Page 39 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

Azriel stared at the offerings for a long moment. His stomach growled, and a low hum started in his head, drowning out any sounds around him.

Yet he didn’t move. He couldn’t trust anything on that tray. It could all be a trick.

Sensing his apprehension, Melia groaned and rolled her eyes. Without a word, she picked up the pitcher and drank straight from the lip. Then she plucked up a cut of the raw meat and ate it as though it were nothing different from the fine food she consumed each day.

It was all he needed to see. Azriel collapsed into the chair and, ignoring the cup provided, brought the pitcher straight to his mouth. He drank greedily, hardly stopping to suck in a breath, the cool liquid seeming to soak into him before even reaching his belly. Then he dove into the plate of meat. Though it wasn’t seasoned—a regular misconception by anyone not dhemon that they ate it plain—he didn’t register the bland taste.

And gods, he needed the sustenance before his first fight, for when he walked into the Pits at dusk, Azriel understood precisely why some prisoners would never choose this option. Algorathians clustered around the massive open-aired dirt arena. Four elongated pits sank into the ground with waist-high metal rails at the tops to keep spectators from falling into danger. Tiers of seating rose along the walls, with balconies jutting out like box seats in a theater.

Melia led her procession of prisoners. Azriel’s collar flared with magic that singed his neck and kept him from making any movements grand enough for an escape. He stood at the back of the line, just behind Sasja, and forced his spine straight as the Algorathian elite began placing bets on them both.

Weakness in the Pits would be used against him. He’d give them none.

They lined up along a wall between two of the pits, and Melia stepped away to speak with another Desmo. In her absence, Paerish stood before them, silent and unreadable—as if the shemagh allowed anyone to get a read on their face either way.

“How many times have you fought in here?” Azriel asked Sasja in the dhemon tongue, low enough to not draw attention.

She didn’t look at him. When she didn’t respond right away, he assumed she’d decided to ignore him. Then she whispered back, “Enough.”

He looked down at her with an assessing eye. She stood rigid and stared ahead, her brows low over her eyes. Though she wasn’t much shorter than he, her frame was considerably more lithe. He’d seen her train with smooth, quick movements that often out-paced her partners. She was built for speed and precision, not brute strength. Nonetheless, muscles rippled in her arms as she flexed her shaking hands.

“How many more do you have?”

Now Sasja glanced at him, her red eyes sharp and discerning. “Enough to know this place will be my tomb.”

What had she done, then, to deserve such a fate? Gods, what had Mair Solt and Melia been told he had done to be brought here? It seemed as though they didn’t need much convincing to throw a would-be criminal into the Pits.

“I will get us out.”

Sasja chuffed. “You’re not the first to say such things.”

But Azriel merely raised his brows and said, “What kind of little prince would I be if I didn’t try to protect my own?”

“I am not yours,” she snarled.

“Far from,” he agreed. “But I have reasons to be free and see no reason to leave anyone behind.”

She didn’t look up at him again as the first of their line-up stepped forward to climb into the nearest pit. Instead, she hissed from the corner of her mouth, “And how do you plan to do anything with that band around your neck?”

Azriel didn’t get the chance to explain that he hadn’t thought that far ahead, for which he was grateful. Paerish pointed to him, then to the pit on the left. No need to speak. Azriel grunted in response, then said in parting to Sasja, “Don’t die.”

If she told him off or made a rude gesture in return, he didn’t know. He turned and stalked to the edge of the pit. The way to descend the sheer twenty-foot drop was unclear. For a long moment, he scanned the rough walls, searching for a way to clamber into the hole where three massive lycans paced wearing similar collars to his own.

“Afraid?” Melia’s voice registered at the same moment a hand shoved hard at his back, sending him reeling over the edge.

Laughter echoed above him as he hit the ground hard. The thin layer of dirt over the stone floor did little to break his fall. He groaned and glared up over his shoulder at the Desmo before shoving back up to his feet. On the far side of the pit, the lycans chittered their own amusement as they turned on him. A quick sweep of the pit revealed no weapons had been supplied.

Fantastic.

Azriel didn’t waste the energy to dust himself off. He settled his weight low in his thighs to study the way the wolven fae moved. This would not become his tomb. He would survive. He would find a way not only to escape but kill Melia in the process. He would see Ariadne again.

But to accomplish all of that, he had to focus on the task at hand. The lycans fanned out—a deep russet on his left, charcoal gray to his right, and silver in the center. They moved methodically, each slow step a planned maneuver to advance and trap him against the back wall.

So he stepped closer, opening his back to a possible attack. He kept his focus low and center, tracking their movements in his periphery and noting every flicker of tension.

The russet lycan moved first. It launched forward, forcing Azriel to sidestep to avoid its snapping jaws—right into the gray’s path. Gray lunged for his knees, massive teeth bared, and Azriel sprawled his body forward, kicking his legs out of reach of the snapping maw as he wrapped his arms around the wolf’s neck.

To keep the other two in his line of sight, Azriel locked his hand over his bicep and heaved the lycan up as he regained his footing before pivoting. Gray yelped, front legs lifted from the ground, claws dragging across his abdomen. Pain lanced through him, followed by the telling sensation of heat running down his stomach.

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