26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

A zriel didn't know how he arrived at the Pits. The days between waking up in Melia's chateau and stepping into the loud, cavernous space were a blur. Whether it was from the bond tearing him apart for what he'd done or the drugs the Desmo had put into him, he wasn't sure. Part of him didn't want to know.

What he could recall were brief glimpses of day-to-day life in the training grounds. He remembered the heat of the sun burning his skin as he lay in the sand, unable to make his limbs move. A blink of time showed him a high fae's face—a face he recognized but couldn't recall the name for—close to his as they dragged him into the only sliver of shade available to the prisoners. Another flash of memory told him that he'd ingested something he shouldn't have and had been forced to curl up on himself as he emptied his guts into the sand.

"Eat mine," someone had said to him, trying to force food into his mouth that hadn't been in his own bowl. He'd barely choked it down before the memory went dark.

"She's killing him," said a man's voice he didn't recognize. No images were attached to the memory, only darkness. Had his eyes been closed? "It's in his food somehow."

"Do you think it's poison?" Raoul had asked.

A long pause, then, "More of her drugs, maybe."

"The Pits are tomorrow." Raoul again. "He won't make it out."

"We need him alive," the unknown person said. "We'll get him clean food, and maybe he'll be able to focus."

Perhaps that was why he could stand without swaying along the walls of the Pits. He could see and comprehend the noise around him for the first time in…gods…he didn't know how long. It was like waking up from a dream. A nightmare. His mind scrambled to keep up, to sort out what had been real and not real. Had those conversations even happened?

Still, his body shook uncontrollably. Cold sweat poured down his spine, and a sick, empty part of him yearned for the oblivious release he'd experienced since the chateau. At least in that state, he couldn't think of what he'd done. That he'd betrayed her .

Beside him stood Sasja. He blinked at her for a long moment before registering the firm grip she held on his wrist. She stared straight ahead as she said in their shared language, "Do you know where you are?"

It took him a long moment to find his heavy tongue before saying, "Yes."

"How do you feel?"

Azriel didn't know how to respond. His mind slowly cleared, thanks to whatever they had done to strip the drugs from his body, but his body revolted. A violent shudder ran through him as he assessed, speaking for him.

Sasja's grip tightened. "You're fighting soon. You have to survive."

He turned his attention to the massive holes before him where people screamed in pain as the onlookers cheered for their fighters. Disgusting. "No guarantees."

Finally, she turned her face to him, but he couldn't bring himself to face her full-on. She'd saved his life the last time he'd gone into a fight. He couldn't bring himself to lie to her face that he'd be alright. There was no telling if he'd walk out again—especially when his own body refused to cooperate.

Especially when he didn't deserve to live.

"No." Sasja tugged on his arm until he looked at her again. "We need you. Stay alive."

As though on cue, Paerish stepped forward to him and said, "Let's go."

He followed the guard, teeth chattering as he wiped his palms on his trousers. At least someone had found him clothes and shoes to wear. The last thing he'd known, a mere sheet had been wrapped around his waist. The new fabric stretched across his body awkwardly, clearly too small for someone his size.

At the edge of the fighting pit, Azriel paused. No one yet stood at the other end. There was no telling who his opponent would be this time or how many of them he'd have to kill to make it out. The very thought was daunting.

Before Paerish, or—gods forbid—Melia, could push him into the stone hole, Azriel began his descent. He moved slower than usual, each hold on the wall precarious.

By the time he made it into the sand below and turned around, the other fighters had also entered the pit. Only two large fae men stood across from him. On any other day, Azriel wouldn't have been worried. On any other day, he would've laughed. If he could take down a half dozen dhemons on his own, he could raze a couple of fae to the ground.

But it wasn't any other day. His stomach roiled, and his hands shook as he took in the weapons tossed into the sand between them. Daggers. Only daggers. Such small blades could be thrown by someone with a steady countenance, which he didn't have. These would force him to close the distance between them, opening the number of opportunities they had to kill him, too.

The two men spoke in a fae dialect he didn't know. Perhaps it was from outside Myridia, though their hooded eyes and olive complexion reminded him of the avians from the south.

Azriel started forward, his legs jerking beneath him. He might be able to see clearly and comprehend his surroundings for the first time in days, but his body still didn't want to cooperate. Each strained step felt cumbersome.

The fae made it to the daggers first, collecting the weapons and leaving him with nothing. Azriel blinked hard to clear his vision and recalibrate his strategy. No blades and being unable to dodge any potential throws meant he'd end up on the lethal end of someone's attack. No matter what Sasja said, he didn't see a way out of that hole. Like so many before him, it'd end up his soul's crypt.

And he'd deserve it.

That was the point of the Pits, after all. Trial by combat was the heart of their existence in Algorath. The gods determined the prisoners' fate, and no one made it out alive for once you chose to take a life to save your own, you were damned anyway. He was not the first, nor would he be the last, to come to that conclusion.

The fae on his left stalked forward first, holding a dagger by the tip of the blade, poised to throw. Azriel tracked him with his eyes and took a step back to create more distance. His only hope would be to either have the speed to dodge the attack or find an opening to get closer without dying.

Neither of the options seemed likely. So, as the first dagger turned end over tip in his direction, Azriel heaved in a breath to brace for the pain. Though he shifted his body, mind screaming to move, to fight back, to survive, it lodged in his thigh deep enough to strike bone.

Something about the white-hot agony stunned his body into obeying, so when the next dagger was hurled at him, Azriel sidestepped the attack. His leg—the same leg Ehrun had broken all those months ago and that Phulan had had to re-break in order to heal it correctly—threatened to give out. He shifted his weight to the other side, shooting up a prayer of help to whichever god deemed him important enough to listen. If he removed the blade, he'd be in trouble like his last time in the Pits, so he left it buried in his thigh, hoping it would stem the blood flow long enough to figure out his next move.

But the second fae was on him before he could recover. The man sliced at the air between them, forcing Azriel to reel backward again and raise his arm like a shield. A gash opened up, raining blood on the sand underfoot. He hissed a curse.

They would bleed him out, just like the last fight. Wear him down and hit an artery to finish the job. Little nicks and scrapes were all they needed when his body stumbled through commands.

The second fae lunged again, this time aiming for his chest. Azriel swept a hand between them, forcing the man's momentum to the side long enough to grab his wrist. He yanked the fae in close, and upon seeing his back, he realized the truth of those he fought: they were avians. Their wings had been severed, leaving naught but horrendous stumps as reminders behind.

So Melia wasn't the only cruel Desmo in Algorath. Cutting off their beautiful appendages to keep them compliant seemed extreme when most had their wings clipped but not removed. The full amputation had likely been meant to make a statement to any of their comrades.

Azriel didn't have time to mourn for them. Having their wings removed would have been the most traumatizing event of their life, much like how it would feel if his horns were sawed away. Even that couldn't compare to what they'd felt in those horrific moments. Wings were as vital to an avian as legs to anyone bound to the land.

"I'm sorry," Azriel hissed in the avian's ear before digging his fangs into the man's neck.

Not only did he need to kill the fae, he needed the sustenance. The blood, though not as rich and beneficial as another vampire's—particularly not anything like Ariadne's—could help him focus. Maybe even walk out of there.

He wrapped his arms around the avian, holding him close so he could not use the daggers at his disposal as Azriel pulled the blood from his artery. When the other fae yelled in dismay and attacked, Azriel turned, using the avian's body as a shield.

When at last he let go, he expected the man to fall to the ground. Instead, the avian swayed on his feet and plunged his dagger into Azriel's gut.

The surprise attack had been the avian's last deed in his life. He collapsed a moment later in a twisted heap of limbs, eyes open and empty. Azriel watched it happen in what felt like slow motion. Then he choked, blood pouring from his lips as it filled his mouth with that familiar metallic tang.

Fuck .

Foolish. He'd been so foolish to believe, for even a split second, that he'd survive the Pits. Draining that avian had been his last-ditch attempt at revitalizing his muscles and steadying his still-shaking body. For those few draws of blood, hope had filled Azriel's chest, and he saw his way out of that wretched place.

And he'd wasted it by not ensuring the damn fae had died in his arms.

If Azriel had thought he was cold before entering the fight, it didn't compare to what he felt as the blood continued to rise in his throat. His body shuddered violently, and when he tried to step back from the furious, advancing avian, his leg buckled.

On one knee, he could do nothing but watch the avian stalk forward, looking ready to make his death long and painful. Azriel finally faced his demise.

He always wondered how it'd come about. At one point, he thought it'd be at the hands of the vampires for all the terrible deeds he'd committed against Valenul. In a way, it was. A mere year and a half ago, he'd been convinced he could end his own life on his own terms. When he'd put that rope around his neck, he'd done so not only to save himself from the spiral his bond had taken him down but to save Ariadne from his disgusting obsession. Gods, he'd even hoped at one point that he'd be killed in some grand battle with Ehrun where the twisted dhemon bled out beside him. It'd have been a poetic death.

Now he knew, though. He'd die alone at the hands of another prisoner, surrounded by people cheering for his death and celebrating their winnings.

If only he could've seen Ariadne one last time. But even after death, he'd never see her again. She was bound for Empyrean, to sit in the golden halls of all that was good and holy. He would return to his creator, Keon, and like his patron god, he'd spend the rest of eternity separated from the only woman he would ever truly love.

Azriel closed his eyes and focused on the perfect face that had haunted him those past weeks. Perhaps Keon would take pity and send him back to find her again in the next life. "Until the very end, my love."

Ariadne strained against Phulan's hold. The mage cursed her again and again as she screamed, her voice swallowed by the cacophony of rabid onlookers seeking the blood of her husband. They hollered as the fae stabbed Azriel, and the crowds surged forward to see how it would all end.

All around them, the chant rose us: "Kill the Crowe! Kill the Crowe!"

Something had been wrong the moment Azriel's feet hit the sand. Ariadne recognized the dull eyes and unsteady sway. His pale, gaunt face and unkempt hair, though someone had tried to braid it back for him. Perhaps it had been the other dhemon with her own long braid.

She did not know, and she did not care. All she cared about was Azriel not fighting the way she knew he could. Like his last bout in the Pits, he was not himself. Only this time, it was not only due to the frailness of his body. It was from the potions Melia likely fed him regularly.

Each shaking step he took appeared forced. Delayed. The frown forming between his brows confirmed what she already knew: he was trying . At least…at first.

"He is going to die!" Ariadne screamed, yanking her arm from Phulan and shoving her way through the crowd. Her heart thundered. Her stomach twisted. He'd given up. Why would he give up? Why would he not want to see her again? She had fought so hard to get there, to plan their attack to free him, to hold him again and never let him go, and yet…

He knelt in the sand and watched the fae approach with what looked like reservation on his face. All hope vanished as blood trickled from his parted lips.

And she was going to watch him die.

No. No .

"Don't!" Phulan pushed to her side. "Melia will see you—"

"Azriel!" Ariadne ignored the mage and pressed herself over the low rail, keeping the crowd from falling into the fighting pit below. She bent at the waist as she screamed his name again and again, slapping Phulan's hands away. She would throw herself into the hole if she must in order to get his attention.

At first, Azriel closed his eyes. He turned his face toward her, unseeing, as tears slid down his face.

"Get up !" she screamed. "Open your eyes! Fight back !"

His brows creased again. Then those perfect, ruby eyes opened again and found her face. For a moment, what he saw did not seem to register. He stared and stared.

"Please, Azriel!" Tears streamed down her face now, too, and she clutched at her own chest, unable to hold the splintering pieces of her heart together while the fae grabbed his horn and jerked his head to the side as though to make a show of it.

But Azriel's eyes never left hers.

"Get up!" she begged again, choking on her own words. She was going to be sick from the shattering of her soul. " Please !"

Azriel's lip pulled back in a snarl. Those dull eyes filled with life again, and he roared, blood flying from his mouth as he slammed his horns into the fae's stomach. The man stumbled back at the sudden, unexpected impact.

And, praise the gods, he stood .

"Ariadne!" he called back, staring at her for a long moment as though seeing her for the first time. Perhaps after so long under Melia's thumb, it felt that way to him.

She shook her head and pointed at the fae. "Kill him!"

Whether it was his own will power or that of the bond forcing him to obey her, Ariadne did not know. She did not care. All that mattered was that he was up, if barely, and doing what she commanded. He fought back.

The fae's eyes widened, shocked by Azriel's sudden surge of strength. After doing so little, it did not surprise her. Azriel had been a walking corpse upon entering the fight and did not stray from that as it continued. Nonetheless, the fae man steadied himself and squared off with the dhemon, determination in every hard edge of his beautiful face.

Though Azriel was on his feet again, that did not mean he would walk away, and that terrified Ariadne the most. She could only do so much when it came to spurring him on. He would have to do the rest.

"We have to leave," Phulan hissed in her ear. "Melia saw us."

"No." Ariadne held firm to the rail before her. She would not leave until she knew he was alive. That he would make it out of the Pits, and she would see him again.

Phulan cursed. "Stupid girl, she will know ."

"She will not." Still, she did take her eyes from the fight.

Azriel advanced, his injured leg nearly buckling a second time. He pulled the dagger from his thigh, having determined it to be the least lethal to remove, and snarled at the fae again.

All around her, the onlookers were beside themselves. No one had anticipated the turn of events. Everyone had cashed in on their bets of who would win—and they had all assumed Azriel to be a dead man.

Not tonight. Not anytime soon, if Ariadne had anything to do with it.

The fae attacked first, a dagger flying from his grip. Azriel twisted out of the way, his gaze clearer than it had been and leagues more focused. As the fae swiped out with a second dagger, Azriel lunged forward on his good leg, gripped the back of the man's knees, and yanked his legs out from under him.

Before his opponent could right himself, Azriel pinned him with his huge body. The fae tried to scramble away, feet pushing in the sand but finding no purchase. He bared his sharp teeth and elongated fangs, then buried them in the man's neck.

This time, he did not let go until the fae stopped moving.

"It's time to leave," Phulan whispered, her breath tickling the shell of Ariadne's ear as the crowd erupted with noise again.

Azriel stood on unsteady legs and turned in place, searching the crowd. Then he stopped, his brows arched with worry until he found her.

For a heartbeat, Ariadne felt whole again. For that one singular moment, she felt that chasm in her chest close. Nothing else mattered in all of Myridia—in all of the world—except for the way he looked at her then. As though he had found his reason for living again.

All too soon, it slipped away. The chasm split wide as he swayed and turned his attention to another. He laid a fist over his heart, a motion she had not seen him do since his nights as a guard, and bowed. Blood still dripped from his mouth, though not nearly as much as before.

Ariadne followed his line of sight to Melia Tagh. The Desmo did not look impressed. She stared at him, then turned to look at who had just convinced him to choose life.

Their gazes connected, and in that moment, Ariadne knew Phulan had been right.