13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

E millie remained close to Alek any time they were in public together. His claim to her had to be known, no matter how much that particular thought made her skin crawl. Though Alek had been nothing but cordial and even an entertaining companion, she could not shake off the feeling of ownership. While Ariadne had sought to be claimed early on in her first Season—and again the second year she debuted when she first pined after Loren Gard—Emillie had avoided the spotlight.

When her sister became the Golden Rose of Valenul, it had doomed Emillie. Not that Ariadne had had any choice in the matter. The High Priestess made her decision based on what Keon whispered to her on Vertium. No, she had been doomed because that meant that every suitor who knew they had no chance with Ariadne—for who could compete with the General?—turned to her.

Every frail attempt to escape the outer rays of her sister's golden glow had been futile. Her father would have never allowed her to remain on the outskirts for long anyway. With both daughters out in Society, he had to make an impression.

Whether that impression was upon them or the other Caersans, Emillie still did not quite know. All she knew now was that she was, indeed, taken, and she did not care for the way others looked upon her: as the future possession of Lord Governor Alek Nightingale.

None of this changed even as they stood outside around an empty funeral pyre. The stacked wood, not yet lit, looked strange with no corpse. Only a length of gauzy white fabric spread across it layered with a bed of flowers.

The High Priestess of Keon stepped forward, her gray robes practically swirling around her legs. Like every time Emillie saw her, she was taken aback by the elderly Caersan's strong voice and even stronger presence amongst the rest of the vampires.

"Tonight we mourn for one we have lost," she said with such conviction, Emillie almost believed her.

Around her, no one mourned. Everyone wore black—the traditional mourning color—and stood in silence, but that meant nothing in the Society. They gathered as witnesses and nothing more.

"Lord Governor Azriel Caldwell, taken from us far too soon," the High Priestess continued, "to rest amongst our ancestors in Empyrean."

Emillie almost choked from holding back her laughter. If Azriel had heard those words, she was certain he would have corrected her. Being a half-dhemon, her brother-in-law would find his final resting place amongst his people's ancestral home: the Underworld. Not with the tortured souls of the damned but the community from whence they were born.

Beside Emillie, her father stiffened as she cleared her throat. He glanced down at her, no doubt thinking something along the same lines as she. Perhaps he thought himself better than Azriel for looking forward to an afterlife in the heavens.

If, of course, he made it there.

Alek, however, leaned into her and whispered, "Is everything alright, dearest ?"

Gods, she would break before the end of this nonsense. She struggled to keep the smirk from her face as she said, "I am merely distraught by our loss, darling ."

The Lord Governor raised his brows, his mouth twitching, then offered her his arm. She took it, and he covered her hand with his in a would-be comforting motion for anyone scrutinizing them.

The High Priestess plowed forward, oblivious to their jest. "We have gathered to honor the Lord Governor. Though his body has already found its final resting place, it is important we guide his soul to Empyrean through the traditional fires."

To her utter disgust, it was Loren Gard who stepped forward, torch in hand, to light the kindling. The General set the flames to the wood, and within moments, it crept through the pyre. His crimson uniform almost glowed in the vivid light cast by the growing flames, painting him as blood-soaked and victorious.

That was the moment Emillie stopped listening to the old crone at the head of the pyre. Not only did she sound foolish with all of her pretty words, but she had played right into the lies told to her by her father and the man who sought to kill Azriel himself. She did not deserve the title she held nor the power that came with it.

Their traditions called for a simple procedure in the wake of a vampire's death: shroud the body and burn it. In the most ancient of texts, dating back to their days as mages, it was claimed that the smoke of the fire would create a path for the souls of the dead to follow. As it rose, so did the soul—all the way to Empyrean, where it would rest until Sora deemed it ready to return to the physical realm.

But they had no body to burn. No true death to mourn. No need for a funeral. The entire charade was created to keep up a fa?ade her father had created: that Azriel had died on the highway at the hands of dhemons, saving Ariadne from certain death.

No one thought to question why there was no body.

They did, however, question her sister's absence at the conclusion of the High Priestess's words when everyone milled about. Even Ladies Belina Fletcher and Dierdre Kolson approached Emillie to give their condolences.

"Wherever is your sister?" Dierdre asked, batting her pretty eyes up at Alek as though she were not, in fact, married.

Emillie did not feign a smile. This was her one chance to not have to pretend to be kind or happy. "She is in Eastwood, mourning."

Belina pouted. "Should she not have been the one to light the pyre? By the gods, why did General Gard do it?"

Why, indeed? It was a question Emillie had for her father. Should he not have been the one to light the pyre in Ariadne's absence? After all, this was his ruse. Though she now knew he had a tendency to strike entire families from the history books—her familial connection to Madan proved that well enough—he would not have been able to do so this time around even if it had been his original plan. Too many members of the Society had turned up to their wedding. Too many had attended the engagement celebration gone rogue.

"My sister is unwell from the experience," Emillie said, shifting closer to Alek as though his presence would make the Caersans leave her alone. It only seemed to intrigue them both more.

"And what of his cousin?" Dierdre added, searching the crowd for Madan as though she had not taken note of his absence already. "Is he in attendance?"

Emillie sighed and shook her head. "He is in Monsumbra, I am afraid."

"Why would he miss this?" Dierdre snapped open a black fan and began waving it in her face as though to fight off the night's chill by batting it away.

"It is my understanding," Alek cut in, his smooth deep voice dragging both Caersan women's eyes to him, "he has become the new Lord Governor Caldwell in the wake of this tragedy."

Belina's eyes flared at this new kernel of gossip. "Is that so?"

The Lord Governor nodded sagely. "He has much to do in Eastwood but should be returning shortly to meet with the Council."

"I wonder," Belina mused, "if he plans to ask for your sister's hand now that his cousin has passed. It would only be proper."

Emillie's stomach turned. Not only were their inquiries and wonderings inappropriate for such an event, but the prospect of Ariadne being expected to marry Madan…disgusting. She would expose Madan before she allowed her father to force such a union, for she would not put it past him to press the matter. The only way he would turn down tradition would be in favor of something better.

And then she understood. Loren Gard was an absolute snake . He had offered to light the pyre, guiding Azriel's soul home, as a gesture of good faith. As a way to demonstrate before all of the Society that he held no ill will against the dead Lord Governor. He'd then seal his proclamation by marrying Ariadne. As though he were doing her a favor.

She could puke at the very notion.

"Ariadne is in mourning," Emillie repeated with a pointed look at the pyre, still burning bright. "I do not believe she will be entertaining suitors of any sort for quite some time."

Dierdre sniffed. "She cannot be running about as a widow with nothing to her name like some tramp."

That was the moment Alek appeared to have had enough. Emillie ruffled at the insult and moved a step closer to Lady Kolson, but he held tight to her arm. "Enough. You both have crossed a line. Allow the Harlows and Caldwells to mourn in peace. Good evening."

He did not move. Instead, he glared until the Caersan women finally turned and walked away, whispering to one another. Their absence left them standing in silence as her father made his way through the gathered throng to answer others' inquiries about Ariadne's absence.

Emillie stared into the flames of the pyre as she lowered her voice to ask, "What became of the soldiers who know the truth?"

Beside her, Alek nodded to a passing lord before matching her tone to answer. "They made up the escort to Algorath with strict instructions to keep their lips shut. Since their return, I heard they have been sequestered at the Hub."

"Including Captain Jensen?"

A single nod. "The Captain is in charge of ensuring their discretion."

"And if they tell others?"

Alek turned his coal-black eyes on her, no humor glinting in them and no twitch of his lips to demonstrate his amusement. "They and their confidants are to be put to death."

Her blood ran cold, and she whipped her attention to her father, not far from them now. She was certain it was he who gave the order. He would not stand by and watch as his elder daughter's reputation was tainted. Not before he could secure her another husband—one of his choosing, and likely Loren.

What, then, would he do if she were to speak of it?

"What do you mean the Desmo had a party?" Azriel stared at Raoul, scrambling to keep up with what his friend—what a terrible word for a place like this where none of them were likely to survive—told him. None of it added up.

Raoul ran his hand over his short blond hair in agitation, his hazel eyes squinting as though attempting to see if Azriel had been injured. Or perhaps determining whether or not he'd mistook Azriel for someone not prone to memory lapses. Though, in his defense, he hadn't had any issues with recalling anything when he'd been with Ariadne.

That damned bond would end up getting him killed in the Pits. The last thing he needed was to forget what he was doing one step into another. Gods, how had Ehrun kept his mind from fraying at the edges and unraveling into nothingness? At the rate Azriel declined, he feared he'd be naught but a puddle by the end of all of this.

"She won the night of the Pits," Raoul explained for what seemed to be the third or even fourth time based on his level of exasperation. "The Desmos always throw a party to mock the others. We were all brought up to the house. Do you not remember?"

Azriel frowned at him and sorted through his mismatched memories. "I remember getting a drink of water when Paerish came down." He shrugged. "I thought we'd all been sent to bed early for our injuries."

The human gawked at him as though he'd grown a second head. "Ani died in the sitting room where she had him face off against one of her friends."

Ani, one of the three fae, had been a young, quiet lad. He'd never spoken to Azriel, though his absence was obvious amongst those who remained. His death would've certainly been noted.

"I swear to you," Azriel said, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

A shadow fell over them, and they both looked up at the wall they leaned against. The silhouette of a guard bent over the edge, their face obscured by shadow. "Get back to training."

Azriel bared his sharp teeth but pushed off the wall nonetheless. He needed to distance himself from the conversation and whatever was causing him to forget things far more rapidly and frequently than the last time he'd been separated from Ariadne. Perhaps Madan's presence, with his Harlow blood, kept the bond from shredding his mind more than he realized.

Or, perhaps, he just couldn't remember how bad it'd been the first time around.

He stalked to where rattan swords leaned against the wall and scooped up two. For a human or mage, they would have been a decent size and weight. For him and even the remaining two fae, however, they appeared comically small. What a dhemon considered a short sword was merely a human's standard size.

When he turned around, he found Sasja across the training yard, sizing him up. She held two of her own rattans and shifted her weight from foot to foot before stepping forward and gesturing for him to join her.

Fantastic. He'd been hoping for a moment to train with her. Finally, he wouldn't need to worry about crushing his training partner. While Raoul was eager to learn to grapple, Azriel couldn't quite help what happened once they started moving. At least when he rolled with Madan, he knew any broken bones would heal quickly and without assistance.

Against Sasja, however, he trusted her sturdy dhemon skeleton to keep her from balking at his size. By the glint in her deep red eyes, she trusted them as well.

"You're forgetting," Sasja said in the dhemon language and held out the rattan in her dominant hand. "You've bonded."

Azriel didn't like that she'd overheard them. He glowered at her and tapped his training sword against hers. At the clack of the wood, the round began.

And Sasja didn't hesitate.

As he'd previously thought, she moved fast. Faster than any dhemon he'd ever seen—aside from himself, though he didn't count, what with his vampire blood giving him that leg up. She darted to the side and swung in. When he blocked, her other sword came down from above.

Side-stepping the second blow, he let her weight shift forward with the momentum before lunging in on her exposed side. Sasja twisted out of the way, the rattan missing her by a hair's breadth. Then Azriel followed through with the other sword, swiping up.

The loud crack of their swords connecting echoed off the stone walls. Its impact reverberated up his arm, and by the way Sasja clenched her jaw, she felt the same shockwave.

Around them, the other prisoners slowed their movements to watch. Even the guards turned their attention their way.

"Let me guess…a vampire?" Sasja hissed before ducking his swing and slamming her horns into his gut. "Fang fucker."

Air rushed from Azriel's lungs, but his blood burned at the jab. He took a steadying step back and heaved in a shallow breath. She was strong. Stronger than he'd given her credit for.

Sasja stepped closer, and Azriel backed up. Distance was any fighter's best defense. If he controlled the distance, he had the ability to decide what happened when they first connected. But retreating too much put the opponent in control—something he didn't want Sasja to have. Though they were training, he didn't trust she wouldn't try to kill him given the chance.

So he closed the distance in one long step and swung hard. She parried, forcing him back again—but she hadn't been expecting the second rattan.

The wood struck her side, and she sucked in a sharp breath, reeling away and baring her sharp teeth. "Bastard."

"You're not wrong." He stepped forward again, still heated from her words. Though the slur had been directed at him, he knew she wouldn't hesitate to say something similar to Ariadne. He'd been lashed for defending her from lesser comments.

He struck again. She pushed his sword aside and twisted, forcing his grip to loosen enough for her to knock it from his hand. He cursed and blocked the second attack with his remaining rattan.

"Tell me," he said and twisted away from her jab, "what did Ehrun promise you for joining him?"

Sasja's face scrunched into a snarl. "Revenge."

Azriel couldn't help but laugh. They exchanged a few more blows, her sword smacking his thigh with enough force that he knew a bruise would form by nightfall. "And how is that working out for you?"

He'd struck a nerve. She doubled down on her flurries, and before long, she'd gotten so close he could grab one wrist. Then, after dropping his sword, the other. He kicked her legs out from behind her and forced both of her own training weapons from her grip. With her back in the sand, he pressed a knee into her stomach, balancing just enough weight on her to keep her in place.

"Why'd he send you to Algorath?" Azriel tilted his head at her, studying her reaction.

Sasja smirked. "Liquid sunshine."

His blood ran cold. He grit his teeth and lifted his lip in a sneer. "Such tactics are beneath him. He'd rather soak the soil with blood than watch them rot away."

"You're scared."

"You're a liar."

Before he could react, she pressed her hands against his knee and turned to her side, pushing out from under him. He followed, bringing his body down on top of hers to hold her steady—their fight wasn't over. But with one arm pinned tight against the far side of his body and the other by his neck, she swung her legs like a pendulum and twisted out onto her knees, where she threw her weight over his back.

Azriel growled. Though he'd always enjoyed grappling, his reactions were always a second too slow when rolling with a smaller opponent. And being a second behind was the difference between life and death.

So before Sasja could wrap her arm around his neck in a guillotine, he swung his feet forward. Hooking one foot under her leg on the same side, he yanked her arm toward him and lifted with his foot. Without her hand to prevent herself from falling, her back slammed into the sand.

That didn't stop her from lurching up and cracking her fist to the bottom of his jaw. His head jerked back, teeth clacking together, and she took the opportunity to tackle him backward.

He landed on his back, and she sat on his chest, gripping one of his horns. "You're weak ."

Azriel glared at her. "Perhaps. But I'm not waiting around for someone who abandoned me."

Sasja's blue face paled a shade. Her fist, smaller than his but not unlike that of a human man, crashed into his face again and again. She gripped both horns and slammed his head back into the sand, screaming her rage.

And Azriel didn't fight back. He let her hit him until she finally wrapped her fingers around his neck, and someone was forced to haul her off him. Blood leaked into his vision from a split brow, and that familiar metallic taste filled his mouth.

"To their cells," Paerish said as Raoul hauled Azriel to his feet. "No meals."

Two guards pulled him away from his friend and pushed him toward the barracks. Sasja stumbled along beside him without so much as a glance.

Good.

He'd gotten under her skin. Now he just needed to push a little harder, and before long, he'd have another ally.