29. Chapter 29

Chapter 29

P repare for war .

Lord Knoll's words echoed in Madan's mind again and again following his visit. When he returned that same evening, he and Whelan had made the difficult decision of maintaining distance between them. Whelan moved out of the manor and made his way back into the Keonis Mountains along with the other dhemons.

And, gods, Madan was thankful for the decision.

Upon returning to Monsumbra after Emillie's wedding, with Brutis turning the arduous journey into a single night, he had fallen asleep alone in his bed only to be awoken to word that a company of crimson-clad soldiers awaited him downstairs. He stepped into the foyer where several of the highest ranking stood, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and took them all in with disdain. Nothing good ever came of soldiers arriving at his home uninvited.

"Good evening, Lord Governor." The Colonel of the group, evident by the gold Valenul crest on his jacket, stepped forward and bowed. His black hair gleamed in the light of the chandelier overhead in stark contrast to his white skin and hooded pale blue eyes that shone like ice. "My name is Colonel Vedrick Thorne."

Madan did not offer him a customary greeting. "What can I do for you, Colonel?"

"I have a directive from General Gard," Vedrick said, catching on to Madan's hesitation and standing a little straighter as though that would make him more imposing. He held out a document, the crimson wax seal cracked.

Taking the page, Madan used his amputated arm to steady it as he unfolded the edges. The writing was in Loren's penmanship, with his audacious signature at the bottom. He read it, heart dropping into his stomach with every sentence. It damned Azriel by exposing his lineage, damned Madan for his familial ties to the dhemons, and damned Markus Harlow for allowing their ascent to power.

As though that were not bad enough, the second half of the document described Loren's next steps: imposing a militaristic rule on all Valenul.

Madan looked up at the Colonel, his blood cold as ice. "Military Directive Fourteen?"

"You and the Dowager Caldwell are to remain on the estate grounds until further notice." Vedrick held out his hand again, and Madan returned the missive. "I will be leaving a company of soldiers to ensure your cooperation."

"Am I being arrested for a crime I did not commit?"

"Of course not, Lord Governor." Vedrick nodded to the soldiers behind him. Without another word, they dispersed through the manor. "This is for your protection."

"I did not grant you access to my home." Madan's heart thundered in his chest. He balled his only hand into a fist. "I have been searched time and again since my appointment to this position despite my cooperation . This is an unethical intrusion of privacy."

Vedrick narrowed his cold eyes. "Your right to privacy was removed the moment you became a Lord Governor. The people of Eastwood Province, like all of Valenul, are your constituents and deserve whatever knowledge they wish of you."

"I was not voted into my title." Madan had not felt such intense rage building inside him for quite some time. That this was Loren's doing only fueled him further. "My constituents trust me, as they have trusted every Lord Governor to walk through these halls."

"Is that so?" Vedrick shook the document. "This was read aloud to the people of Monsumbra just this evening. I do not believe they were very happy with the truth of your predecessor."

Madan grit his teeth. "You have done enough, Colonel. Take your soldiers and leave."

"On the contrary." Vedrick smirked. "My soldiers will remain on the premises, as I have stated. You are to remain on the grounds. All outside communication will be screened."

"Get out."

"A pleasure meeting you, Lord Governor." Vedrick bowed again, and pivoting on his heel, he exited out the front door.

Madan watched him go. For the first time in many years, he wished he'd never returned to the Caersans. Living in the Keonis Mountains had been difficult, certainly, but he now remembered why he'd spent so many centuries planning attacks against the soldiers of Valenul. Though Markus Harlow had long since stepped down from his position as the General, Loren Gard had been the worst possible replacement.

" Is everything alright ?" Brutis's low rumble of a voice slipped through his mind, reminding him how he could never be completely alone.

Madan wanted to throw something. " Tell Whelan I'm sorry ."

The plan had been to visit the dhemon that evening. After taking the day to rest from flying across Valenul, he'd fallen asleep before getting the chance to communicate with his partner. All he wanted was to curl up in Whelan's arms and forget all of his responsibilities.

Now he wouldn't have those simple pleasures.

" We'll get you out, Little One ," Brutis promised, no doubt seeing what had occurred by skimming through Madan's recent memories. The openness between their minds had once unnerved Madan. Now the strange sensation of Brutis plucking through his thoughts comforted him. It made their connection stronger and eased his tensions when he didn't have to relay the information again and again.

" I need to tell Margot ." Madan pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. " I can't leave her here ."

" And we won't leave her behind ." Brutis's consciousness curled around Madan's mind like a heavy quilt. He could see Whelan beside Lhuka and the fury on their faces. Jakhov and Gavrhil stood not far off, speaking with a dhemon woman he didn't recognize, three more behind her.

" Who are they ?" Madan asked as he started back up the stairs. His grandmother would likely be in the sitting room, stitching as she was wont to do to while away the hours.

Voices he recognized echoed into his mind as Brutis let him in. Jakhov was asking the same question to the woman, who then explained that she'd been sent to them by Dhom . She'd spread the word along her travels that he'd been wrongfully imprisoned by the bloodsuckers and sent to Algorath. They wanted to help.

Madan frowned, slowing to a halt in the middle of the corridor. " An army ?"

" Hardly enough for one yet ."

" It's a start ."

" It's what we'll need to get you out of there ."

He started off again until he reached the sitting room. As he suspected, Margot sat near the fire with a needle in one hand and her latest project in the other. Her frail hands moved with unnerving precision for someone who could hardly walk on their own.

"Grandmother." Madan stopped to lean on the back of the couch opposite her. "It's time."

Margot sighed and, without looking up, said, "I knew this was coming. My things have been packed for quite a while."

"Will you be alright to travel?"

She looked up with her tired green eyes. "I have endured millennia of war, married a man who treated me as a prized possession, and set fire to my daughter's pyre after she was murdered by her husband. I then spent centuries believing my only grandchildren had also died and that every single one of those things was my fault. I may be old. I may be tired. I am not, Grandson , weak. Do not question my fortitude again."

Madan almost laughed despite himself. He nodded as she returned to her stitching and took a step back. "I will warn the others, then. We move in less than a week."

"Tell me where to be and when," she said, stabbing the needle through the taut fabric with more aggression than necessary, "and I will be there."

"Good." He hesitated in the doorway and looked back at her. He didn't know what he'd do if something befell her—his last connection to the family he had only a vague memory of before growing up with the dhemons. The worst part of such thoughts was that he didn't know if she understood just how important she was to him. He looked over his shoulder at her. "Grandmother?"

"Grandson." She didn't look up at him.

"Thank you."

Margot froze, a frown creasing her aged face as she lifted her gaze. "Whatever for?"

"Being strong." He gave her a small smile. "Even when you shouldn't have had to."

Her cloudy eyes shifted over him, and though he knew her vision was not as sharp as it had once been, he felt exposed beneath her scrutiny. When at last she spoke, it was with a strange lightness to her tone, "I would do it all again to be here with you."

Two nights after the wedding, Emillie stood back as Rene ordered the servants through her suite, sorting through the meager items she had brought with her to the Nightingale Laeton manor. Some gowns would remain to be worn during visits to the capital, thus lessening future luggage, while most of her possessions from the Harlow Estate were sent ahead to the Waer Province.

Kyra stood beside her in one of her many green dresses, the perfect picture of a handmaid ready to do her bidding. If any of the other staff knew of their budding relationship, no one commented or made it their business. Clearly, Alek's choice for those who worked for him was not the reason for the rumors around him. Everyone turned their heads the other way whenever anything of interest happened. Whoever had started the gossip had likely been let go long before.

When at last her small travel trunk was ready, Emillie and Kyra found Alek in the foyer, his expression unreadable. He slipped a folded piece of paper into his pocket before nodding to them both, opening the front door, and leading them out to the waiting carriage.

"Make haste," he said to the coach driver in a low, serious tone. "We must leave Laeton immediately."

Emillie's brows twitched together as she climbed into the carriage, Kyra sliding in beside her like a dutiful maid. It was not until Alek closed the door behind him and he had settled into the seat across from them that she asked, "What has happened?"

The horses started forward, and they trundled down the long drive. No one spoke again for a long moment. Alek turned his hooded eyes to the night outside their window, mouth a taut line. Beside her, Kyra sat rigid, eyeing Alek warily.

"It is not safe in Central Province," he said as the carriage picked up speed. "We will be fine when we reach Waer."

Emillie did not miss the slightest hesitation on the word when as though he truly meant to say if . Something heavy settled in her gut. "What has happened?"

When he looked at her, she was not comforted by the flicker of uncertainty in his black eyes. He shifted in his seat. "I will tell you when we arrive home."

"Alek…"

"I will keep you safe, Emillie." He looked between her and Kyra, his jaw tightening. "I will keep you both safe. The less you know right now, the better."

Emillie frowned. Knowledge had always been a power, not a weakness. Strength came from understanding one's history and what was to come. "If something is happening, I deserve to know."

Alek grimaced. "I do not feel comfortable speaking of this so close to the capital."

"What could possibly happen?"

"Fuck." Alek muttered more curses under his breath as streaks of crimson whipped past the windows, and the carriage slowed to a halt. Before the Nightingale personal guard—led by a Caersan with long blond hair that Emillie had seen many times but never officially met—could even dismount, Alek shoved the door open and growled, "Both of you stay inside."

Alek slammed the door behind him, and Emillie turned to Kyra, her heart thundering. "Have you heard anything?"

Kyra shook her head. "A messenger arrived just after sunset. That's all I know."

Male voices shot back and forth outside the carriage. A rumble of disbelief, then another volley. The words grew louder, more insistent and angrier.

"Are you alright?" Emillie squeezed Kyra's hand as she had done so many times with her sister. The Rusan had had trouble in the past with volatile men—one of the reasons she preferred the company of women. Though she had willingly taken men to bed as well, her affinity for any sex did not overshadow how much she enjoyed those more feminine.

Kyra gave her a tight smile and squeezed back. "They aren't yelling at me , so…"

It did not comfort Emillie to know past partners had been so cruel to Kyra. Though she put on a brave face, Emillie could feel the tension dripping from her.

"Alek will keep us safe," Emillie whispered, reaching between them and cupping Kyra's face. "I trust him."

Kyra nodded, the certainty not quite reaching her eyes. She had no reason to believe in the Lord Governor. All she knew was of the unsavory gossip and the questions Emillie had brought forth after finding him with Siobhan.

The carriage door opened without warning. Emillie jerked back from Kyra as Alek slid back in, his obsidian eyes burning like coals. He did not say anything for a long moment, then, "We are returning to Laeton."

"Did something happen?" Emillie held onto Kyra's hand once again when she was certain no one could see them through the windows.

"A lot has happened." Alek glared at the crimson uniforms fading into the distance. "I need to speak with your father."

Azriel grew more and more ashamed of how difficult it was to not eat the food laced with the mind-numbing drugs Melia kept giving him. Each meal, he stared at the bowl of gruel given to him, wondering if that would be the one to give him the relief he so desperately desired. After the brief encounters with Ariadne, the bond roared for release, forcing him to remember every painful moment of being locked away.

Yet despite struggling to cope with the daily life of Algorathian imprisonment, Azriel pressed forward with Raoul's idea. Band the prisoners together, and together, they would revolt. So as the human made his rounds through the training yard, speaking with the remaining fighters and convincing them to join, Azriel and Sasja pieced together the final element: how to complete a blood oath.

The idea had occurred to him after a volley of hazy, drugged memories resurfaced. Someone had mentioned blood oaths not long before the mage, Ada, had taken him away. When he'd brought it up to Sasja, she'd leapt at the idea.

While he'd never orchestrated his own or had been asked to complete blood oaths, he'd seen many performed. On the other hand, Sasja had given a blood oath to only one before: Ehrun.

But it'd been Sasja who pieced together the plan to use the blood oath as a way to maintain a hold on the prisoners. With everyone so tight-lipped about why they'd ended up there, she'd determined it to be the best way to ensure they wouldn't run off and repeat their crimes. If they could successfully bind them to Azriel with the oath, he'd have some dangerously strong fighters at his beck and call.

The more he and Sasja discussed the workings of it, however, the more it weighed on him. Too many of the procedures were reminiscent of the Caersan wedding ceremony.

He couldn't dwell on whether or not he'd accidentally forced Ariadne into a blood oath with him. The vampires had likely stolen the ceremony from the dhemons in the early years of their occupation in the Keonis Valley and didn't understand its significance. It wasn't as though they could complete the blood oath themselves, what with their suppressed magic. Only a dhemon, as a descendant from Keon, could make it work.

"I don't know if it'll hold," Sasja admitted with a frown as she looked at the scar on her palm. "If I'm near him…the oath I give to you may be overruled."

"There's only one way to know." Azriel drew the sharp edge of the arrowhead over the palm of his non-dominant hand—the hand he hadn't used during the wedding. He hated that he may have bound his wife to him unwittingly. He'd been so blinded by his bond that he couldn't see the similarities. He pushed the thoughts aside and began the incantation, "I stand before thee, Keon, God of the Underworld, and he we serve, to ask thee to accept this blood as offering for this union. May thee recognize our mutual devotion and worship in the days to come."

Sasja sighed and cut over the scar made by her oath to Ehrun. "With this blood, I give unto thee my undying loyalty and servitude."

They clasped hands, bringing the cuts of their palms together so very much like the wedding. Azriel resisted the urge to squirm and, until Sasja's squeeze, almost forgot to say the next phrase. "With this blood, I bind thee to me, to carry out my will, and to me thee shall be faithful."

"To thee, I shall be faithful." Sasja peeled her hand away and drew her tongue over the slowly healing cut. The final piece—ingesting the shared blood.

Azriel hesitated. It felt wrong to say those words, so similar to what he promised Ariadne, and then bind another woman to him. Perhaps the Caersan's version had been different enough to keep the oath from kicking in. It churned his stomach all the same.

Nonetheless, he licked up the blood from his palm. Sasja's unfamiliar taste made him want to spit it out. At least he didn't have to drink from her, as required during the wedding ceremony.

"Don't look so excited." Sasja rolled her eyes at his revulsion.

Fixing his expression, he shook out his hand. "Thank you for walking me through this."

"Let's just hope it works."

Before Azriel could respond, Paerish crossed the training grounds, eyes locked on him. He stifled his groan of displeasure. There was no time for whatever game Melia wanted to play. The guard never took him to the chateau unless she had some new torment waiting for him.

"The Desmo requires you." Paerish didn't so much as glance at Sasja, who pretended to fix her braid as she tucked the arrowhead into it.

Azriel crossed his arms, forgetting their previous ploy to pretend he remained under her drugged control just long enough to ruin it. "And if I say no?"

Sasja grumbled in annoyance.

Paerish cocked their head at him, a light frown forming between their brows. "You won't."

Of course they were correct, but he didn't like the idea of giving Melia's pet any satisfaction. "She would just as soon kill you if it meant she could use your corpse as a stool. You're better than that."

"Come." Paerish's crisp tone demonstrated the exasperation hidden by the shemagh. "Now."

Before any magic could sting him through the collar, Azriel grunted in response and followed the guard. The chateau loomed above them like a watch tower, though when he looked up, he didn't see anyone standing on the balcony.

When they reached Melia, seated casually on a sofa near the dining room, Azriel couldn't ignore the dried splatter of blood on the furniture. Any mage could have cleaned up such a mess—someone had tried, and it muddied the scent of the blood, though something about it scratched at the back of his mind.

"Desmo," he spat and adjusted his stance, feet wide.

"You're looking much better," Melia said with a small smile. "I was certain you wouldn't make it back the other night."

"I'm sure you're disappointed."

"Disappointed?" Melia laughed, tossing back her hair. "And miss out on more opportunities to make you miserable? Darling, why would I want that?"

Azriel glared at her, lip curling in disgust. "I see you've been having fun."

Melia ignored him. "I do admit my displeasure at losing a bet. I had quite a bit of coin put on your death. I suppose the Princeps of Valenul will be pleased with his payment, even if it cost me dearly."

"Did you call me up here to scold me for living?" He crossed his arm, irritation growing. "Or are you trying to get me to drink some more spiked blood?"

Another laugh, like bells on the wind. "Oh, I'd forgotten how funny you can be. No wonder I'd lost myself to you for so long. Quite the sly fox, you are."

He didn't respond. There was no reason to do so. Their history together belonged exactly where it was—in the past. Nothing she could say or do would ever convince him otherwise, though he doubted that was her intention.

No, she'd likely drummed up something new with which to torture him.

"I have something to show you," Melia said after a moment, "or rather…some one ."

Azriel frowned. He couldn't remember much about the end of his last fight in the Pits, only that Ariadne had been there. She'd been the only reason for his survival. The way her command struck his bond had moved his body like a puppeteer. He hadn't known what he was doing until he'd done it—hadn't felt his body move until it was over. He'd been driven entirely by the bond's will to heed her words, and when he'd searched for her after, she'd disappeared.

Had Melia seen her? Azriel's heart sank into his stomach. That same bond that kept him alive stretched into the light, searching for any sign of her. But if she was here…What did the Desmo have planned?

"Melia…" He scanned the room, searching for any sign of what was to come.

She snapped her fingers, and another guard swept into the room, cradling something in her arms. A familiar scent hit Azriel like a punch to the gut. The scent of the bloodstain sharpened into focus. Paerish's eyes widened, and they looked at Melia in shock as they spoke. At least, he assumed that's what they did. Their mouth moved, after all.

But Azriel didn't hear it. The words were lost, too far away, too distant for his ears to register. For a long moment, all he could do was stare at what the guard set on the low table between them. All he felt was the world's crushing weight.

His bond screamed. He screamed. Every fiber of his being screamed.

Ariadne's decapitated head lay on the table, her long dark curls swept across her still-open, oceanic eyes. The pale skin, webbed with blue veins along her jaw, held the gray tint and decay of a day's old death. Dried blood lingered under her nose and at the frays of her severed neck.

Azriel threw himself to his knees, scrambling to grab the rotting head of his wife. The flesh peeled back from the bone, soft and malleable beneath his touch. That perfect skin he'd spent so many nights worshiping now slid like wet clay in his hands.

He clutched the head to his chest and rocked back onto his heels with a low, keening cry. His soul shattered, drowning him in a sea of agony so consuming from which there was no return. It choked him. Crushed his chest. Burned his very being to ash.

Hot tears swelled, blurring his vision and washing down his face. His body shook as he rocked back and forth, the world falling into oblivion around him.

"Kill me," he breathed, stroking back the hair from Ariadne's face as he'd done so often. The strands separated from her flesh with the motion. "Just kill me, Melia."

After all, he was half-vampire. He had a chance, slim though it might be, that he'd be let into Empyrean after her. It was worth risking. Anything would be better than spending another breath in a world where Ariadne didn't exist.

"Are you begging?" Melia's voice was razors in his ears. "I like it. Beg."

"Please…" He dragged his gaze from his wife's unseeing eyes to look at the woman he hated most in the world. "Please. Kill me. Don't make me live without her."

Melia stepped around the low table and crouched beside him. Her silver eyes sparkled, brows pinched. When she spoke, her voice was low and soft. "No."

"Please!" He sucked in a burning breath, but it shoved out of him fast and loud as he sobbed. "Please…"

"No, darling, I don't think I will." She stroked Ariadne's hair.

Azriel lurched away with a snarl. How dare she touch her? He stared at her through the blurry clouds and encroaching darkness at the edges of his vision.

Melia smirked. "I think I'll make sure you live for a very long time."

"No…" he breathed. He'd find a way. Someone in the training yard would be willing…right? He didn't need her. He'd almost succeeded once before. He could do it again.

"I want you to suffer," she hissed, grabbing the horn nearest her and forcing him to look at Ariadne again. "And I never want you to forget what she looks like right here, right now. This is your doing. This is your fault. This is what you deserve ."

His heart broke again and again. He tried to fix Ariadne's hair, but it only fell away from her scalp, twisting into his fingers. When he pressed his lips to her forehead, it was cold and horribly soft. It only served to crack him wider, tearing at him from the inside.

Melia stood. "Take it away from him. Throw it out with the rest of her. I don't want that mess in my house anymore."

The guard that brought Ariadne in moved forward. Azriel cried and clutched at Ariadne's head harder. Melia couldn't take her from him. He wouldn't let anyone take her from him. Never again. Not the last remnants he had.

But the magic lit up in his collar, seizing his body more completely than he'd ever felt it before. He tried to scream again as the guard pried the head from his arms. Struggling against the magic locking him in place, he watched in horror as, bit by bit, pieces of her face fell away. It slapped to the floor and covered his hands, fingers still tangled with her hair.

"Get him out." Melia didn't look back at him, and Paerish only stared in shock. When the guard captain did not move, the Desmo cursed. "Are you deaf?"

Paerish snapped back to life, their eyes swiveling back to Azriel, his throat raw from the scream that could never escape and body still locked in place. They moved to him, loosening the magic's hold just enough to haul him to his feet. "Come."

It wasn't until he was back in the training yard that feeling returned to Azriel's body. Paerish stood beside him in silence for a long time as he collapsed to the ground, heaving in breaths that only left him in wails. He didn't know how long he lay there, fingers digging into the sand and tears evaporating as quickly as they dropped.

All he knew was pain.