Page 96 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

By the time they reached the bathing pool, Azriel understood the scramble to get in first. It was filthy, and the mage guards did nothing to help them clean it prior to washing with the water. Better than nothing, he dried himself off with a clean towel, wiping off any excess grime, and dressed in a simple white tunic much too small for him. It cinched at the waist with a rope and fell to mid-thigh.

They were given no trousers.

Feeling far too exposed to be in front of the Desmo and her guests, Azriel followed Raoul and Sasja on their way to the chateau.

“Keep to the place they put you,” Raoul instructed under his breath. “Don’t leave your room unless invited by the Desmo or a guest.”

Sasja glanced at the human, her crimson eyes growing dark. She understood more of the common tongue than she let on. She added in the dhemon language, “Do not engage with anyone if you can help it. They can do anything to you short of kill you. Give them no reason to harm you…or desire you.”

Azriel knew the chateau would be grand and impressive but it exceeded his expectations. She’d always had an eye for exuberance. With the use of gaudy jewelry and bright clothes, she loved to be the center of attention.

Her home was no different, and the way she displayed her prisoners only highlighted how much she still desired it. As such, the moment they entered through the side door, they were separated into different rooms.

Azriel ended up in the corner of the dining room. A long, bronze oval table with a dozen chairs around it sat in the center beneath a chandelier depicting the stars and moon. Along the unbroken terracotta wall, a mural of the gods stretched its length with the Goddess of the Desert and Steppes, Emry, at its center, holding her bowl of flames.

On the far side of the room stood another prisoner. The high fae man with his deep brown skin, long pointed ears, and shaved head glared at him openly. After what he and Sasja had done to his kinsmen in the Pits, Azriel didn’t blame him. Still, he knew the benefit of gathering allies within the walls.

“How long have you been here?” Azriel asked, well aware he was the only fae prisoner left of Melia’s to have been with her before him.

The fae scoffed, those blue of his eyes shining bright against the tattooed whites of his eyes. Not many of the high fae Azriel had met had gone through whatever ritual required them to taint their eyes black, but he knew the coloring was significant. The man was deadly and revered among his people.

When he replied, the fae’s voice was lighter than he expected. “A year.”

“Crime?”

“Made a mistake in my assignment.”

Azriel cocked his head, his horns casting a strange shadow on the wall, thanks to the chandelier. “An assassin?”

“In a past life, perhaps.” The fae crossed his arms. “You?”

“Being born.”

He rolled his eyes. “Dramatic.”

“Name?”

Now, the fae narrowed his eyes, his arms slackening but not falling back to his sides. “Liulund.”

In all honesty, Azriel hadn’t expected to receive the honor of his name, though he noticed the obvious lack of his lineage. High fae had a tendency to list their given names along with who their mother was in honor of the womb who bore them. With how rare a high fae child was, they never missed an opportunity to show their gratitude to their parents and the God of the Forest, Silve.

“No need to ask who you are,” Liulund said, still eyeing him with suspicion or, perhaps, hatred. “Azriel the Crowe. Half-breed. Dhomin.”

His blood turned cold. The name he could live with. He loved his father, even if he’d been raised in hate and murder. The Crowe had done his best to give him and Madan a life. What he didn’t appreciate was the dhemon term that still managed to haunt him within the walls of the prison.

Little prince.

Before he could respond, voices spilled into the dining room, and guests made their way through. A pair of mages glanced at them before sitting at the table to talk, their wine glasses between them.

They spoke as though no one else could overhear them. It was like being a personal guard again. None of the Caersans had cared if he heard their conversations, either. None of the debutantes of the Season batted an eye when discussing whether or not they considered him handsome.

A sick, desolate part of him wished he were still in Laeton overseeing the pompous vampires’ balls. He’d rather endure night after night of watching Ariadne dance with the horrible Caersan men than spend another minute in Melia’s home. Gods, he’d even hold his tongue as she married Loren fucking Gard if it meant he could be free to see her again.

Azriel almost chuckled to himself. No. No, that was too far. He’d put a sword through that false General’s gut before he let the man anywhere near Ariadne. Gods, he should’ve done just that during the duel. It would’ve saved them both.

“Is something funny?”

Melia’s voice drifted to him before he registered her presence. He almost snarled in response but instead trained his gaze away from her and said, “Not at all, Desmo.”

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