Page 61 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

Even if that business included building an arena equivalent to the Pits, the construction of which had already begun.

Madan sifted through the papers on his desk, dropped there by Lord Knoll. He silently thanked the previous Steward of Eastwood Province for maintaining such careful notes. While Azriel was all action, he had struggled with the paperwork required of a Lord Governor. Gods, he’d struggled with many parts of ruling even as the dhom of the dhemons—no matter how hard he’d tried to run from the title, just like the Crowe.

When he looked up, however, his chest tightened. Markus Harlow watched him with peculiar interest. The Princeps scanned his face as though he’d never seen him before—as though he hadn’t employed him for the last year and a half. His golden eyes, the same shade marbled into Madan’s own, narrowed as his brows pinched.

Fuck. What had Azriel told him? Markus now looked at him with too much familiarity as though searching for the little boy he once knew. The son he’d assumed died in the Keonis Mountains.

In truth, Mattias Harlow had died in the Keonis Mountains. After witnessing what Markus had done to his mother, listening to Azriel scream and beg the man they’d called Father to stop, and then unable to do anything as that same sword, still dripping with Mariana’s blood, turned on his brother…

He’d ceased being a Harlow the moment the Crowe appeared. The moment he heard that dhemon cry in rage and anguish at the sight of the carnage before him. The moment the Crowe had struck down Markus and scooped Madan into his arms, cradling him to his chest as they ran back into the forest. He’d never been held like that by his blooded father. Only the horned fae he was supposed to hate.

“Let us begin,” Markus said, still watching Madan, “the first Council meeting with Lord Governor Madan Caldwell.”

The Princeps emphasized his name as he cocked his head to the side, daring him to interject. Then he turned to the others in the High Council, a light scowl settling on his face. Alek looked back with calm, cool interest. Lord Damen Gard, however, glared across the room to Madan.

Markus continued, “We have previously gathered to discuss the dhemon raids in Notten Province and—”

The door to the Council Chamber swung open. Everyone turned in unison to look upon the intruder.

And every bit of air in Madan’s lungs punched from his chest.

Loren Gard closed the great door behind him and stepped into the room. “Pardon my tardiness, my Lord Princeps. I was detained at the Hub welcoming new recruits. They arrived later than projected.”

The room swam. Darkness crept in on the edges of Madan’s vision as he struggled to regain oxygen to his brain. His heart sped up to an unbearable degree, thundering in his ears. He shook from the sudden chill that choked the breath from him.

Madan couldn’t let the General see his fear. Couldn’t let on that what happened to him within that guard house cellar continued to torment him. That every slice of a blade, snap of a log in the fire, and pop of a cork made his entire body seize, trapping him inside his own mind. Loren could never know. No one could.

But then those icy blue eyes slid around the room and landed on him. Though Madan did his best to hide the internal screaming, he was certain he flinched. A small smirk curled the corners of Loren’s mouth.

“Have a seat, General,” Markus said, ignoring the silent battle of wills between them. “We will get to your business shortly.”

Loren inclined his head before dragging a chair noisily to the empty space beside his father. When at last he sat, he leaned back as though ready to kick his feet up onto the desk before him and lounge.

“As I was saying,” Markus continued, “The Notten Province raids. What is the status, Lord Gard?”

Ignoring his son, Damen stood, his silver hair shining in the firelight. He looked and moved too much like his offspring. Before Loren’s interruption, Madan had been careful not to look at him. Now he had no choice but to see the similarities, and they stole the oxygen from the room.

“The raids continue.” Damen leaned forward on his hands and looked to each of them to drive the point of the severity of his words. “The vampires of Notten Province continue to struggle, to flee, and to die.”

Some of the Lower Council looked to Madan as though he were responsible. He’d read through the notes Azriel had left behind and the orders given to the soldiers of Eastwood Province on how to best handle the carnage of the north, but the fault didn’t lie with him. Gods, the fault hadn’t even laid with Azriel.

“I have statistics from Eastwood,” Madan offered, pinning a stack of papers with his non-dominant elbow and pulling the needed pages free with his fingers. He focused his attention on the words and numbers to avoid looking at the Lord Governor. “May we discuss how best to use them so we may end such unnecessary suffering?”

“Eastwood’s aid has done nothing to stem the tide of dhemons on my lands.”

Madan sucked his teeth for a moment, steadying himself before looking up at Damen. His eyes fell, instead, to Loren, who watched him with animalistic intensity. Like a wolf stalking its prey. His heart lurched, and he returned to Damen. “I do not believe we have yet to offer any aid aside from providing numbers to better evaluate our next steps.”

A murmur of agreement from the Council as those around them also checked their notes. Even those behind the Gards nodded, and the sandy-haired Lord Huntingford leaned forward to whisper something to Damen.

The Lord Governor scowled. “And the results?”

“Eastwood requires additional soldiers to man the highways between us and Notten.” Madan pushed to his feet to elevate his voice. By pressing his palm into the desk below him, the shaking ceased—at least temporarily. He turned his gaze to Loren then and added, “With the help of General Gard, we would need an additional five hundred soldiers to not only slow the dhemons but end their raids completely.”

The Council Chamber exploded with the voices of outraged Caersan men. Some yelled about equality amongst the Provinces. Others demanded another month of data be collected.

Still others were silent. Alek didn’t look surprised. Markus, the leader of them all, merely appeared bored. The bickering, it would seem, was a constant struggle within the Council Chamber and a great source of his irritation. A Lower Councilman from the Central Province, Lord Kolson, spoke in the Princeps’ ear before sitting back in his place behind him.

“Now, now.” The voice, loud and strong, didn’t come from the High Councilman. It didn’t even come from Lord Gard. It came from Loren. His gaze swept across the room, waiting patiently for silence, before continuing, “You all act as though I have not given you adequate support in the past.”

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