Page 37 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

“When do we go to the Pits?”

Raoul stabbed a piece of meat from Azriel’s bowl as it was swept aside and said, “Just before dusk.”

“Why waste the daylight?”

The human chewed the stolen bite. “Not all the fighters are able to compete in the sun.”

Compete. As though what they were to do was a matter of winning or losing a medal of honor and not their lives.

Azriel froze at the implication, however. “Vampires?”

“Of course.” Raoul frowned at the question.

He didn’t think Markus or Loren approved of the Pits—at least not before him. Why would any vampires be left in Algorathian prisons where their options were so limited? That they were not extradited back to Valenul meant one of two things: either the vampires’ crimes were never revealed to the Council, or the Council didn’t care.

“And they’re Caersan?” Azriel pressed.

Now Raoul waved his spoon dismissively. “I don’t understand, nor do I care to know, the meaning behind those ridiculous labels. A vampire is a vampire. Every kid in my village was raised on tales about those monsters that’d keep me up at night. They’re wicked strong, faster than any human—mage or otherwise—and will drain you of every drop of blood, given the chance.”

Azriel snorted into his bowl. “You’re afraid of vampires?”

“Anyone who isn’t,” he huffed, “is a damn fool.”

A slow, sly grin spread across his face, wide enough to show his fangs, longer than the rest of his viciously sharp teeth. “My mother was a vampire.”

The color drained from Raoul’s face, and he shuddered with a groan of discomfort. “This is why I don’t ask personal questions. I’d have rather died not knowing that bit of information, thanks.”

“What fun would that be?”

“Just…” Raoul made a disgusted face. “Don’t ask to drink from me.”

“You have my word.” Azriel struggled to keep the grin from broadening. “But if they ever put us against each other…”

Raoul raised his face to the sun and muttered a low prayer to Emry, the Goddess of the Desert and Steppes, before turning back to point his spoon at him. “I will put you in the ground before you can get to my throat.”

Azriel chuckled. “If you say so.”

A shadow fell over them, bringing their téte-a-téte to an abrupt end. Azriel blinked up at the intruder and found himself glaring up at the guard he had run into after speaking with Sasja. Having not seen them since that day, he had not thought much about the guard’s position within the Desmo’s rankings. Still, they wore their gold-stitched clothes with the shemagh covering their face; one hand rested on the hilt of the curved sword at their hip.

“Up, dhemon.” The guard nudged his outstretched foot with their boot. “The Desmo wishes to speak with you.”

So Melia finally decided to acknowledge him. Interesting. He dragged his feet back in and used his back on the wall to slide into a standing position. His vision darkened for a heartbeat—a recent development since arriving and receiving inadequate nutrition. After blinking to clear his head, he shoved off the wall and followed the guard across the yard, depositing his bowl in the wash basin on the way.

The guard led him out of the training yard and up toward the regal chateau on its cliff. Unsurprising. To step foot in the same sand as her prisoners would be beneath her.

A glimmer of magic shone around the outer walls of the chateau and even stretched out to the balcony overlooking the prisoners below. At first, Azriel assumed it to be protective magic—a way to ensure those prisoners could never harm the Desmo or any guests who might visit. When he crossed through the shimmering bubble, however, he realized it did more than protect her from potential riots. It protected her from the sun and heat.

The balcony remained bright and warm, but gone was the skin-blistering pain of the desert sunshine. In an instant, the sweat that had dappled Azriel’s brow and body felt cold and clammy against his skin. The sweet scent of jasmine hung heavy in the air.

He dragged his forearm across his face, dodging his horns with practiced ease. When he settled once more, the mage of his nightmares stood before him.

Melia wore a thick, silver headband that pushed her hair back from her elegant face. She surveyed him with those piercing moonlight eyes for a long moment before giving the guard a curt nod. “I will call when we’re finished, Paerish.”

Azriel didn’t dare turn to see where the guard, Paerish, went. Turning his back on the woman before him would be a foolish thing to do. He’d made that mistake once and ended up with a literal knife in his back. That was all it took to teach him.

“You broke your promise.” Melia tilted her head, her long earrings sparkling in the sunlight. “Again.”

Again. As though he’d intentionally led her to her imprisonment at Auhla. Unlike the ultimatum Ehrun had used to coerce Azriel into dragging Ariadne into the mountain keep, he’d had no idea of his father’s plans for the willing mages he’d brought back, Melia included.

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