washroom next. In stark contrast to the dark colors of the sitting area, everything in this room lit up with ivory marble and the same silver accents. The sunken bathing tub, large enough for her and Azriel to have had more than enough room to glide about, sat before yet another bay of windows with a view into the gardens. It steamed with fresh, hot water, and a great willow tree’s branches outside provided a natural barrier from any prying eyes. Two large washing basins stood across the room from one another, with mirrors over each, and low tables were neatly arranged with various beauty products. Her own, having been shipped ahead of them many nights ago, and even Azriel’s meager supplies.

She picked up a small bottle from his table and lifted it to her nose. His cologne. The scent crashed into her like a punch to the gut, and she closed her eyes to brace against the impact of it. Before she succumbed to the grief of his absence, she set the bottle down again.

Opening her eyes, she nearly jumped at the sight of herself in the mirror before her. Over the last year, she had spent very little time looking at her reflection. So much had changed after her abduction; she had lost weight, hardly slept, and, on the best of nights, she appeared as a ghost of her previous self.

Now she had changed once again, only this time, she could stomach what she saw looking back. Her brown hair, so dark it appeared black in most lighting, framed her full, flushed face in wild, curling frizz, and the long ends wove into a haphazard braid over her shoulder. Where once shadows had lingered under her cheekbones, now her skin was alight with color. Even the vivid webbing of blue veins along her throat and jaw seemed to stand out. The dark circles beneath her eyes had reappeared thanks to her disturbed sleep over the last week.

Azriel had reignited her very soul. She would not let his efforts to see her regain such life and independence be in vain.

So Ariadne kicked off her boots and peeled the dirty clothes from her body. She ran her fingers over the brand on her chest, the symbol of Keon, and turned in the mirror to glare at the scars on her back. They had been a mark of shame for too long. Though she would not wear that monster’s name proudly, she would no longer allow him to rule over her.

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