20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

A zriel couldn't recall how he'd gotten out of the Pits. He couldn't remember how they had won or how he had been so injured as to become such a dead weight. Almost literally. Flashes of the fight returned as he struggled to open his eyes, wondering how many days had passed since being pulled from what should've been his grave.

Two vivid details remained clear: he should've never been worried about Sasja, and the wound to his side had been far worse than he'd initially thought. Removing that dagger almost killed him. The blade had kept the blood where it needed to be: inside his body. As soon as it was gone, his too-slow healing couldn't keep up. The severed ligaments in his knees hadn't helped his predicament.

When at last he peeled his eyes open, Azriel stared at the wall of his cell. The stone seemed to ripple like a stream, and so he slammed his eyes shut again, welcoming the darkness provided by his eyelids. His side ached. His head swam. When he pushed to sit up, he had to lean his horns against the wall to keep himself grounded.

He wasn't certain how long he sat like that, wheezing through the dull pulsing in his chest until the hum of the magic barrier over his door disappeared. Footfalls told him someone had entered just before foreign hands took hold of his shoulders and eased him back to the floor.

"This is our final round of healing," said a low man's voice. "I have blood and fresh meat for you now that you've sat up."

Azriel's stomach growled in response, and he blinked his eyes open again. The mage surprised him. He was a small pale man with freckles and auburn hair. Glasses teetered precariously at the tip of his thin, upturned nose. His deep bronze eyes followed his hands as they moved over Azriel's side, warmth emanating from them.

"Who are you?" Gods, his voice was raspy from disuse.

The mage sighed. "Once again, my name is Fetor."

With a frown, Azriel stared at Fetor. "Have we met?"

"You have asked that question each day I have come to see you." Fetor's gaze didn't waver from his work. "And before you ask, this is the fourth morning now."

Four days. Four days since the Pits. Four days since he watched Sasja take on almost all of those fae on her own. Four days since he truly believed he wouldn't be walking out of the match.

Which, in all technicality, he didn't walk away. He'd been carried.

"Sorry." Azriel slid his arm past his horns to cover his eyes.

"You're bonded, then?" Fetor asked.

Azriel chuffed and peered out from under his arm to see sweat beading on the mage's pale forehead. "Why do you think that?"

"A common symptom of a dhemon separated from his mate is amnesia." Fetor pulled his hands away from the wounded area and sat back on his heels. "Your memory loss is worse than any patient I've treated, even those with brain injuries. I took a guess."

"Well, I have no mate." He let his arm back down over his eyes. They stung at the words as her face swam through his mind. Gods, he missed her more than anything. Each breath he took during their separation seared his lungs.

Fetor snorted. "If you're worried I'd tell the Desmo, don't be. That wretch pays me to be here for her injured fighters and that's it."

The pain no longer pulsed in his side like the deep-set wound it had been. Azriel shifted his body, then pulled his arm away from his face again to push himself back into a seated position. The room swam around him again, and his horns clacked as they hit the wall. "Where's that food?"

The mage slid a plate of red raw meat toward him, then set a glass of blood beside it. "You need to be eating better. I saw your match. You weren't yourself."

How many times had Fetor observed him to know that he'd been so malnourished going into the Pits? He'd only fought once before, so it was likely the mage had seen him train. Azriel didn't linger on the thought as he tilted the cup to his lips just enough to draw the blood up through his fangs. He ignored the way Fetor stared at him as he did so, then raised his eyebrows as Azriel dug into the raw meat with zeal.

Faster than he cared to admit, his vision cleared, and his body stopped shaking. True sustenance did wonders. He'd always hated how he needed both blood and raw meat for survival when he never received the full benefits of either side of his heritage. Greater agility and speed from his vampiric side, yet he healed slower than a Caersan and had terrible night vision. Increased strength and cold durability from his dhemonic side, yet he couldn't eat cooked meals without getting sick, and using his thermal vision gave him headaches.

The gods had a real shitty sense of humor.

"You should be fine to train today," Fetor said as he got back to his feet. "So long as you don't push yourself too hard."

Azriel stood, unfurling to his full height beside the small man, and if he were a voyeur to them together, he would have laughed. The tiny mage craned his head back to look up at him with wide eyes. He had not expected Azriel to be quite as tall as he was, it would seem.

"Thank you, Fetor." He inclined his head, his massive horns closing the distance between them fast enough to make the man step back.

"You're quite welcome," Fetor squeaked. "Be well."

"And you."

With that, Fetor scurried out the door. Azriel watched him go for a long moment before following, a slight sway to his gait. He made his way back out of the barracks and sighed in relief when he was greeted by the desert sun. It wasn't often he enjoyed the arid heat, but nothing felt better when he was unwell.

It didn't take long before Raoul looked up from his training. His mouth stretched into a grin while his partner—a fae man with silver curls and eyes as black as Alek Nightingale's—glared openly. A memory of the fae's bloody face resurfaced, along with a phantom rage and the image of Azriel's split knuckles. Someone had been yelling for him to stop—that he'd kill the fae before long. Guilt curled in his gut. Who had he thought the man was?

Raoul peeled away nonetheless and made his way across the training yard, his rattan sword swinging by his side. "You just refuse to die, don't you?"

"I certainly should have." Azriel accepted the human's embrace, his head growing clearer every minute. He looked around the grounds and frowned. "Where is she?"

"Sasja?" Raoul followed his line of sight and shrugged. "She was out here not too long ago. Probably taking a piss."

Azriel crossed his arms over his chest and studied the other prisoners. There was a noticeable decrease. "How many died?"

"Five." Raoul pointed to the far end of the training grounds. "But we gained three more just yesterday."

"Species?"

"All mages."

He grunted in response. After coming so close to dying, Azriel understood one important thing: he couldn't stay here. Not any longer than he needed to, and so he required friends. He needed to plan how to get out and take as many of these people with him as possible.

Because there were few more loyal than a freed prisoner to their liberator.

Then he saw her. Sasja made her way back onto the training grounds, looking just as bored and displeased as ever. The hair on the sides of her head was longer, sticking up in puffs near the base of her horns. But she walked with as much confidence as ever, even if she remained too lean. The hollows of her cheeks, however, were less defined. Perhaps Melia had deemed her victory in the Pits worthy of some revitalization.

Azriel excused himself from Raoul and made his way across the grounds. For once, Sasja didn't look shocked by his approach. Instead, her lips curled in amusement.

"He lives," she said in the dhemon tongue, resting her hands on her hips. "I, for one, am surprised."

He stopped before her and didn't say anything for a long moment. How could he express his gratitude for what she'd done for him? If it hadn't been for her, he would have woken up in the Underworld.

"All thanks to you," he finally said and laid both palms, one on top of the other, over his heart in a traditional dhemon symbol of gratefulness. "I don't know how I can repay you. You could have let them kill me, and yet—"

"I won't stand by to watch a tree fairy slaughter my brethren." Sasja gave the remaining fae in the training yard a withering look, her ruby eyes glinting in the sunlight. "I may not believe the same things as you, but in here, it doesn't matter. In here, we survive together."

That hadn't been what Azriel expected. A snarky reply about his uselessness in the Pits, perhaps, or even a monologue about how she'd rather be the one to end his miserable existence, but not that. Not a proverbial hand extended between them in truce—to work together.

So Azriel just blinked at her and blurted, "What?"

Sasja rolled her eyes. "Don't be daft. I saw why you took that blade in the side and nearly bled out. You were distracted."

"I wasn't—"

"Don't lie." Now she glared at him and crossed her arms. "Like every other man I've met, you thought I couldn't take care of myself."

Azriel held up both hands in surrender. "You got the better of me in here. I know you can fight."

"But…" she started for him and waited expectantly.

He sighed, recognizing defeat. "But if you felt as I did going in there, I thought you wouldn't be able to keep your head on straight."

Lines formed between Sasja's brows. "If I felt like you? What do you mean?"

"I've hardly eaten properly since arriving," he explained, "and blood is…difficult to come by. In all honesty, I couldn't keep my head on straight."

"You haven't been getting food?" Her gaze flickered toward the chateau and back. "The Desmo always gets me proper food before a fight. Maybe not any other time, but always before the Pits."

It was Azriel's turn to frown. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Not at all." Sasja's mouth curved into a sneer of disgust. "What kind of game is she playing at? Doesn't she want you to win?"

But Azriel knew the truth. He pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closed, and grit his teeth for a long moment as though the pressure in his head could ease the sudden rise of anger. "No. She wants to torture me the only way she knows how."

"Why?"

He opened his eyes again and chuckled darkly. "That's quite the story."

As promised, Ariadne's healing sessions with Phulan were numerous. Kall insisted on overseeing each one despite his obvious discomfort. Rather than bring any further attention to it by asking questions or making more of a fuss, he made sure to end each one with a hot cup of tea and fresh food. Once back on her feet, he had her outside, where they continued their practice, Phulan not far behind to offer her magic.

It pained Ariadne to see him so upset. She could feel it in the way he sparred with her after—more gentle and cautious than before. Even when she assured him that she felt fine once the session was finished, he insisted on going easy.

Something about her pain bothered him more than he confessed. Like him, however, she chose not to push the subject.

Yet despite the mindset they had when walking into training, the one thing she always struggled to do was grapple. No matter how many times she reminded herself the dhemon she rolled with was Kall— her Kall, who would rather die than hurt her, who would lay himself at her feet in repentance if he accidentally caused her harm even in practice—she could not stop feeling those phantom hands.

It always began fine. They stood, knees bent and circling one another until one or the other initiated the first contact. Usually it was Ariadne.

She grabbed his wrist and yanked him forward. After building up her vampiric endurance, she had just enough strength to keep up with the horned fae. Learning to manipulate his body, however, was not the same. While he could sling her around like a ragdoll, she had to dig deep into herself and utilize her speed and techniques to compete.

Kall cupped the back of her neck and forced her closer. She resisted the heavy hand, her neck and core muscles tight as she took a step back. In the same movement, she slid an arm under his, reaching around to his back.

Before he could regain a better hold by forcing his own hand into the same position on her, she used her arm to shuck his high over her head. She sank into her thighs, the power there still so new and foreign to her, and scooped up his leg with her head tight against his belly. Pinning it between her knees, she hooked her free arm under the leg, and using the hand on his back, she grabbed his far shoulder. In a swift spin, Kall lost his balance and fell to the ground.

Ariadne did not hesitate. She could not. Too long to think, and she was dead. So she shoved the trapped leg to the ground, slid her knee over his thigh, and slammed her body onto his.

This was where it became dangerous. Compared to a dhemon, she was comically small. If she gave him even a moment to consider his next move, he could shove her off him with a single swipe of his arm. Though she could keep up in strength, she could not change her size.

She dug a knee into his diaphragm as he had taught her. The sudden pressure shoved the air from Kall's lungs. Taking advantage of his scrambled thoughts, Ariadne slid her leg over his body so she straddled his chest, pinching him hard with her knees. She draped her body over his face, her lithe form fitting between his horns.

In a flurry of movement, she was rolling onto her back with one arm trapped by his. She cursed under her breath and wrapped her legs around his waist, forcing him to stay close as she gripped a horn and yanked his head down.

That was the moment she felt them. Not Kall's hands holding her wrist to break her grip. Nor were they the dhemons who visited her in that cell. Not even Ehrun—who never visited her cell except to take her away for her lessons .

They were Loren's.

In a flash, she stood before the General on the front steps of the Harlow Manor in the wake of her victory from a horseback race against Azriel. Loren sneered in her face, those sapphire eyes glinting with malicious pleasure as she writhed against his hold.

Then Kall let her go, and that quickly, it was done. The General disappeared like smoke in the wind. She was not on her family's doorstep. She was lying in Phulan's stone garden.

"You do better," Kall remarked as she unhooked her feet and let him go. He pushed off the ground, stepping back to give her space. "Got farther."

Ariadne nodded, a hot spike of frustration searing through her chest. Sitting up, she sighed and wiped the sweat from her forehead. It had been the third round that night, and she still could not finish. Between having a dhemon between her legs and his hands pinning her body when he gained the upper hand, she had difficulties not falling back into the dark memories.

"Thank you," she said, staring at the ground. "You have been very patient with me."

"You strong." He dragged his own arm across his face, evading his own horns with practiced ease, and leaned against the house. "Take break. Drink water."

She did as she was told and clambered to her feet, legs shaking, and made her way into the house where a pitcher of water waited for them.

But it was not Phulan who stood on the far side of the amethyst table. A tall figure loomed there, draped in a dark cloak. They pivoted at her approach and froze at the same time she reeled back, startled by the stranger's presence.

Kall's hands gripped her shoulders. " Sabharni , ydhom ."

The breath caught in her lungs rushed out at his reassurance. Easy , princess had become a common enough phrase he used with her. Too often, he needed to remind her that everything would be okay. This was no different.

And by the way he spoke, along with his own ease in the room, Ariadne knew she could trust his judgment. She could not, after all, compete with his sense of smell. If anything were out of the ordinary, he would be the one to know.

Then, the stranger removed their hood. In an instant, Ariadne flew around the table and threw herself into Madan's arms. Her brother held her tight to him. She breathed in his familiar woodsy scent and buried her face against his chest. A mere fortnight had passed since she left Monsumbra, and yet it felt like an eternity.

"I missed you, too." Madan chuckled. "I'm sorry if I startled you."

"Why are you wearing that?" Ariadne plucked at the cloak as she pulled away. "It is night."

He gave her a grim smile. "Can't let anyone know I'm here."

Melia. He couldn't let anyone see him and report back to Melia that he was in the city. The moment he was seen, their cover would be blown, and the mage would never believe her again. Not if she had any reason to suspect he was still friends with Phulan.

"How's training going?" His marbled eyes swept across her sweaty face, then up to Kall as though to monitor his friend's reaction.

Wise, really. She was too keen on making everything seem fine all the time. But she spoke honestly. "It could be better. I am struggling with grappling."

Behind her, Kall huffed but said nothing.

"And swords."

Another more audible snort.

"And my technique could use some work for striking."

Madan raised a brow. "You're doing a lot. Do you still train every night?"

"With magic too…when we're not going to parties," Phulan said, appearing from the kitchen with phantom stealth. She poured a glass of water and held it out to Ariadne. "She's made quite an impression on Desmo Melia Tagh."

The sparkle left Madan's eyes, replaced by a simmering fire. "You met Melia?"

"I can see why Azriel loved her once," Ariadne admitted, though the very thought of him with any other woman felt like a punch to the gut. "She is charming."

Her brother pointed a warning finger at her. "She's a snake, and never forget that. She'll eat you alive if you're not careful."

For a moment, Ariadne was not certain if he meant those words literally. After listening to the haunting tales about the mage, she would not have put it past her to do such a thing. Or at least have someone else to eat her alive.

"I would never consider her a friend." She hoped the seriousness of her tone reiterated the assurance. She was not so daft as to let the woman imprisoning her husband to sway her so easily.

Madan pulled the cloak from his shoulders and draped it over the chair beside him. He opened his mouth to speak but did not press on until after a moment of hesitation. "Have you seen him?"

Him . Azriel. The only reason any of them, save for Phulan, to be in such a dangerous city.

Ariadne's heart ached at the thought of the last time she saw her husband. He should have died. How he had not, she could not wrap her mind around. He just would not stop bleeding. Could not. The sands had been soaked crimson from him, and the way that dhemon woman had had to drag him out, hardly able to lift him after her own fight, had sent a spike through Ariadne that she could not quite understand.

"Yes," she rasped, holding back the emotions that clogged her throat. She swallowed hard in the hope of easing the hot tension there.

That was when she saw it. The flash of fear in her half-brother's eyes. "Where?"

"Where do you think?" Phulan cut in. "We went to the Pits."

"He is alive," Ariadne said, blinking back the tears from the memory. The terror she had felt.

Madan's shoulders eased. "I shouldn't have doubted—"

"No." Ariadne shook her head, losing the battle with her emotions as a hot streak ran down her cheek. "He almost died. He was bleeding so much. Too much. He…he reminded me of…"

She could not bring herself to say it. By the way Madan's face paled, she knew he understood. Azriel had reminded her of him . Her brother. The one she had dragged out of a cell.

"And where were you?" Madan looked to Kall, his mouth thinning. "She could've been hurt."

"He is not my guard," Ariadne cut in, wiping her face dry with the heel of her hand. "He could not come anyway. Melia would know."

Phulan crossed her arms and gaped at Madan indignantly. "You trust me enough to house her and shield her from that bitch, but the Pits is where you draw the line?"

"That's not what I'm saying—"

"Bullshit." The mage flashed him a rude hand gesture before turning back to Ariadne. "Show him you don't need any of us."

Madan couldn't quite wrap his head around what he'd heard. Though he and his brother certainly had their fair share of dancing with death, not to mention Azriel's suicidal ideations last year, he never truly considered that one day his big brother would actually meet his end. Such jests never would've included the Pits.

He didn't have long to linger on the implications of what Ariadne had said, however. It raked at the back of his mind as his half-sister nodded to Phulan's demand, and she pivoted on her heel to return to the stone garden. The glance to Kall and his responding nod didn't go unnoticed. The two had grown close.

In the garden, Madan felt more than saw the subtle magic barrier Phulan had put in place to keep out prying eyes. Any movement others saw would be of two women co-residing in peace. Neither he nor Kall would be seen from the streets or surrounding buildings. Every once in a while, however, he saw the shimmer in the moonlight. Any other mages would likely assume it to be a way to keep the grounds' temperature consistent throughout the desert heat of high day and cold of the night.

What he didn't expect to see, however, was Ariadne rolling her shoulders back as she picked up and held a shortsword between herself and Kall. They'd progressed, then, from training weapons to sharp metal.

And didn't that make his stomach knot.

Kall mimicked the stance and ran his blade up Ariadne's with the familiar shriek of steel on steel. His blood curdled at the memories it invoked, and by the way Ariadne's grip tightened, it did the same to her. But she didn't flinch. She watched Kall with the same intensity he knew he also had when training. This was normal, then. A way to keep her accustomed to the sound in a safe place so it no longer impacted her.

"Begin." Phulan spoke the word as though it'd become her regular job.

In a flash, Ariadne moved forward. She didn't give Kall time to push her back and swung the sword from the side. He blocked, retreating a step to keep distance between them, and countered.

Madan watched in awe as his sister shifted her weight without looking at her feet. She moved in arcs, keeping her footing stable and wide. Any misstep and Kall took advantage without mercy. If she crossed over herself, he parried in such a way it knocked her off balance.

The first time he did so, Madan lurched forward. Ariadne stumbled to the side as the dhemon's sword swung down at her, and he was certain she would get hit. A blow like that from Kall could split her spine in half.

Phulan, however, grabbed his short arm at the elbow and held him back. "Don't you dare."

But Ariadne twisted in time to smack the blade away, one hand on the ground to balance herself before pushing back to a correct position. Her muscles rippled under her sweaty tunic as she cleaved through the air back at the dhemon. Her leather boots that had seemed so new when she arrived at Monsumbra, creased and soft now from excessive use, gripped the stone with each pivot.

Ariadne advanced on Kall again, and determination blazed in her oceanic eyes. To Madan's surprise, a smile curled at her lips. She enjoyed this. Though she'd begun meeting with Kall as a way to learn self-defense, she'd grown to truly love the rush, and Madan wasn't certain he liked the idea of that.

Certainly, she needed to be able to hold her own against an adversary. He'd wanted that for her from the very beginning. But if she found as much enjoyment in it as he did…as Azriel did…they were in trouble. He knew all too well what happened when someone began this journey. They searched for an excuse to use their new skills whenever they could.

The swords clashed, and with a songlike slide of the blades, Madan watched as Ariadne's flew out of her hand. Kall had disarmed her. He advanced, his red eyes almost glowing with glee.

Again, Madan jerked forward. Again, Phulan tightened her grip on him with a warning look.

Ariadne, however, didn't look perturbed. She shifted her stance lower as Kall moved just close enough to keep himself out of reach. He slashed. She ducked. Swing. Side-step. Again and again, around and around, they moved. Kall struck. Ariadne dodged, and each dodge brought her a hair closer.

Then Kall shifted, his forward leg swinging into the back position, and in that moment, she acted. With one leg still poised forward, Ariadne lunged. She shoved her head against his belly, pushing him off-balance and scooping up his leg at the same time. Before he could swing the blade back around, she gripped his sword-wielding arm at the elbow and drove him back and around from her toes.

The dhemon landed hard on the stone, and Ariadne released her hold just before getting trapped beneath him. Her eyes tracked the sword still in his grip as she pushed a knee into his gut. The air rasped from Kall, and he bridged his hips at the same moment he tilted the blade back toward her to stab.

Madan couldn't hold back his gasp of fear, yet Phulan refused to let him move. He could feel the magic curling around his middle to keep him in place. Still, his heart thundered as he watched with petrified certainty that his sister was about to be skewered.

As Kall released the bridge, Ariadne moved almost too fast for Madan's eyes to track. Her vampiric speed and agility turned her into a blur, even to him. The sword swung away from its target. In the next moment Ariadne had pivoted around Kall's head, one hand grasping the sword-bearing wrist and the other looped through his bent arm to hold her own. She used the grip to twist his arm into an uncomfortable angle, forcing the sword from his fingers before hauling his forearm against her chest, thumb up. Her back went to the ground, knees pinching around his bicep, and she thrust her hips up in one fluid, controlled motion.

Kall tried to roll his body towards her to pull his arm out of her hold, and her calf slid through the curl of his horns, across his face, to force him to look the other way. Without a word, the dhemon used his free hand to tap her leg twice. In an instant, she released him and pulled her legs back so he could sit up.

For a long moment, Madan didn't move. Gods, he wasn't certain he was breathing. Adrenaline pumped through his own veins, even though he hadn't been the one sparring. Watching someone he cared for as deeply as his sister going through such motions made him queasy.

"Well done," he croaked after a moment. Then he saw crimson blooming on the sleeve of Ariadne's tunic. He was going to puke. He hadn't even seen her get hurt. The magic holding him back eased, and he rushed forward. "What happened?"

Ariadne looked at her arm in surprise. "I did not even feel it."

He took her wrist and turned her arm. "You're cut."

"She block me," Kall said in his broken common tongue. He didn't so much as look back at them as he hauled himself to his feet. "She live."

Madan almost snarled at him. He bit back the urge, remembering the number of injuries he'd incurred over the centuries from his own training. And all the injuries he'd given others in the same manner. Gods, he'd even stabbed Azriel out of anger once. It'd been a different time then.

Things weren't the same now, as much as it bothered him to remember. The people he loved most were in far more danger now than they ever were before. Even fighting a war.

"I am fine," Ariadne reassured him and looked over his shoulder.

Phulan appeared a moment later to pull up the sleeve and inspect the wound. "It's relatively shallow. Not a problem at all."

" Relatively ?" Madan blinked between them. "Have there been worse?"

"Mostly to Kall," Phulan assured him without taking her eyes off the cut. She laid a hand over it and focused. "Darling Ari had a rough go when they first switched to steel."

Kall snorted. "Yes. She had rough."

To his endless surprise, Ariadne laughed through her wince. She gave Kall a sheepish smile. "I did not mean to hurt you."

"I know, ydhom ."

Madan rocked back on his heels to look up at the dhemon. "How often does this happen?"

Yet Kall merely shrugged, as if that didn't make Madan more anxious about leaving them again in a couple of nights. Until then, he'd make the most of his time hiding within the confines of Phulan's home. Teaching Ariadne what he knew as a vampire against larger adversaries sat at the top of that list.

Avoiding any questions about the status of Valenul and her sister, however, would prove to be the most difficult.