31. Chapter 31

Chapter 31

T his is what you deserve .

When Ehrun's wife and daughter were murdered, Azriel watched the dhemon transform from Auhla 's gentle giant into a monster. Where once he grappled with the children, laughing and playing to teach them the basic self-defense needed to survive in the Keonis Mountains, he then picked up the sword. Knives. Crossbows. Any weapon he could get his hands on. He forgot pieces of his past—forgot friendships and peace and harmony—and built a new foundation of hate and cruelty.

Azriel never understood it. After all, the Crowe had lived through the same trauma. He'd seen Mariana cut down by the Caersan she was supposed to trust above all others. As maniacal as his father grew over the years, slowly spiraling into madness from his shattered bond, the dhemon had never fully lost himself to the blood and battle.

But the Crowe had had Azriel. He'd had Madan. Remnants of that bond lived on in his sons' veins, holding together the frail pieces of his sanity over the centuries and keeping him from breaking beyond repair.

This is what you deserve .

Now Azriel understood. Dhemons were never meant to have their bonds broken entirely. Their ancestral link to the Underworld was meant to keep those soul-deep connections intact. It allowed them to move through the rest of their lives, waiting patiently for the day they, too, would join Keon and be reunited with their love. But since that link had been broken thousands of years ago…there was no such hope.

Even so, Ariadne would never have been sent to the Underworld.

The depth of despair that swallowed Azriel following her death was incomprehensible, and for the first time in his life, he knew exactly why Ehrun did what he had done. As wretched as the dhemon had become, he had been doing all he could to exact the vengeance he felt was necessary. After killing Ariadne's mother, he went after the daughter—just as Markus had done.

Now, it was Azriel's turn to scrape together the last shreds of meaning to his life. He'd live. That much he knew. But it wasn't grief or determination that fueled him as he stalked out of the cell the following morning.

Hate raged through him.

After dragging himself from the sands and collapsing in his cell, curled in on himself and clutching his horns as he cried until there were no more tears, he slept. Slept and decided he would destroy everything and everyone who had ever so much as looked at Ariadne wrong. Oh, he would have his revenge on Melia, of that he was certain. She already believed him to be a heartless monster. What she didn't realize was that she created him, and he'd make her wish she'd never touched his wife.

This is your fault .

The blinding sun did nothing to slow his pace. Azriel marched across the training grounds and collected a bowl of wretched food before starting toward the fae already hunkered in the slim strip of shade provided by the wall. He passed Raoul, who frowned when he didn't stop. Instead, he crouched in front of Liulund and his friends as they watched him with wary eyes.

"I'm ready to burn this place to the ground." Azriel looked between them. "I need you by my side. Swear a blood oath to me, and I'll make sure we all walk out of this gods' forsaken prison."

Liulund raised his brows. "A blood oath? In exchange for what? A battle that could kill us?"

"You'd rather die in the Pits?" Azriel cocked his head. "What is it? Are you afraid of some mages?"

The brown-haired fae to his left raised his shackled wrists, the magic-blocking cuffs as detrimental to their inherent strengths as the collar was to Azriel. "Can you get these off?"

"I know who can once we're outside these walls."

"We need our magic to face them," said the redheaded fae to Liulund's right. "Or they'll kill us on the spot."

Azriel narrowed his eyes. "Do you think I'm stupid? That I wouldn't have a plan?"

Liulund set his empty bowl in the sand. "Do explain, then."

Merely having their undivided attention was more than Azriel anticipated. After what he'd done for Liulund, he'd hoped it'd work in his favor. Now it was time to cash in on what he'd sacrificed for his life.

"I think you give me your oath," Azriel explained, "and then stay out of my way. I'll distract the Desmo and her goons. You kill them. Simple."

The fae chuckled, then the redhead said, "You think you're enough to distract them while the rest of us act? Did you cry out all your thoughts yesterday? Or did Melia fuck them out of you?"

It wasn't often that Azriel reacted with vampire-like reflexes. His hand shot out faster than his own eyes could keep up, pinning the smart-mouthed fae to the wall by his throat. He bared his sharp teeth. The other two jolted in surprise. "When you have your mate's head dropped on your fucking lap, come talk to me about keeping your thoughts together. My head is clear, but yours will be broken on this wall if you aren't careful."

Liulund hissed something in high fae as the redhead choked under the pressure of Azriel's hand. Then he turned to him. "She killed your mate?"

Pain throbbed through him. He nodded once, still not loosening his grip or taking his eyes off the redhead. "I will raze this fucking prison to the ground for what she's done, and anyone not beside me will be buried in it."

Whether it was the threat or mention of his mate that swayed Liulund, Azriel did not know, nor did he care. Nonetheless, the high fae said, "A blood oath it is. From all of us."

Azriel eased his hold on the fae, who sucked in a rasping breath. He studied them for a long moment. All fae had their own versions of blood oaths, but none bound others quite so completely as the dhemons'. Perhaps it was connected to their physical strength. Perhaps it was all about mental fortitude. Perhaps the dhemons merely had more practice in the art of oaths after spending millennia fighting for their ancestral homeland. Whatever it was, he only cared that it worked.

Pulling an arrowhead, stolen from the Pits by Sasja, from his pocket, Azriel held out his free hand. After a beat of hesitation, Liulund placed his own hand atop Azriel's palm and grit his teeth as he braced for the cut.

Within a few minutes, the three fae had sworn their oaths, and Azriel left them to tend to their wounds. The cuts wouldn't take long to seal, but since their quick healing was a direct result of magic, it'd take longer than normal.

When he moved on to where the humans sat finishing their breakfast, Raoul joined him. The man pulled up short to look him up and down, his hazel eyes narrowing, before saying, "I never thought you looked much like a vampire, but I see it now."

A frown pulled Azriel's brows together. The bond that drove him forward was purely dhemon. Whatever Raoul saw, he didn't know. "You make no sense."

"It's the bloodlust." Raoul shuddered, his mouth twisting into a grimace. "You're starving."

"What gave you that idea?" Azriel pushed past him. His body was frail in comparison to when he'd first arrived. He couldn't see his reflection in anything, but he'd felt the hollows of his cheeks and could count most of his ribs without trying.

The human jogged to keep up with his long strides. "You fed at your last match."

"All of that went to healing the hole in my gut." Annoyance tugged at his words. He couldn't think about the fact that his palm wasn't healing. "Melia wants to keep me weak. That's why I need you and Sasja and all the others at my back."

Raoul grabbed his arm, jerking him to a halt. For once, his expression was grave. Worried. "Do you really think we'll make it out of here?"

Azriel cocked his head, gaze flickering to the chateau on its hill. "Death is an escape of its own."

"That's not helpful," Raoul grumbled. "Not even a little."

"Fight hard, and if you get the chance to kill her…don't hesitate," Azriel said, pulling his arm away. "She won't."

With that, he stalked toward the humans, blood still dripping from his fingertips. He'd collect them, then the few new lycans who'd been added to their arsenal, and he'd have his army.

The letter from Madan did not help ease the ache in Emillie's heart. He, like her and Alek and Kyra, was imprisoned in his own home, guarded by soldiers who did not care for him. The brief message did not give details about what he was doing nor did it mention Ariadne.

But even as she sat in the parlor, clutching a cup of steaming tea with a shawl around her shoulders and staring into the flames dancing in the hearth, she felt no warmth. Not from the fire. Not from the shawl. Not from the tea. It was as though ice had lodged its way into her chest, seizing her up from the inside, and refused to relinquish its hold.

Over and over, Emillie saw it in her mind's eye. She could hear the fleshy breath punching from her father's lungs as the blade slid through his heart. The blood that pooled on the floor had soaked into her dress so completely that the skirts appeared to be dyed red. Again and again, she felt the warmth of her father's life spilling out of him, coating her hands as she knelt on the drenched rug.

How many times had she cursed him for all he had done? She had foregone the traditional greeting at her wedding reception, giving him no well-wishes or words of love as his final child went into the world, leaving him alone in a manor entirely too large for a single Caersan.

When had she last told him that she loved him? Because despite his faults and the anger over the recent months, she had loved him dearly. Perhaps that had been why she felt so betrayed. She only wanted him to show her how much he loved her, too.

Emillie's hands shook as a fresh wave of grief throttled her. Air burned her throat on an inhale, tears rolling unbidden down her cheeks. It gripped her insides like a vice, wrenching them to and fro and threatening to never leave her be. As if she deserved such reprieve after slinging such accusations at him.

The teacup tumbled from her hands, breaking on the rug as she doubled over, clutching her middle. Pain crashed through her, rising and falling like ripples in a pond. Her heart cracked.

Her father had looked at her in those last moments. It had been her face he sought as he crumpled to the floor. No words. He could not speak around the blood flooding from his throat. All too quickly, the man she had looked up to and admired all throughout her childhood had died. Died and took a version of her with him that could never be recovered.

Whether it was from Emillie's quiet wails or just because she was passing by, Kyra slid into the space beside her, tucking her body in close and pulling Emillie into her arms. She smelled of sweet vanilla as she rocked back and forth, the scent at once soothing and enlivening. Emillie buried her face into Kyra's shoulder and sobbed, sucking in deep breaths of those calm notes.

Emillie did not know how long she sat cradled in her arms. All she knew was the tears ceasing to flow, not because the pain had dissipated, but because there just were no more to shed. Each heartbeat took her farther away from the last moment she had seen her father, heard his voice, and felt that swell of pride as he finally stood up for Ariadne. The thought unto itself sent her spiraling into the darkness from which she could not navigate out.

It was not until her body stopped shaking that Kyra, without relieving the soothing pressure she had wrapped Emillie in, murmured, "I'm sorry."

The two words seemed so silly. Kyra had lost both of her parents in a dhemon raid several years earlier. She knew the devastation of losing both parents—just like Emillie. Though Emillie could hardly remember her own mother, she had mourned her too many times to count. She was blessed to have had Ariadne as a guide throughout her life.

Now she did not even know if her sister lived. The lack of information from Madan spoke volumes. If he had been confident in Ariadne's safety, he would have told her. As it were, he had not written about her in his letter. She was likely as lost to the world as her parents.

Emillie was alone.

The front door opened, letting in a draft of unseasonable cold. Emillie sat a little straighter but did not look around at who had entered the foyer. She leaned toward Kyra, silently praying whoever had entered the Nightingale manor— her manor, for she would never again return to the Harlow Estate—did not seek her.

The thought soured. Her family home for centuries no longer belonged to them. It sat in the hands of a Caersan unworthy of any title, let alone that of a monarch.

"Emillie?"

She froze, then turned her head slowly to look over Kyra's shoulder at the one who had entered. Revelie stood at the entrance to the parlor, her dark eyes wide and cheeks flushed from likely riding out to the manor.

"Gods." Emillie choked on the word as she squeezed Kyra's hand before throwing herself at her friend, a fresh sob ripping from her throat.

Revelie caught her, wrapping her arms around her tight. "Emillie, what happened?"

"He is dead," Emillie breathed in her welcoming jasmine scent. "Loren killed him."

" Who is dead?" Revelie held her out at arm's length, scanning her in horror. "Alek?"

She shook her head, that horrible emptiness clawing its way forward again. The ice dripped back into her veins, and she shook as the image of her father on the floor swam back to the forefront of her mind.

"The Princeps," Kyra offered, laying a gentle hand on Emillie's back.

The pure horror and grief that swept across Revelie's face was but a shadow of the pain ripping through Emillie. The Caersan woman covered her mouth with a gloved hand. "By the gods, Emillie…did you see it?"

Emillie nodded, refusing to open her mouth for fear of never again reining in her sorrows. It was not until Revelie led her back to the couch and sat her down again that Emillie croaked, "He made himself King."

In an instant, Revelie went very still. She glanced over Emillie's head to where Kyra sat, then back. "What do you mean?"

"Has it not yet been announced?" Kyra laid a hand on Emillie's knee, then pulled it back.

Its absence stung. In front of one of her best friends, Emillie had no qualms about hiding who she was anymore. Revelie knew well enough about Kyra and how much Emillie had pined over the woman. Pretending they were merely a maid and her mistress would be an insult to their friendship.

Kyra, on the other hand, did not know when such motions were allowed.

"Not last I heard," Revelie admitted. "Though I have avoided leaving the shop or home since all the soldiers arrived."

Emillie wiped the tears from her face, welcoming any distraction from the constant ache in her chest. No amount of conversation could fill the hollow there, but at least it kept the horrible thoughts at bay. "They kept us from leaving for Waer Province. Have they been impeding business?"

The Caersan's empty laugh said enough. Nonetheless, she added, "What business? They have effectively quashed any sales in Laeton. Mage and fae merchants leave by the dozen—pack up during the day and are gone by nightfall. No one wants to be around those ruffians."

"Laeton will be starved," Emillie said, twisting her fingers into her skirts. " King Gard better pray our autumn harvests prove bountiful, or no one will make it through the winter."

Shaking her head, Revelie sneered at the title. "How dare he assume such a rank. Will the Lord Governors do nothing?"

"Alek and I were forced to swear fealty." Emillie's throat burned. She stared at her palms, remembering the way they had dripped crimson the night before. Her next words left her in a rasp, "Or he would have killed us, too."

Sensing the shift of Emillie's thoughts, Revelie took hold of her hand, her eyes searching. "What is Alek going to do?"

Emillie scoffed. "What can he do?"

Kyra gave her a sad smile, then said to Revelie, "He's doing everything he can to keep her safe."

"As he should," Revelie agreed. "What of Madan? Have you heard from him?"

She nodded to the letter still open beside her teapot. "He is locked away as well…but…"

Both women waited patiently for her to continue. She did not want to speak the words aloud, for Madan was the only one left of her family. If she said it, then she could be condemning him as readily as she had condemned her father by withholding her admission of love.

"Loren ordered Madan's death," she finally said, her throat burning again. The pit in her stomach yawned wide. "He has… mere nights before the officers in Eastwood are given the command."

Revelie cursed under her breath. "May the gods look over him."

With a shuddering breath, Emillie grimaced. "I fear the gods have abandoned us all."