18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

M elia Tagh's chateau in the Suin District was larger and more magnificent than Phulan's home in many ways. Three floors of wide, open rooms and sweeping balconies with airy doors and gossamer curtains. It smelled of jasmine and lemons from the garden and remained the perfect temperature no matter the time of day or night. Rich metals that shone in the firelights framed art, and almost as many people attended the evening soiree as Ariadne's own wedding.

Despite its glamor, it felt sterile and heartless as Ariadne entered beside Phulan. She dressed in the local fashion and traveled farther than the boundaries of the smaller, less populated Chax District without Kall for the first time in weeks. Neither played to her comfort level. Without Kall's looming shadow, she felt exposed.

Without her usual high-necked ball gowns, she felt positively naked.

Camilla would have loved the gown Ariadne accepted from Phulan. The Caersan woman had always toed the line of what was considered proper in Valenul's High Society and marveled at the thrill of it all. Now it was Ariadne who wore the daring clothing to keep from standing out—as though the vivid blue veins on her pale skin would not be enough amongst the sun-kissed mages.

The draping cobalt dress would have appeared as a low-backed potato sack hung from her neck if it were not for the braided silver belt around the small of her waist. It gave shape to the otherwise unruly garment that tied loosely from her neck. The front fell low, exposing the slopes of her breasts and the only scar she could not hide with the shawl draping around her shoulders and back: Keon's symbol. At her hips, the light fabric opened with slits that exposed the full length of her legs. Silver bangles decorated her wrists, and a thin chain felt odd around her ankle. Long silver earrings with obsidian angled from her lobes to match the Noct lying against her sternum. Her hair fell around her shoulders, the curls loose and a bit unruly in the arid climate.

And as she suspected, all eyes turned to her the moment they entered the chateau.

Ariadne's heart thundered. Not only was this a dangerous mission—entering the home of her enemy, surrounded by those she could not trust—but the open stares made her stomach twist. In Valenul, she could trust the gossipy wives and debutantes to turn away once they were noticed gawking. In Algorath, it seemed, there was no such shame in staring down one's opponent.

"Do not balk," Phulan murmured and stepped into the lion's den. "They can read you like a book. Don't let them."

It took all her concentration to wipe the expression from her face. Once she felt confident in having schooled her features, Ariadne followed Phulan past the first group of mages silently appraising her. She had done this many times before, particularly after the Reveal during Vertium. Getting labeled as the Golden Rose put a target on her back for judgment.

It was in the first room they entered, however, that Ariadne feared she would not make it far in her ruse. Three prisoners—two fae and a human—lined the back wall wearing nothing but a white sarong. The fae were of an olive complexion with delicately pointed ears and long raven black hair, broad chests shining as though rubbed with oil. The human beside them, tanned by the sun and just as glistening, had blond hair cropped close to his head. His hazel eyes snapped to her, took in the veins at her neck, and quickly averted his gaze.

"What are they doing here?" Ariadne whispered, noting the metal bands around the fae's throats and human's wrists that marked them as prisoners. Her blood roared in her ears. Azriel. Azriel would be here and, gods, she would ruin everything the moment she saw him.

Phulan did not seem surprised, however. "Most Desmos will have their fighters on display at these gatherings. It's not uncommon to use them to boast about their victories."

"A disgusting practice," a mage nearby added in, countless thin black braids swaying as she leaned toward them, her emerald eyes sparkling. She stuck out her ebony hand, the gold bangles about her wrist jangling. "My name is Isla. You must be visiting from Valenul."

For a long moment, Ariadne stared at the outstretched hand, her mind not catching up beyond the prospect of seeing her husband. After a subtle nudge from Phulan, however, Ariadne remembered the common Algorathian greeting. She tucked the fingers of her left hand into the grasp of the mage's right, and together, they turned their hands over twice. "I am Cressida. Phulan is my guardian."

Isla raised a brow. "Interesting that an adult vampire would need a guardian."

"A request of her late parents," Phulan explained, mimicking the greeting with Isla. "As is tradition for the Caersans."

"Ah." Isla's nod of understanding did not meet her gaze as she took in Ariadne's clothing. She returned her attention to the prisoners after a moment and said in a low voice, "The entire prison system is repulsive if you ask me."

Ariadne watched her curiously. She had been under the impression most of the mages agreed with the Pits, yet if there were some in a Desmo's circle who disavowed it, it could not be as popular as she once believed. "They are attempting to do something similar in Valenul."

Isla shook her head with a scoff. "And I'm trying to end the practice here. I pray the gods speak sense into your people before it's too late."

"You are a politician, then?" Despite meeting with several women to discuss the prospects of freeing Azriel, Ariadne still could not wrap her mind around women being treated with the same respect as the men.

"Don't look so surprised," Isla said with a laugh. "It's common around here. Vampires regressed after the curse."

Oh, that much Ariadne knew. If there had been one thing she learned from Camilla's outings with Rusans and Emillie's incessant studying, it was how poorly Caersan women were treated. Though they played the game well and made do with what they had, the men controlled everything. After their magic had been stripped away, reducing vampires back to their most primal forms in which many men were larger, stronger, and faster, they quickly dug their claws into what little power they had left. Including their dominion over others—one of the many reasons they never sought a way to break the curse.

Vampires did not have much power left after the curse. They gained incredible night vision, endurance, and strength as a whole but at a price. The amount of blood required to sate them, particularly right after their transitions, was enormous. Caersan men became dangerous and capable of killing the women through brute strength alone.

Rusan vampires, those with mixed heritage, had less standing and less power in comparison as well. Even half-mages were no better off, what with vampire blood nulling the magic—likely where Markus had gotten the idea to use it against mages—and fae rarely interacted with vampires outside of merchant business.

The rest of Myridia saw Valenul as a war-torn kingdom and stayed far away.

"Are all of the Desmo's fighters on display tonight?" Phulan asked, steering the conversation back to what they were most curious about.

The human prisoner shot them a glare from his place near the wall. He crossed his arms, muscles rippling with the movement, and sucked on his teeth.

"I have no idea," Isla admitted. "But there are quite a few."

"Is there anything to be done about their sentences?" Ariadne pried, praying for a solution to breaking Azriel free of his shackles. "Will the Mair hear any cases?"

Isla offered her a pitying look. "Until a new Mair is elected, no changes will be made. The law is set: all of their sentences are to be fulfilled or shortened by the grace of Emry—in the Pits."

"And who sentences them?"

"The Iudex." At the look of confusion on Ariadne's face, Isla added, "A jury of five elected officials who look at the evidence."

When Ariadne opened her mouth to ask another question, Phulan laid a hand on her shoulder and cut her off. "Darling Cressida is still very new to Algorathian law. Thank you for helping her understand these circumstances a little more."

Isla nodded, sensing, as Ariadne did, the end of their conversation. "Of course. Please feel free to reach out if you need more insight. I'm happy to help. I'm a Raegi in the Medie District."

With that, Isla slipped away. Ariadne watched her go, a thousand more questions swirling in her wake. Perhaps Phulan had been wise to halt the interrogation. If they were not careful, they could easily spill the truth about who she was and what her intentions were.

They moved through the rooms with nary a word to one another and even less to anyone Ariadne did not know. Phulan nodded discreetly to several mages they passed but did not make introductions. Whether she considered these people friends or merely kept them close to keep an eye on them, Ariadne had no idea. Her lone friend in this excursion did well at holding her mask in place. Not a slip in her expression or tell-tale flicker of emotion.

Yet in each room, Ariadne's heart sank. She did not want to admit to Phulan how desperately she wanted—no, needed —to see her husband alive and well. Each passing night had had her on edge, waiting for word to reach them that a dhemon had perished in the Pits.

It tormented her, the waiting. The not knowing. She hated every minute they were separated, and in the middle of Melia's party, she had nothing to keep her mind busy.

And then she saw the blue skin, the spiraling horns, and red eyes.

Her heart lurched into her throat. Phulan caught her by the wrist as she jerked forward. The mage's fingers dug into her skin and hauled her back, allowing her the time for her mind to catch up to what she saw.

It was not Azriel.

Ariadne had never seen a female dhemon before. Not up close, anyway. The woman's elegant features were sharp. Sharper, perhaps, than they were meant to be. Her gaunt cheeks and sunken eyes made it look as though her skin stretched over the bones like a starved animal. By the way her glare pierced into the mages gawking at her, Ariadne was reminded of a stray dog she had once seen in an alley in Laeton, protecting a meager scrap of food with a snarl.

"Come with me," Phulan said quietly, cutting through the fading pounding in Ariadne's ears. "You must meet the Desmo."

The dhemon's gaze snapped to her and held firm. She tilted her head, those deep ruby eyes sliding over the webbed veins before landing on the exposed brand. Her lips parted as her brows pinched together, and when she met Ariadne's stare again, she shook her head ever so slightly.

Her blood ran cold. What did that mean? The subtle motion could have so many implications, Ariadne did not even know where to begin. Perhaps the dhemon hated her for her place in the Society—an understandable, if regrettable, circumstance. Or she had teased together who Ariadne truly was in search of.

If the latter, she could very well be in grave danger. That meant the woman knew who she was, and such knowledge was not meant for everyone.

Phulan gave Ariadne another tug, and she turned to find herself face-to-face with a stunning mage rippling with power. Her curtain of brown hair draped around her devastatingly lovely face with eyes of melted silver. They shone like the moon as they studied Ariadne, sending another rush of cold through her.

"Phulan." Melia Tagh extended her hand. They exchanged a quick greeting before she turned to Ariadne. "I heard you have a new ward."

"Cressida, my Lady." Ariadne hurried into a curtsy, praying her Caersan manners, matched with her lack of coordination, were enough to keep the mage from distrusting their presence. "I am honored to be here."

"So polite." Melia looked her over with a discerning eye. "What brings you into my friend's care?"

Ariadne glanced at Phulan. The term friend was, at best, loosely used. She let her face fall, the pain she still felt from watching Azriel dragged away in chains bleeding through. "My village was raided and…"

Melia's moonlight eyes slid to the brand on full display. Her face softened, something Ariadne had not expected. "Dhemons?"

"I barely escaped."

Gods, how true those words were. She felt no remorse for twisting her own past in her favor. If these mages were as skilled at sensing her thoughts as she believed them to be, she could not risk straying too far from the truth.

"Her parents were good friends of mine," Phulan said and scooped up Ariadne's arm to give her hand a protective pat. "They requested I look after her in their Will."

Then Melia's gaze darkened again. "You've always been close to those in Keonis."

Ariadne's stomach knotted, uncertain what to say next.

Luckily, Phulan relieved her of the burden. "You well know I haven't visited there in decades. Too many enemies surround the Eastern Passage."

Whatever Melia sensed in Phulan's words seemed to assuage her. For now. She gave her a brisk nod. "Too true. Now…" She turned her attention back to Ariadne. "How are you enjoying Algorath?"

Twisting her fingers along the hem of her thin cobalt skirt, Ariadne offered her a half-smile. "It is beautiful. I only wish I were here under different circumstances."

"Of course." Melia beckoned her to follow as she moved toward the open doors leading onto a balcony. "It's why I didn't send an invitation the moment I heard Phulan had a Caersan visitor. Perhaps I was still too eager?"

Ariadne followed, clutching Phulan's arm as though it were her last tether to the world. "I am most grateful to have such friends open their homes to me in my time of need."

"Algorath is certainly the place to be in such times," Phulan agreed, giving her a reassuring squeeze. "The magic in the air is healing."

As though on command, cool air swept across the balcony as the sun set, turning the Noct's chill nearly frigid. A variety of comfortable couches and tables and chairs were arranged along the outside of the chateau. Most were arranged in formations for small groups of people to sit and chat idly, which some did. Others were in pairs or alone. None sat at the edge overlooking the rest of the grounds.

Clutching her shawl closer, Ariadne moved to look beyond the balcony's rail. Phulan held firm at first, her amethyst eyes shooting her a warning, but she gave in after an insistent tug. Even Melia noted her silent inquiry and leaned a hip on the rail as though begging for more questions from the curious vampire.

What she found below, however, only swallowed her whole. Beyond an array of desert plants beautifully curated and arranged in an inaccessible garden lay a huge expanse of sand surrounded by high jasper walls. At the tops stood guards with scimitars at their hips and their faces shrouded by shemaghs. A small overhang provided hardly any coverage from the sun at its daily peak, with a box of wooden weapons stored below.

Training grounds.

Ariadne was not unfamiliar with what to expect in such facilities. After all, her father had been Valenul's General for many years prior to him becoming the Princeps. She had accompanied him to the Hub as a young child and seen much of the same equipment.

Including the single-story barracks on the far side of the grounds, which had no windows for the prisoners kept inside. Prisoners such as her husband, and by his absence in the chateau, she could only assume that was where he remained.

And he would have no idea she was there, looking out at him so close…and yet leagues away.

"Is it difficult," Ariadne said without taking her eyes off the lone barracks door, "to do what you do, Desmo?"

Melia gave her a pitying smile. "Call me Melia. My title is reserved for those I do not consider friends."

Ariadne looked at her then and smiled back. What would Melia have been like had she not been betrayed? Perhaps, given vastly different circumstances, they could have been friends. As it were, she recalled Phulan's cautionary words to steel herself against the Desmo. Melia had no friends. Only allies.

"But to answer your question," Melia continues, "it is quite complicated. Those housed and trained in those walls are criminals. Murderers, rapists, and thieves. Most who choose to attempt to shorten their sentences by competing in the Pits do not live long. Those who survive are, perhaps, the ones who should not be allowed back into polite society."

To her dismay, Ariadne had to agree. Only those cunning and skilled enough to live long in the Pits would make it out alive, and they were perhaps the most dangerous of them all. That, however, included Azriel, and he did not deserve to die merely for existing.

"How can you be certain they are guilty?" Ariadne hoped she kept the question light and curious rather than damning.

At first, Melia did not respond. She turned to lean her arms on the rails and stare at the desert foliage. "The Iudex look at the evidence, then present their findings to their District's Raegi. They make a decision, the Mair signs off on the length of their sentence, and then, provided with the appropriate evidence, they're given the option: prison or Pits. From there, Emry decides."

Bit by bit, Algorath's judicial system fell into place for Ariadne, and bit by bit, she fell into despair. There truly would be no pulling Azriel from Melia's clutches without force, for she had no evidence to prove his innocence. This woman, who spoke so freely and with so much confidence, was her enemy and could never be seen as anything but.

"To say this position is easy," Melia continued with a small smile that did not reach her eyes, "would be a lie. When I first began, I told myself I would be different. I would treat these prisoners as people."

"What changed?" Ariadne asked when she paused, suddenly quite curious as to how someone who had once been an advocate for life now dealt in death. From what she gathered from Madan's tale back in Monsumbra, Melia hated Azriel for unwittingly sending mages to their death. Now she did it with full knowledge.

"I befriended many who passed through that training yard." Her silver eyes flickered to the wide expanse of sand. "I thought I could help by giving them hope of freedom and instruction. But one by one, they died."

"All of them?"

Melia nodded. "I have yet to have a prisoner pass through here and live to see the end of their sentence. Too often, those who would do best in the Pits had the longest sentences and more opportunities to die. Those with shorter terms who choose the Pits rarely last a single match."

To Ariadne's horror, Phulan appeared unphased. This was not news to her. They needed to act. Fast. Or Melia would likely see to the end of the one man she hated more than any other.

"Has anyone ever made it out of the Pits?" Even as she asked, Ariadne did not want to know the answer.

Melia leveled her moonlit gaze at her. "No."

The gaps in Azriel's memory grew more and more frustrating with each passing day. He seemed to wake midway through trainings with bruised knuckles and angry sparring partners. The fae, who seemed to understand his lapses the best, still glared while sporting new injuries caused by him. Guilt leeched into his everyday life, shadowed only by the pit of magma-hot rage he couldn't seem to temper no matter how hard he tried.

As he prepared for his second match in the Pits that night, he listened to Raoul recount the details about Melia's latest party, which he had missed. Yet as the human spoke, describing the different events for the evening, Azriel couldn't focus on the details as he scrambled to remember how he'd forgotten about it entirely.

Until Raoul said, "A Caersan woman attended this time."

Azriel's world spun as those six words slammed around his brain again and again. His friend continued on, rambling about the oddness of such a guest amongst mages, until Azriel asked, "What'd you just say?"

"It was the first time I heard a mage talk about how much she hates the Pits?"

"No." Azriel couldn't breathe, couldn't think clearly. "The Caersan woman. What'd she look like?"

Raoul stared at him over the water ladle in his hand. Another prisoner cursed the time he waited for the water behind him, and the human abandoned the ladle to avoid a confrontation before stepping around to Azriel. "Dark hair—almost black. Light eyes, but I didn't see what color. Definitely Caersan with those veins."

The human shuddered, his revulsion over vampires as evident as ever. Azriel didn't care. He'd force this man to relive those memories again and again if it meant hearing what he was so desperate to. If it had been Ariadne…

Fuck . If it was Ariadne, she was in danger. She was walking right into a trap. What that trap could possibly be, Azriel had no idea. He only knew that Melia would somehow, someway, figure out who she was, even if she lied.

"Anything else?" Azriel pressed, swallowing down his heart pounding in his throat. He winced. "Any scars?"

Raoul raised a brow, but Azriel could see the human clawing for the correct answer in his mind. "She wore a…rather revealing dress, definitely not one from Valenul, and I saw none."

It was like the air had been punched from Azriel's lungs. The woman, whoever she was, couldn't have been Ariadne. By the way his mind scrambled to accept the information, his bond roaring with pain, he couldn't tell whether or not he was grateful for that.

On one hand, he hoped Ariadne would be wise enough to stay far, far away from Melia Tagh. That Madan had given her enough of his history to make her understand the dangers of it. He'd find his own way out of this mess. On the other, however, the mere mention that maybe— maybe —she was close by had soothed that rabid part of him. It lifted the cloud of forgetful rage and agony just enough to see clearly.

But with those few words, the fog returned, and it weighed heavier than ever.

"Who were you hoping for?" Raoul asked, the words cutting through the dense murk of his mind.

Azriel clung to the image of her in his head. The only clear memories his bond allowed him to keep. He swallowed hard as a wash of emotions threatened to drown him again. "No one."

To his credit, Raoul didn't push. Instead, those hazel eyes swept over him, disbelieving his words before giving a stiff nod.

It wasn't often that Azriel was thankful for the appearance of Paerish, their commanding voice echoing across the training yard to get the prisoners into order. It never even occurred to him to be thankful to be summoned to the Pits. It certainly had never before been a possibility to be thankful for the chance to rid himself of his all-consuming wrath.

As the sun made its way toward the western horizon, however, he found himself thankful for each of those things. He fell into line with the others, allowing the chain that kept them together to be magicked onto his collar without reproach and focused on how he could use the burning pain to push him through his next match.

The walk across Algorath didn't take long. It never did. Not when Azriel's mind wandered and lost track of everything around him. By the time they were lined up along the wall again, deafened by the din of the crowds gathered around each hole in the ground, he'd walked himself through each stage of grief for what felt like the thousandth time since the moment Loren's blade had cut his arm. Though his heart broke again and again, he dared not shed a tear. No one could see his weaknesses. Not here.

He kept his gaze straight ahead as one prisoner after another was called forward to their fight. Of the four ahead of him, only two returned to the line sporting injuries. He didn't take note of who'd died. It was precisely why he didn't try to learn their names. Even befriending Raoul had been dangerous.

Losing more people he cared for wouldn't help his slipping sanity.

"The Crowe!" Paerish's voice carried down the line of prisoners, and he stepped forward. "Sasja!"

The dhemon woman slid into position beside him without so much as a glance. Whether they were to be pitted against one another, Azriel had no idea. Nonetheless, he stared at her, face neutral, to study her thin figure. He'd lost weight as well during his time under Melia's care , though nothing in comparison to Sasja. Her frame seemed even more frail as time passed.

Yet when they made their way to the pit assigned to them, five high fae leapt down on the far side. He and Sasja were to work together, then. A display of dhemon strength against high fae cunning.

As if either of them were in fighting shape with such poor diets.

Nonetheless, he glanced at his partner. This had to be some sort of sick joke of Melia's. After their fight in the training yard, she wanted to see them both suffer. Not by one another's hand but by refusing to help.

As satisfying as it would be to see Sasja have her ass handed to her after all of her plucky comments, letting her die in the Pits would only make his life more difficult. Therefore, as he crouched at the edge of the carved-out rock, he made the silent decision to ensure her safety. She might hate him even more for it, but he'd never live with himself if she died as his partner.

Leaping into the hole on his own accord was far less demoralizing than being shoved. He landed, knees bending to absorb the impact, and surveyed the fae across the way as Sasja joined him, nearly buckling as she hit the stone. The five opponents spoke in low whispers, barely audible even with his half-vampire hearing, to create their plan.

Like Sasja, their eyes remained glued on the weapons strewn halfway across the pit. A pair of short swords, several long knives, one whip, a few throwing daggers, and a bow and quiver of arrows. No defensive equipment. Not enough long-range choices to give to his companion.

"Weapon of choice?" Azriel asked Sasja in their language. No need to keep his voice down—not when most couldn't understand them. Few high fae cared to learn it.

Sasja glared at him. "I can take care of myself."

He returned the glare. "Let me help."

"No." She shifted forward at the same time two of the high fae on the far side moved. They froze, as she did, and surveyed her.

Then, all three darted forward at once. The two high fae, a man and a woman, made for the short swords. Sasja dove to wrestle one away from the woman. With a sharp jab to the face, she won the weapon and scrambled back, the blade swinging in her hand.

But the fae man advanced on her, a snarl pulling at his lips. The woman behind him clutched her nose, blood pouring into the sand at her feet. Above them, the crowd cheered as those waging money on first blood won or lost their bets.

Behind the pair, the rest of the fae—all men—moved forward. They charged for the weapons, and the sudden shift drove Azriel into action. He rushed toward the pile and snatched up the nearest item, a single long knife, before dodging back to avoid a redheaded fae's wicked slice through the air.

The first arrow pierced Azriel's calf before he could register what happened. He snarled as the pain jolted up his leg, and he stumbled back to take in who had shot him. A silver-haired fae slunk to the rear of his company, loading another arrow as the rest gathered up the supplies at the center.

Sasja was on her feet again, facing off against the man who'd advanced on her, holding her own with the short swords. For now. He'd keep an eye on the pair, but for the moment, he needed to focus on the others and keep them as far from his partner as he could manage.

After breaking off the fletched end of the arrow, Azriel yanked the shaft from his leg. Adrenaline pumping and heart hammering, he stalked forward again. If he could walk away from a handful of dhemons, he could take on the high fae before him now. He had no choice, just like they had no choice. In the Pits, it was kill or be killed, and gods…he'd burn the entire city to the ground before he let someone keep him from Ariadne much longer.

The thought frightened him, stilling the blade in his hand as he adjusted his grip on the handle. Even in his own head, he sounded like Ehrun.

He shoved the comparison away. No. He wasn't like Ehrun. He'd never do what that dhemon had done.

A blade flew at his face, tip over handle, from the redhead. He turned his head fast, and he shuddered as his horn deflected the projectile. The small dagger skittered across the rocky ground, away from the fray.

He didn't have time to consider going after it before another arrow whizzed past him, aimed at Sasja. Azriel cursed and lunged to help her but was met by the fae woman, her long black hair swinging in a braid. Ignoring how much it looked like Ariadne's, he danced back as she slashed at his stomach with one of the knives she held in her hands.

She advanced, and a familiar, searing hot pain lanced across Azriel's back. He snarled over his shoulder at a brunette reeling back the whip for a second strike. Memories threatened to crash through the bond's haze, and he pushed them back down as the next lash hit its mark.

Azriel grit his teeth, making a mental tally of where each fae was and the level of danger they posed. The woman was right before him with a knife. A man behind him with the whip. Another with a bow and arrows. A third with the throwing knives. And the last was fighting with Sasja.

The crowd roared overhead, and Azriel's heart dropped into his stomach. If she was dead—

No. The fae man rolled limp into the sand as Sasja unlocked her legs from around his body and scooped up his short sword. She wiped blood from her mouth as she advanced on her next prey.

A third strike with the whip brought Azriel's attention back to his own fight. He needed to focus. He'd thought having a partner would make his job easier in the Pits, just as it had when he'd fought alongside Madan, Whelan, and Kall. Unfortunately, having Sasja only worried him. And why he worried for someone who clearly hated him as much as she did, he had no idea.

When the fae woman lunged, Azriel dodged to the side and caught her forward momentum with his arm. Sticking out his uninjured leg behind her, he shoved her backward. She pinwheeled her arms before slamming into the ground, and he stabbed with his knife.

The woman rolled to the side, avoiding the attack, and shifted to her knees. Azriel hurried forward to catch her before she could stand and was met with a face full of sand.

Roaring, he reeled back, blinded by the sand in his eyes.

CRACK .

The whip seared his back a fourth time.

He scrubbed at his face, unable to catch his breath as the fifth strike landed along his spine. Hot tears rolled down his cheeks from burning eyes, his body desperately trying to rid itself of the minuscule grains.

And then the woman's blade slipped across the back of his knee, severing the tendons holding him up before sinking into his side. Vision still impaired, he lurched away, the air punched from his lungs at the sudden burst of agony. The blade twisted, still held by the woman, only making matters worse.

Azriel swung his elbow blindly, his balance compromised, and connected with the woman's face. Her grip on the knife eased, and he pried her fingers from the handle to yank the blade free. Two knives for him. None for her.

Hot liquid poured down his side, making his head spin from the sudden loss. As though he needed more problems.

Another man's scream from across the pit told him someone else had fallen to Sasja's blades. Good. At least one of them was succeeding.

As another lash broke across his back, Azriel's vision swam back into view bit by bit. The lights burned as much as the sand, and the cheers were deafening.

Through the bleary haze, he watched as the woman scrambled to her feet. Before she could get herself upright, he balanced himself on his good leg and threw the knife in his hand. Though he'd aimed for her chest, it missed the mark and stuck into her shoulder instead. A hit was a hit, and it stunned her enough to give him time to unsteadily close the distance between them.

Another crack of the whip, followed by no additional pain, told Azriel that either the fae man behind him missed…or he'd gone after Sasja.

Azriel ignored the desire to check to see if she was okay and focused instead on his own target. Fear widened the woman's eyes, but he didn't hesitate. He couldn't. Not in the Pits.

He dug the second knife into her throat and pivoted on his uninjured leg to search for Sasja before the fae even hit the ground.

More deafening screams above him. Azriel rubbed his still-burning eyes again and found the two fae males facing off with his partner.

Blood drenched Sasja's side, much like his own, but she still gripped the two short swords as she stared down the men before her. While he'd only killed the one opponent, she'd barreled her way through two. She truly didn't need him as much as he'd thought.

Then an arrow lodged into her shoulder on the same side as whatever gut wound she already sported. Her grip loosened on the sword in that hand, and she bared her pointed teeth at the silver-haired archer.

Azriel stumbled forward, scooping up a discarded throwing dagger as he did so. The one with the whip pulled back his weapon, ready to strike, as he shifted the dagger's tip between his fingers and let it fly the distance between them. It dug into the whip-wielder's arm, drawing his attention back to Azriel.

Several things happened at once, then, which Azriel hadn't been ready for. Sasja's grip gave out on one of her swords, and the blade fell to the ground at the same moment an arrow buried into Azriel's gut. The whip cracked across his chest a beat later, snapping the end of the arrow and driving it deeper into him.

The world spun around him, and he watched almost in slow motion as Sasja swung at the archer with her remaining blade while the whip-wielder dropped his weapon in favor of the second sword.

Azriel couldn't keep up. He'd walked into the Pits without the proper nourishment as a dhemon and vampire, and the loss of blood only made matters worse. As he took a shaking step forward, his injured leg finally gave out and slammed into the rocky ground.

Ridiculous. This was ridiculous. He'd barely been injured, and yet he couldn't even keep himself upright. How was Sasja still moving?

But she wasn't. Not really. As the fae now holding the sword advanced on him, Sasja swayed. Azriel's vision blurred again. The fae before him swung down at Azriel. Swung right at his neck.

And he couldn't make himself move.

Ariadne's scream drowned in the din of the crowd as the brunette high fae's sword swung at Azriel. Pure terror flooded her veins, and if it were not for Phulan's hold on her arm, she would have thrown herself into the pit before her to make it stop. He was going to die right there in front of her—right when she had finally found him.

And, gods, how she had wanted to cry the moment she saw her husband. When last she had seen Azriel in the foyer of the Harlow Estate, he had been strong. So strong, he had nearly torn through a dozen Caersan soldiers.

Now, she could see his sunken cheeks even from afar. His arms were too thin and his legs too weak. The dhemon who had fought Ehrun on the highway—who had defended her from those who wished to steal her away and who cut through the vampires at the Gard's manor—was not who entered the pit that night. Her husband, who had seen to her protection so many times, would not have faltered against a handful of high fae.

But the dhemon she watched in the Pits was not the same man. It couldn't be. Not when he was so weak and disoriented that he just watched as his death swung at him from above.

Then the female dhemon was there, blocking the blade with her own. In her wake, the archer died in the sands from a wicked gash running the width of his gut. She forced the fae back a few steps, her own emaciated form quaking from the effort, and before her opponent could collect himself, she drove the sword through his middle.

It was over.

Ariadne could not breathe. As the betters around her roared their approval, and people moved to and from the railing, none of it registered. She only saw him .

Azriel swayed in the sands below, his eyes unfocused. Blood—too much blood—pooled around him. The dhemon woman crouched before him and gripped one of his horns, giving his head a shake, but when he looked up at her, it was as though he could not see what was right in front of him.

Ariadne needed to get to him, or he would die.

"Don't move," Phulan hissed in her ear. "Not yet."

But Ariadne could not listen. Not with Azriel so close . "He needs me, he needs blood, he—"

"If he sees you, we're done." Phulan kept her voice low and even, as though speaking to a cornered animal. Maybe she was. "Because if Melia sees you with him…she'll know the truth. She'll kill you both."

"If I do not go to him," Ariadne breathed, "he will die."

Still, Phulan did not let go. Her fingers dug in hard on Ariadne's arm. "His Desmo won't let him. I swear it."

Peeling her eyes from the place Azriel still knelt in his pool of blood, she scanned the mage with wide eyes. "She hates him."

"And she wants him to suffer."

That did not make her feel any better. She would kill Melia for doing this to him. For starving him and the dhemon woman who looked even more frail than he did. Of all her prisoners, the two of them were in their weakest states. How could Melia let this happen?

"And because she wants him to suffer," Phulan continued, drawing her gaze back from where the dhemon woman tried to help Azriel to his feet, "she will ensure he lives for a good long while. Until she's satisfied with his pain."

The dhemon sagged under Azriel's weight as he clambered to his feet and immediately fell again. He could not put weight on his injured knee, and more blood gushed from his wound with every movement. Even from her vantage point so far away, Ariadne could see how close to unconsciousness he teetered.

"We know he's alive," Phulan hissed and tugged at her arm. "Now we must go."

So, wiping away her tears, Ariadne turned and walked away.