Page 84 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

Now, she had a second chance.

So she woke early that night in the hopes of catching Phulan alone before her training continued. To her relief, Kall’s door remained closed, and the mage stood over her kettle in the kitchen.

“What’s wrong, dear?” Phulan asked without looking up. Ariadne did not care for the woman’s ability to sense her discomfort before even looking at her.

Ariadne swallowed hard, her heart pounding as she tried to muster the courage needed to speak. “I need your help.”

Still, Phulan did not turn from her purposeful movements. “How so?”

“You said you could fix scars.”

That had not been what Phulan expected. She stilled, then turned to survey her with curiosity. Her amethyst eyes locked on that spot over her shoulder. “Yes.”

“I want it to go away.” She felt sick. Why? She and Phulan had been through so much together already. There should be no reason for it. “I want to be able to wear that dress without…worrying.”

“I can make any scar disappear, no matter how deep,” Phulan said and held out her hands, palms up. Magic danced there, unseen yet felt. “But it will hurt.”

That did not make sense. If she were such a good friend of Azriel’s, why did he walk around with so many scars? Why would he choose to bear the reminders of his past?

Phulan tilted her head. “You doubt me.”

“I have seen Azriel.”

“Azriel wouldn’t let me get rid of them.”

“Why?”

“Because he didn’t want to forget.” Phulan waited, but when Ariadne did not respond, her heart pounding, she elaborated, “He didn’t want to forget the pain he caused.”

Ariadne’s heart sank. It squeezed so tight, the air pressed from her lungs in a rush. She closed her eyes, remembering the dhemon she had seen being lashed. Remembering her husband enduring torture at the same time she had.

“He killed many vampires, Ariadne.” Phulan’s voice sounded far away. “He once relished the task. But over time, he learned to loathe what he had been raised to do. Raised to believe. He stopped hiding his past and forced himself to look at it every single day.”

She did not need the reminder of who he had once been—someone she would have called a monster. Someone she would have truly hated had her heart and soul not belonged to him. Someone she had claimed to hate not that long ago for what he had done to her.

But those scars were a personal part of his journey and his choice.

Those she bore had been forced upon her.

“Come.” Phulan nodded out of the kitchen, and Ariadne followed. She led her down the hall to a set of double doors that opened to a very clinical-looking room. A room reserved, she assumed, for healing.

The room was not large, and a set of twin beds took up much of the space. Dark fabrics covered the low mattresses and shone in the moonlight shining through the mashrabiya windows. Plush rugs underfoot silenced each step. No art hung on the walls—only more crystals on their shelves beside jars of unidentifiable creams and potions. Emillie would have known what they were, no doubt.

Phulan turned back to her with an unreadable face. “Let me see.”

Ariadne eyed the closed door before slowly removing her shirt. Her hands shook. The moment air brushed against her bare skin, she felt more exposed than she had in a very long time. Off went the brassiere, and only then did she turn to show Phulan.

Much to Ariadne’s relief, the mage made no sound. Not so much as a gasp of horror at what mottled her skin. She merely stepped forward and asked, “Are you certain you want this?”

“Very much.”

“It will hurt,” Phulan cautioned.

Ariadne bit her lip, fingers curling into the fabric of her pants. “Please.”

“Then brace yourself.” Phulan’s magic slid across her back. It tingled at first before digging into the knots of flesh in short bursts, not unlike shocks. At first, it was irritating.

Then it burned.

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