19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

E verything was perfect. Almost. Loren had never felt such achievement in his career until the moment he read the latest updates from the provinces. The troop movement did precisely as it was meant to: create more stability in regions requiring a heavy hand. Crime rates fell, and raids lessened.

The only thing missing was the satisfaction of an execution.

He looked forward to the update from Nikolai on what was happening in Algorath. Though he would prefer to oversee Tenebra's final moments himself, learning of the half-breed bastard's demise would have to be enough. Once his Desmo finished playing with him, of course. The mage wardens were known for their ruthless ability to drag out a prisoner's life far longer than necessary to keep up the entertainment in the Pits.

Since sending the ex-Lord Governor to the desert, Loren's views on the Pits had changed quite drastically. Perhaps Alek Nightingale had been onto something. For decades, he had asked the Council to put in a fighting arena, but altering the prison and judicial system after millennia of stagnation was like trying to dredge up water during a drought. No one listened.

There were merits to the mages' trial by combat, however. Not only did it bring in revenue, it kept crime low with less pressure from their city sentinels. It would also be an interesting way to dispose of unwanted filth like half-dhemon abominations.

The more Loren dwelled on it, the more he felt inclined to push for its approval. The construction of the building was already underway, after all. If his soldiers could focus less on petty city crime, they could return to their main purpose: war. They could even make offensive moves against the dhemons again after several centuries of being forced into a defensive position.

He settled into his office chair at the Hub and set aside the documents detailing the movements he had ordered and their outcomes. None required a response. The updates were mandatory, and so long as no immediate decision needed to be made on his part, all would be well.

But Loren did not get the chance to sit back and revel in his own genius. A knock announced an arrival just before the door swung open as though the visitor beyond owned the room in which he sat. He was halfway to his feet, prepared to tell off whichever insubordinate soldier who dared wander in before easing back again.

"Father." Indeed, Loren looked up at his sire with a smirk. Notten's problems were gradually fixing themselves without further intrusion from the army. "Come. Sit."

At first, the Lord Governor did not move. He merely stared at his son with a mirrored, if slightly aged, face. When at last he stepped in, swinging the door closed behind him, he lowered himself into a chair as though fearing pins on its cushion.

"Are you well?" Loren tilted his head.

"Quite." His father continued to stare. "I have been asked to speak with you."

Loren frowned, his back straightening to prepare for the inevitable fight to come. Nothing good ever came from others using his father to garner favors from him. "About?"

"The plan you discussed with the Council."

Then Loren stared back for a long moment. "Excuse me?"

"It is not sustainable."

Leaning forward, Loren's brows lowered as he studied his father. The Caersan was well-versed in Society's games and did well at hiding his true thoughts. Whether he believed his own words or not was difficult to decipher. The way his father never faltered under his scrutiny, however, painted a clear image.

"For whom do you speak?" Loren rested his forearms on the desk between them. "Certainly, this is not your idea."

Yet his father lifted his chin a fraction in defiance. "I speak for the Council. It will not work."

Loren clicked his tongue. "Now, see…that is where you are wrong. It does work, and it will continue to work."

"Lord Governor Nightingale has already received word from his lords that they are unable to keep up with the demand of the army." His father bore into him with his icy eyes. "I see your thought process, and do not dare to pretend to understand the pressures you bear as General. That said, they are already struggling to provide for soldiers by way of housing and food. Not to mention the increased demand for donors."

"There are plenty of Rusans in Waer and Eastwood to donate to my men." Loren could not believe his ears. His own father was turning against him and throwing baseless claims at his feet. Rusan women had supplied blood to soldiers for centuries without complaint. There should be no reason for it now.

A silence stretched between them. The seconds crept by as the two Gard men stared at one another. When his father finally spoke, it was with the same restraint Loren recognized from his childhood. "Trade will falter."

"So be it."

"You cannot be serious!" Now his father was back on his feet, hands pressed into the desk to lean across, closing the distance between them. "Our livelihoods are in danger, and you condone it?"

Loren did not move. Did not flinch. He outranked his father and would not be threatened by his explosive tendencies. Particularly at the Hub, surrounded by soldiers who devoted their lives to him. "If we do not win this war and wipe the dhemons from Myridia, more than just our livelihoods will be in danger."

Seething, his father stepped back, glaring down his nose at his son. "You are not thinking of your children or grandchildren. They will be the ones who suffer the consequences."

"They will praise me for doing what no one else dared to do." Loren stood calmly and made his way around the desk. His father did not balk. "I will raze them from this world before they kill us all."

He crossed to the office door and opened it, his hands steady as always. If the Lord Governors were banding against him, he would need to take drastic action to ensure they did not usurp his power. So long as he remained in the good graces of the Princeps, and he doubted he would fall from such heights anytime soon, he would maintain his hold on Valenul.

"Are you removing me from your office?" His father did not so much as blink as he turned to stare at the open door.

Loren smiled, knowing full well it would not reach his eyes. "I have work to do."

A pregnant pause stretched between them. A battle of wills.

"As you wish, General." His father inclined his head and marched to the door. In the threshold, he paused to look back. "Your brother would be ashamed."

"Darien is dead." Loren's grip tightened on the door handle, the first spike of pain jolting through him. How he had hated Darien…and how he had loved his perfect little brother. He missed him more than he would ever admit to himself. "And I will destroy the monsters who took him from us."

Madame Ives' modiste had always been one of Emillie's favorite places, even long before befriending Revelie herself. The clean white walls and elegant decorations, including the brilliant emerald of plants, always brought her joy. Bright and inviting, the warmth of the main room eased the tension from her shoulders as she stepped through the door.

"I will be right there!" Revelie called from the back room where she so often sat, sewing the latest gowns.

Emillie strode past the mannequin in the front window wearing a beautiful gown of sparkling sapphire and silver. Silhouettes moved past the window; lithe vampires and tall, imposing fae. Even a lycan stalked by alongside its high fae counterpart, likely on their way to setting up their stall for the night.

Yet despite the sheer number of figures moving about outside, the street appeared far less crowded than normal. The last time she had made her way into town almost a week ago, there had been nearly double the merchants…and half the soldiers.

It had been after the last Council meeting that the changes began. More and more soldiers arrived from the Hub, their uniforms a constant crimson swath in the background of her life. The guards around the Harlow Estate began speaking with them more often, and patrolling the lands alongside those employed directly by her father. Meanwhile, he appeared less and less pleased with their sudden appearance in their lives and grew distant because of it.

Emillie could not decipher whether or not she felt more at ease with the sudden involvement of the army in Laeton. Most did not pay her much mind, though she felt their eyes trailing her anytime she stepped out of her carriage. Without Ariadne around, she stuck to traveling in the way she felt most comfortable. While she loved her mare, Lily, she also did not thrive in the saddle the same way her sister always had.

"Emillie!" Revelie's voice jolted through her thoughts.

Tearing her unfocused gaze from the storefront window, she turned to greet her friend. Madame Revelie Ives, the best seamstress in Laeton and one of the few Caersan women to own her own business, had been the Season's Golden Rose several years prior to her and Ariadne's debuts. If nothing else, it had impressed upon her how much her distaste for the Society had grown, and she left shortly thereafter to pursue her dream in fashion design.

Revelie's kinky black hair was twisted back from her face with thin ribbons to where it haloed out around her head. Her deep brown skin seemed to glow under the store's candlelight. When she moved, her sage green dress shimmered with each shift, so when she wrapped her arms around Emillie, it was like hugging a peridot gem.

"You are early," Revelie said with a glance at the candle melting away the hours. "Is Camilla still joining us?"

"She should be here any minute." Emillie gave her friend a sad smile. "I needed to get out of the manor. It has been suffocating."

"I can only imagine." The Caersan looked around, then peered out the front window. "Where is your guard?"

Emillie made a face. "Sul is taking care of the carriage. I asked him to give me space."

As though she ever wanted that sullen man around. Just his presence made her skin crawl. There was something about the way he watched her that made her uneasy. As though he were watching her soul.

With a clipped nod in acknowledgment, Revelie spoke as she walked into the back room of her shop. "I feel I am very close to finishing your dress. Would you like to try it on while you are here today?"

A hot, hard lump formed in Emillie's gut. Her dress. Her wedding dress. The one gown she did not look forward to wearing. Though, considering who her husband was to be and the agreements between them, she could not complain too much. Of the potential suitors, Alek Nightingale proved himself again and again.

Naturally, she would prefer to marry a woman. Given her current position, however, she had little choice but to continue with the engagement. As though her father would ever allow her to break it off after what happened between Ariadne and Loren. The last thing they needed was another scandal on their hands. She had worked too hard to ensure her future would be secure with Alek.

And he had yet to let her down when it came to protecting her.

"I would love to see how it looks," Emillie said, swallowing back her discomfort at the thought.

All too aware of her feelings on the matter, Revelie gave her a tight smile before turning to the door as it swung open to let in Camilla.

All other thoughts left Emillie in a flash as the three of them exchanged embraces and talk turned to Camilla's latest exploits. She gushed over the newest Rusan cook in her household. The woman had left Laeton a week prior, just as the soldiers began making their appearance around the town. She was, according to Camilla, the best dessert chef she had ever met and had no qualms with flirting with her anytime she visited the kitchen.

"Clementine's specialty is créme brulée," Camilla added with a knowing look to Revelie. "You absolutely must visit, doll, and I will have her make it for us."

Revelie hummed her delight at the thought, having always enjoyed such delicacies. "I will certainly be doing that very soon. With the Season so close to ending, the orders are not in need of my constant attention."

"Fantastic!" Camilla clapped her hands in delight and floated around the store to look at the different fabrics on display. She paused beside a velvet the color of red wine, running her fingers over the softness before turning back around to pierce Emillie with her russet eyes. "Lord Governor Nightingale's ball was lovely."

Warmth flushed across Emillie's cheeks. "It was indeed."

"Are you excited to be married?" Revelie asked, tilting her head to the side. "To at least receive more freedom to do as you wish, I mean."

"Alek and I have come to an agreement," Emillie said carefully, glancing over her shoulder to ensure the door had not opened again despite the small bell overhead not tinkling with warning.

Camilla's eyes sparkled with mischief. "And does that include allowing you your vices?"

She nodded. "So long as I provide an heir eventually, he does not care with whom I spend my days."

With a sigh of relief, Revelie said, "I am glad he has been so understanding."

"Indeed." Emillie bit her lip for a long time, the memory of that fiery red hair spotted through the crowd tugging at her. She looked at Camilla. "Do you remember Kyra from the Bistro?"

A wicked smirk curled her friend's lips. "You were quite taken with her."

"In all honesty," Emillie admitted, "I have not been able to stop thinking of her."

"Fascinating." Camilla raised a brow.

Revelie hurried to the back room and called, "Is this the one I heard about?"

The heat in Emillie's cheeks only worsened. She ignored the way the redness spread across her cheeks when she glanced in the mirror beside her. "Yes."

When Revelie reappeared, she held a long ivory dress of satin. The delicate periwinkle details swept down the narrow waist and up from the floor-length hem. She held it out to Emillie, who took it without a word and went with Revelie into the small room designated for changing. Her friend helped her out of her informal dress so she could slip the wedding gown on.

Stepping before the mirror, it was as though she were watching someone else. Her sister, perhaps? Someone who was marrying out of love—not of necessity or due to an arrangement to save her brother-in-law. Not to get away from the father, who would have rather sold her to the highest bidder than ever open his mind to anything different.

Not after what happened with Ariadne.

The sleek capped sleeves of the gown framed her small shoulders and eased down to the square neckline. It hugged her gentle curves in all the right places. Like every other dress made by Madame Revelie Ives, it flattered her body just right.

"Absolutely stunning, doll!" Camilla clapped her hands in glee. "I am so pleased you went with the satin."

"It suits you," Revelie agreed, straightening the skirts and smoothing the edges. She pulled a pin from her sleeve and clamped it between her teeth as she crouched beside Emillie, where she pinched the edge of the skirt. After making a small fold, she set it into place. "Now tell us why you brought up Kyra."

As Revelie rose back to standing, Emillie's heart raced. She twisted her fingers together, and she looked at her friends in the mirror, once again wishing she saw her sister's face amongst them. "I think I saw her at Alek's manor. She was serving wine."

While Revelie looked as shocked as Emillie had felt when she saw Kyra at the Nightingale Manor, Camilla merely raised her brows and tightened the corners of her mouth as though to conceal her amusement.

"What did you do?" Emillie whipped around to her friend, stomach knotting.

"Nothing!" Camilla held up her hands in a sign of surrender. A wicked smirk twisted her lips. "Though I might have mentioned to Kyra that you were to marry Lord Governor Nightingale, and when she looked so very put out about it…I sent a letter to your lovely fiancé about how you will need a new handmaid in Waer and may have given him Kyra's name."

Emillie could not quite place the hollow, buzzing feeling in her chest at that. Was it fear? Nerves? If Kyra had accepted the position to be closer to her, what did that mean? Did she think of Emillie as often as she thought of her? She had assumed their short time together had meant little to the Rusan woman—a mere flicker of fun on a drunken night. She had assumed Kyra had plenty of other potential partners to keep her mind occupied.

The very idea of Kyra speaking to Camilla about her …

"I think I am going to be sick," Emillie breathed, clutching at her chest.

Revelie launched into action and took both her hands, squeezing them tight. "No. You are fine. Just breathe deep with me."

"My nerves," Emillie gasped, screwing her eyes closed to try to focus on Revelie's slow breathing pattern. Why was she feeling this way? The last time she had had such a visceral reaction was when she learned her sister had been taken.

But her friend squeezed her hand again and said, "Nerves and excitement are just different shades of the same feeling in our bodies. So tell me: are you nervous or are you excited?"

Her eyes snapped open. Revelie's warm gaze washed over her, the highlights on her cheekbones glinting like gold. She sucked in another deep breath, focusing on the way the metallic color seemed to dance across her friend's skin. "I am excited to see her again."

"Then remember," Revelie continued, her voice as calm and low and soothing as it could possibly be, "she would not have accepted the position, knowing full well what it would entail, if she was not also excited to see you ."

Camilla stepped into view, biting her lower lip. "I am sorry if I overstepped."

The waves of emotions crashed through Emillie and slowly ebbed as she continued the deep breaths. This must have been what Ariadne had always been doing when she was feeling anxious. How she had remembered to do so through the fog of her mind at the height of those throws, Emillie could not fathom.

Emillie released one of Revelie's hands and held it out to Camilla, who looked relieved as she took it. "No. Thank you for seeing an opportunity to make me happy and seizing it. If only I could have half your courage."

But Ariadne's words echoed in Emillie's mind at that, reminding her of all she had endured these last weeks on her own. You are far more courageous than you believe .

It did not take long for Ariadne to learn Phulan's history with Azriel. They spent their free time together discussing their long-standing friendship. Phulan had been the one who healed Azriel after he had faced off with Ehrun during her rescue from the dhemon keep.

And it was Phulan's healing that drew her attention most. She had made the bold decision when she first returned from the dhemon keep to not allow anyone to see the scars she bore. Not her father. Not her sister. Certainly not Loren . Not even a mage had been given the opportunity.

After revealing the torment written on her body to Azriel, a weight had lifted from her shoulders. He had not liked what he saw on their wedding morning, of course, but then again…he had probably known what would happen once he had given her to Ehrun.

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.

In an instant, Ariadne hung from the chains in the dhemon keep, her throat raw from screams. Ehrun's knife dug into her back again and again, the sharp blade as hot and painful as ever. Each cut brought with it another lesson .

"What do you know of the Keonis Tree?" he had asked once, carving into her like he was skinning a buck. She had not answered. There was nothing she could say to make him stop. "The one your people stole from us. After they killed our last priestess amongst its onyx boughs, our last connection to the Underworld was ripped away…"

The words slammed into her for the second time, unlocked by the magic cutting into her scars. They muddied with the agony, drowned out by the sound of someone screaming and a booming voice yelling above it. She did not recall such an interaction with Ehrun. No one interrupted him. At least not without consequences.

Then, as quickly as it had begun, the pain stopped.

Ariadne opened her bleary eyes, and the room swam around her. Her throat burned as she inhaled a floral scent she did not recognize. Black boots shifted into view, followed by a deep azure hand that moved towards her, then hesitated and pulled back. Her cheek pressed against the plush rug on the floor.

Why was she lying down? Had she started there?

"Get out!" Phulan snarled, her voice more lethal than Ariadne could remember it ever being. "Everything is fine."

"Not fine!" Kall's words were low and dark and equally vicious.

Her head spun as she lifted it from the floor. An easy breeze swept across her damp skin, and clarity snapped into place. She was not wearing a shirt. Her bare breasts pressed into the floor, so her back and all the torment of her past lay open for all to see. If, of course, all were the only two friends she had in the city of Algorath.

To her surprise, however, it was Kall who yanked his shirt from his back and laid it over her. The floral scent clung to it. Not what she recalled from all their times grappling together, but then again, they had both always smelled of soil, grass, and sweat. She rarely spent time with him after they had cleaned up for the day.

The two bickered in the dhemon tongue, gesturing wildly in her direction. She eased upright, drawing Kall's massive shirt around her body as she moved. The skin on her back tingled as the fabric shifted over it, and warmth rushed up and down her spine.

"Ariadne." Phulan's sharp tone drew her attention up to the mage, who did not look at her but glowered at the dhemon instead. "Tell this brute you wanted this."

It took a moment to find her voice. When she did, it rasped from her like a hiss. "No."

Kall stiffened, his lip pulling back in a snarl. He advanced on the mage with more hate in his gaze than she had ever seen before.

"I needed this." Ariadne pushed to her feet, clutching the shirt around her body like bedding. She swayed, shadows darkening the edges of her vision for a beat, before she stepped between them and shook her head. "I did not realize just how involved this process would be…but I need it to happen, and I need you to understand that."

"Azriel—"

"Azriel would let me choose." Ariadne grimaced. "Even if it killed him to hear that…again."

Something sad shifted through Kall's ruby eyes. Memories of his own deepened the lines between his brows. "You not know his pain."

"Please, Kall."

The dhemon grunted, clearly still displeased. After a moment, he nodded nonetheless. "Yes, Ydhom ."

Phulan pointed at the door. "Get out."

To Ariadne's surprise, Kall did not move. He had acquiesced to her will, but he still glared at the mage before him. Instead, he took a step back and sat on one of the beds, arms crossed. "I stay."

Ariadne bit her lip. "Kall…"

He shook his head, that sadness returning before he repeated, "I stay."

"You will not interrupt me again," Phulan warned before turning back to Ariadne and tilting her head. "Would you like to continue? This will take more time than I thought. Possibly several sessions."

Ignoring the rumble of frustration from the dhemon, Ariadne nodded. "Just make it go away."