33. Chapter 33

Chapter 33

S everal nights after collecting every prisoner's blood oath, Azriel stalked back to the barracks with the others, clinging to the memories of the day. They slipped through his fingers like a sieve. It was as though the harder he tried to recall the gaps of his memory, the faster it disappeared.

All he could see clearly was her . The worst of it was that it wasn't always her as he wanted to remember her. He saw her gangly limbs as Madan led her to freedom from Auhla . He saw the scars on her back. He saw the door closing behind her with her last words before her departure echoing again and again: I hate you more than you hate yourself .

He saw her severed head clasped in his hands, crumbling away with every gentle stroke of his thumb, accompanied by Melia's voice: This is what you deserve .

The guards ushered them through the only door of the barracks. He turned down the long hall to his cell when Paerish shouldered past the rest to walk alongside him as though to create a physical barrier between him and the guards. Had he attacked them before? Whatever caused the shift, Azriel didn't react. Gods, he could hardly remember why he hated the captain of the guards as much as he did. All he could muster was that they were Melia's pet, and he'd never forget his hate for the Desmo.

"I want you to know," Paerish said, their voice low enough that only he could hear the words, "I had no idea she'd done that to—"

Azriel rounded on them so fast they reeled back into the wall, eyes wide. He bared his fangs and stepped closer. "You don't speak of her."

Paerish held up their hands, eyes searching for—what? A glimmer of sanity? That was long gone. When they found what they wanted, they pushed off the wall and raised their chin to look at him fully. "Melia went too far."

"Melia is a monster," Azriel snarled. "And so is anyone who follows her."

To their credit, Paerish didn't balk. In fact, they nodded in agreement. "I sold my soul to this hell a long time ago and have only watched her spiral into madness since then."

He snorted. "Yet you stayed."

"I had no choice." Paerish shook their head as though they didn't have the energy or words to explain themself. He didn't want their excuses anyway. "I have a choice now. I won't stand by as she continues down this path."

Something sad shifted across the guard's face. It appeared and was gone in a heartbeat. A sorrow Azriel knew too well: the love held for someone who didn't return the sentiment. He'd gone months feeling that kind of pain.

"Then turn the other way," Azriel said, his voice gravelly, "and let me take care of it."

The responding airy laugh grated on his ears. Paerish lifted a hand, and the magic shifted around him. An invisible weight lifted from his shoulders and chest, and for the first time in weeks, he took a full, nourishing breath.

"Do what needs to be done." Paerish stepped back, brows pinching together as more magic worked its way through the air. "I won't stand in your way any longer."

Then they were gone. Azriel watched them go for a long minute before continuing to his cell. He sat with a grunt on his sorry excuse for a bed and glared at the doorway, just as he'd done so many nights before.

But the magical barrier didn't appear. No shimmer, no sign of the normal locks being thrown into place. Nothing. Not even the physical doors moved. If Paerish spoke the truth, then the magic keeping him—keeping all of them—locked away had gone the moment they eased whatever hold they had on him.

Azriel frowned at the thought. It couldn't have been that simple. If Melia had left such a powerful object open to the manipulation of others, she'd become entirely too self-assured in her position as a Desmo. Unless she'd made the mistake of believing Paerish would never betray her.

He slid his fingers between his neck and the collar fastened there. Where there had previously been a hum of magic, it felt…normal. Mere metal against flesh, warm to the touch thanks to his body heat and nothing else. When he tugged at it, no magic responded. Nothing warned him not to go any further.

Paerish had removed all traces of magic in the collar, reducing it to nothing but an ordinary band of metal. Fucking mages.

Shoving to his feet, Azriel marched back through the door of his cell. No familiar shock of pain. Nothing. And all down the hall, not one cell glimmered with the usual magic. Just like that, the guard had not only unleashed him but uncaged every single prisoner under Melia's control.

This is what you deserve .

Wicked delight curled through Azriel as he started down the corridor. When he got his hands on Melia, he would string her up and cut her to pieces. He'd conduct symphonies with her screams and paint masterpieces with her blood. Her entire existence would be reduced to art in the name of the wife she stole from him.

The prisoners stirred as he passed as though just coming to the same conclusion as he: they, too, were liberated. Liulund stepped from his cell at the same time as Sasja, staring at the shackles on his wrists in wonder while she flexed her fists. Both no doubt felt the now-unfamiliar strengths returning to their bodies. The fae magic and dhemon hardiness.

Without a word, Azriel exited the barracks. Moonlight shone down on him from the cloudless sky. The desert's nightly cold seeped into his skin, sending his entire body on high alert. Melia wouldn't be so foolhardy as to leave her perimeter unprotected, so he scanned the tops of the walls to count the silhouettes of mages. He strained his eyes, digging into the thermal vision to ensure an accurate estimation, then released the tension before accruing a headache.

"What's your plan?" Raoul stepped in beside him, following his gaze around the top of the walls. The metal around his wrists was gone, likely discarded as soon as his magic had returned.

Azriel snorted. "Plan? I don't make plans."

"At least get that collar off," Raoul replied, and magic hummed from him in offering.

He bent just enough for Raoul to wrap his hands around the metal, breaking it free. Azriel hadn't noticed how heavy the thing had been and entirely too restricting. A hard swallow only emphasized the sudden freedom when his larynx moved freely.

A shout echoed up from the wall as a guard finally stopped sleeping on the job and recognized prisoners outside their cells. The air vibrated with magic meant to fuse with that from their shackles. When nothing happened, they moved into action.

"The prisoners are loose!" The shout rose up from the wall as the mages rushed to descend upon them. A pair launched over the low balustrade, landing on light feet in a swirl of sand. Air rushed out from them before whipping up more of the fine grains to fashion into small tornadoes that spun toward Azriel and Raoul.

But the latter was already prepared. A huge, wicked grin spread across his face, lighting up his eyes as he said, "Gods, I missed this."

Raoul lifted his hands, palms down and fingers splayed, and beneath their feet rumbled. Sand shifted as rocks emerged in large chunks of stone. The unsteady ground halted the spiraling columns of sand, and he took advantage of the guards' hesitation by chucking the stones through the tornadoes, shattering them. They hurtled at the mages, who countered with their own elemental magic.

"Keep them busy," Azriel said, eyeing their swords.

The human laughed in response before splintering the training yard again. Back and forth he and the guards moved, attacking and defending. Azriel moved in a wide semi-circle, stumbling each time the mages summoned their magic and the ground shifted.

By the time he reached the first mage, the others from the wall had reappeared with more in tow. The sleepy-eyed guards, woken by their night-shift counterparts, shouted in outrage.

"Who let them out?"

"What happened to their bands?"

"Round them up!"

"Someone alert the Desmo!"

Magic flared to life all around him. That of the mages felt heavy and clung to Azriel's skin as it attacked his senses, whether it was directed at him or not. It was at once familiar to a dormant part of him, caged by the vampire curse in his blood while also maintaining its unnatural stench. Fae magic, on the other hand, exploded from behind him. It drifted through the air like seafoam on currents, lazy yet unyielding. Something from his dhemon ancestry stirred to its call.

Azriel couldn't dwell on it. Couldn't relish the flavors as the high fae met the mages in a vicious battle of skills. He, like Sasja, needed to find the guards with weapons to knick.

An ear-shattering howl cut through the night. Two lycans shot past Azriel, their beastly forms unbound. They tackled the nearest guards, ripping into them without mercy and cutting their screams of terror short as the massive jaws tore open their throats.

Launching forward, Azriel ripped a sword from one of the dead guards' sheaths and turned. Sasja dodged a mage's attack, and he called her name. As she turned, he tossed the blade to her, which she caught with deft hands. Her red eyes glowed in the darkness, no doubt seeing each foe like a temporal aura thanks to her heat vision. Within a heartbeat, she had cut through the attacking guard and rounded on the next.

He gathered another sword from a fallen guard and turned in time to see the one for whom he'd been waiting. His grip tightened on the blade's hilt as that horrible, beautiful rage curled through him. Across the yard, guards barked orders, screamed in agony, or called for help just before another prisoner broke their defenses.

But Azriel only saw Melia. She swept into the training grounds, her silver eyes alight. Her mouth formed a straight, tight line as she glared at him. Of course she blamed him. What she didn't know was that it was only thanks to her guard captain.

In an instant, everything went black. Silent. The cold of the desert night disappeared. Azriel stood in a vacuum of absolutely nothing.

At first, his heart thundered. She couldn't have possibly killed him so quickly. It wasn't possible. He'd heard tales of those who'd died and returned to the land of the living; they'd claimed to have seen nothing. No gods, no afterlife. Just a void of loneliness.

Then he sucked in a long, deep breath and calmed his panicking mind. No. She wouldn't kill him so quickly. She wouldn't allow him to leave the land of the living without suffering. Not until she was certain he had nothing left within him except pain. Not even the rage and hate he felt was enough of an endless torment for her.

So he bared his fangs and waited. His senses were gone, so he'd fight without them.

Azriel shifted his stance, sword held at the ready and free hand extended. If she were wise, she'd put another collar on him. One that she alone could control.

Magic lashed the side of his face, burning like fire before spreading into his blood. As swift as poison, it seeped down his neck and into his chest. It crept through his extremities, drawing a long, low groan from between gritted teeth.

Then it started. He couldn't tell if it was a product of Melia's or rogue magic he'd been hit with. All he knew was what he saw. What he smelled and felt and heard. Whether ripped from his memories or formed through Melia's own twisted imagination, it didn't matter.

All that mattered was that he saw her . Bright, oceanic eyes sparkled as she danced and danced in the arms of the General. She smiled up at Loren as though he were the center of her universe, and when he leaned down to whisper in her ear, her cheeks flushed. The resulting laugh sent daggers through him.

This is what you deserve .

Ariadne swayed with Loren, her midnight hair the perfect contrast to Loren's silver. She cupped his face, gaze dreamy despite the dancers around her—around all of them, for Azriel no longer existed in the void of darkness. He stood in the corner of the Harlow Estate's ballroom wearing his black guard clothes and watching them like a voyeur.

Another turn about the dance floor. The crimson engagement choker around Ariadne's neck gleamed with diamonds. Her dress turned from powder blue to dusty rose to ivory and silver. Her wedding dress.

Loren pulled her close, his body forming to hers like the missing piece of a puzzle. She laid her head on his chest, savoring the feeling of him against her. His icy eyes gleamed with victory as he looked down at her. Not love. Not devotion. Pure, wicked triumph.

Then he brushed her hair back from her face, and when she turned her gaze up to him again, it nearly shattered Azriel's heart. He lurched forward, feet stumbling on oddly soft ground. Something he held fell silently to the floor. Perhaps the chatter of the Caersan guests covered it up. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. She danced with the General, and he had to stop it.

He shoved through the crowd. They parted for him without a word, though his hands never touched anyone. He stumbled again. No matter how far he advanced, he never gained an inch. Ariadne and Loren, twirling at the center of the dance floor, remained out of reach.

"Ariadne!" His pitiful cry was lost even to his own ears.

She certainly didn't hear him. The only one who did was Loren. The General lifted his attention to Azriel, his mouth pulling into a smirk. "You lost ."

The words echoed in Azriel's mind. Again and again, louder and louder, the same two words. You lost . He shook his head. Another stumble forward, and he finally lost his footing. Azriel landed on his hands and knees, the wood floor giving like sand under his fingertips.

Ariadne followed Loren's line of sight and frowned. "Disgusting half-breed. Go back to the filth from which you crawled."

Loren took hold of her chin with his thumb and forefinger, returning her gaze to him. He stared at her mouth as he said, "Ignore him. He is nothing to you."

Another beautiful laugh, then Ariadne rose up on her toes and pressed her lips to Loren's. The General let out a satisfied moan, the hand on her back tucking her in close as he deepened the kiss.

Azriel blinked hard. The wood floor beneath his hands vanished, replaced by sand illuminated by moonlight. Screams cracked through the air around him, eclipsing the quartet's melody. Pain lanced through his side, and a guard ripped a dagger swirling with magic from his body, spilling blood across the sands.

He roared, still shaking from the images now burned in his mind. How long had he been under Melia's influence? By the pace of the fight around him, he wagered mere moments. It'd felt like an eternity. His bond ached as the vision played and replayed in his mind. The way Ariadne had looked at Loren…

The guard raised the dagger again. Azriel slammed his elbow back into the human's gut, grabbed his wrist, and twisted hard. The blade fell from his grasp, and Azriel caught it, then shoved it into the guard's throat.

With the guard disposed of, Azriel turned to discover why the scene had broken so suddenly: Raoul stood across from Melia in the strangest face-off he'd ever seen. While she fought with illusions, he hit back with the elements available to him. Wind whipped and sand flared, sending the fine grains into Melia's half-closed eyes. Illusions flashed in and out of focus, vampires with long, vicious fangs dripping with blood.

Anger flared to life, hot and sharp. Melia was his to kill, not Raoul's. He didn't care what he'd told Raoul before. Every prisoner in there had reason to hate her. Every one of them wanted to see her dead.

But the Desmo, after all she'd done over the weeks—the years —belonged to him.

This is what you deserve .

"Melia!" He shoved back to his feet and stalked forward, shaking the illusions still haunting him from his mind. All around, guards and prisoners surged to and fro. As the prisoners worked, it became increasingly obvious why the guards required the magic-inhibiting shackles. Their skills were not at the same level of those who chose the Pits as their punishment.

A mage stepped into his path, face pale from overusing his magic. He didn't wear his usual shemagh and was likely woken after a long day of standing in the sun. His pale skin glistened with sweat, the exertion of the battle clearly not something he was accustomed to.

There had been times in Azriel's life when he offered to let an opponent go. If they stepped aside, he'd forget he ever saw them.

This was not one of those times. This mage, weary as he was, put himself in Azriel's way. He knew full well what he was doing. There would be no mercy.

Dagger in hand, Azriel sank low into his thighs. It didn't matter if the mage wanted to use a blade or magic. He wouldn't have the chance for either.

The mage brought his hands together, and Azriel surged forward. His feet slid in the sand, weakening his charge, but he still got his hands around the back of the mage's knees and slammed him to the ground. A tendril of magic lashed across his back like a whip. He snarled at the memories it pried from the dormant recesses of his mind before taking advantage of the human's lack of physical defense training and kicking him hard in the side.

What felt akin to hands wrapped around Azriel's limbs, dragging him backward like a marionette. He fought against the hold. Dhemon strength against magic.

But the mage was slipping. Each second of energy used to keep him at bay only drained the man more. Fear crept into his eyes as bit by bit, Azriel powered through the weakening grasp. Still on the ground, he scrambled back as though distance would keep him alive.

The moment the magic snapped, Azriel threw the dagger. It plunged into the mage's chest at the same moment Melia drove a blade up beneath Raoul's rib cage, just far enough from his heart to make the inevitable death slow and painful. Blood sprayed from the human's lips, coating the front of the Desmo.

Azriel lunged forward, catching his friend as his knees buckled. Sasja stepped up to Melia, who now stood weaponless except for her magic. The dhemon woman snarled as she stalked forward with a vicious glint in her eyes, sword dripping with the blood of guards.

Raoul's eyes widened as he understood what was happening; there wasn't a mage in the vicinity capable of or willing to heal him. His stupid human body wouldn't mend itself fast enough to keep him alive. Just long enough to draw it out.

"I fucked up," Raoul gurgled. "Let those stupid…illusions in."

For the last week, Azriel didn't believe himself capable of feeling anything beyond his shattered bond. Nothing had mattered aside from vengeance. Recruiting the prisoners under a blood oath to serve him had been a means to an end. A way to utilize their skills beyond the Pits.

Holding Raoul in his final moments cracked open a piece of him he hadn't realized still felt something . His first friend in this gods' forsaken desert. The one who'd made him laugh when he fell into despair. The one who ensured he remembered his own name every morning. The one who kept the broken pieces of his mind and heart together as they slogged their way through life under the Desmo.

"Shut up," he snapped, a familiar tightness in his throat forcing him to swallow hard. All around them, the fighting continued, though slower now as the guards fell. He didn't want to see how many prisoners had met their end. "You should've left her to me."

A pained grin spread across Raoul's face. "And let you…have all the fun?"

Azriel tried to laugh, but it came out as more of a quiet sob. Tears pricked at his eyes. Gods, he was so sick of crying. So tired of having the people he loved dying all around him.

A guard rushed at them, seeing the opportunity to put an end to Azriel as sure as the end beckoned Raoul. A tendril of shadow crept across the mage's throat before tightening and, in the next moment, snapping the guard's neck in midstride. Liulund lowered his hands as the human's body collapsed to the sand, then turned to the next foe, darkness writhing at his feet.

A shadow-wielder. Azriel would have to remember that. Somehow.

"Kill me," Raoul said, the smile vanishing and dragging Azriel's attention back to him. "Don't let her…be the one. Use my blood. You need it."

For a long moment, Azriel stared at him. What he suggested was, quite possibly, Raoul's worst nightmare. To die by a vampire? Nothing frightened the human more. Even the illusions Melia had cast to distract him had been of bloodthirsty Caersans.

"I'm dying anyway," the human argued, his voice weaker. His breath hitched, then quickened. "Take it…and kill her. Let me…help you kill her."

Azriel could feel the human's heartbeat slowing. His chest moved slower, and when jostled, he didn't speak again.

"Thank you," he said, hoping his friend heard the words before he dug his fangs into Raoul's neck. The human jerked, the movements weak and delayed, as the blood gushed into Azriel's mouth, then diverted up his hollow fangs.

He hated it. Hated taking his friend's life in a last-ditch attempt to free himself. Hated the sudden surge of energy. Hated the way he couldn't stop—wouldn't stop until he had everything he needed.

At least he'd likely forget the entire ordeal. It was the one bit of comfort Azriel had left. Perhaps that's why dhemons with broken bonds lost their memories: they wouldn't be able to live with themselves if they remembered all their terrible deeds.

Once sated, Azriel lay Raoul's body on the sand and stepped over him. He vibrated with renewed energy, the stab wound in his side closing at a much faster rate.

He rounded on Melia. Sasja had pushed the mage back against an outer wall, the dhemon holding up against the illusions swirling around her with admirable clarity. She fought dhemons positioned around the Desmo like guards, one of whom had a face that stopped Azriel dead in his tracks.

The Crowe. His father. How had she remembered him in such clear detail? Not a scar out of place. The same twist of his mouth as he sneered.

"Melia!" Azriel called again.

This time, the mage looked at him. Her silver eyes widened a fraction at his renewed vigor.

No weapon in hand, he didn't slow. He couldn't. Not after Raoul's sacrifice. Not after what she'd done to Ariadne.

The Crowe pushed forward, knocking Sasja back. He towered over her with his usual ax in hand, ready to strike. Ready to carry out Melia's bidding.

"Let her go, Melia," Azriel snapped and held his arms wide. "You have me instead."

A shadow passed overhead too fast for a cloud. He didn't dare look up. Didn't dare to take his eyes off the Desmo as she focused on him. The illusions refocused as well, turning their full attention to his approach.

"And I'll have you for a very long time." Melia flicked her wrists, and the dhemons started forward.

The shadow, so perfectly blending in with the night sky, landed with a deafening roar on the outer wall just above Melia. Black claws dug into the red stone that crumbled beneath it, and a burst of flames illuminated the training grounds, highlighting the corpses littered across the sand.

Razer roared again and reached his long neck forward, snapping up a screaming guard with his massive jaws and tossing them across the grounds. But it wasn't his dragon's sudden appearance that made Azriel's steps falter. It was the rider on his back.

Ariadne, clad in black leather armor engraved and shimmering with magic wards, clasped a black spike with one hand. A short sword pointed at Melia, she said, "He's mine ."

Razer rumbled beneath Ariadne as she slid down his foreleg into the sand below. She gripped the sword tight, praying to any god listening that Melia would not see her hands shaking. Such a grand entrance could not be marred by the absolute terror lancing through her. Even with a dragon at her back, facing off against Melia scared her more than anything.

Particularly after what had happened in the chateau.

Images of Emillie strung up, screaming—of Azriel dying in her arms—of Ehrun dragging his blade through the flesh of her friends and family—of her world shattering slammed to the forefront. They made her heart skip. Her breath catch. Her blood run cold.

She shoved the memories aside. Now was not the time to dwell on what Melia had done. Now was the time to remind the mage that Caersans were not to be trifled with. There was a reason a peace treaty had been signed between their people. Vampires were dangerous, and Melia would do well to remember such things.

"Get the prisoners to safety," Ariadne said to Razer, one hand still resting on his blue-black scales. "Kill the guards."

The dragon almost grinned in response before starting forward. Melia stumbled out of the way, her silver eyes wide. It was almost comical.

"You wretched bitch," the mage hissed, rounding on her once the dragon had busied himself with terrorizing the guards. "I should've killed you."

" Should have?" Azriel snarled and stepped forward, stopping only when Ariadne pointed her sword at him in warning.

She took a step closer to Melia and agreed, "You should have. Now I will have the pleasure of killing you as I intended."

A wicked smirk curled the mage's lips, her pretty face already speckled with blood. "I don't think you will."

The world shifted around her, taking on a very different appearance. Where the night sky had been, a ceiling of pale pink and gold stretched above her. Great chandeliers hung down, and Caersans moved to the beat of the quartet. The scent of florals and cedarwood drifted by as the dancers twirled.

Ariadne stood at the edge of the dance floor wearing a gown of periwinkle. It shimmered as she shifted to study herself and for a long moment, her mind scrambled to keep up with what was happening.

The illusion was so complete, even Azriel had disappeared from her line of sight. Melia no longer existed. Screams of dying guards and the steady beat of Razer's wings faded away.

And none of it was real. Ariadne clung to that one simple fact. Her heart raced, each beat slamming into her ribs like a drum. She knew just how dangerous Melia's illusions could be. She had witnessed firsthand their power.

This time, she came prepared. Phulan's wards, imbued into the leather armor Kall had been secretly making her over the weeks, lessened the illusion's hold on her mind. Unlike the last time she encountered Melia's mind trap, she knew precisely what was happening around her. The mage held no power over her thoughts—only the images she planted in her mind.

So Ariadne stepped forward, gripping hard to the sword she knew she still held even if she could not see it. Another step, the sand shifting beneath her feet despite the white marble appearance. Around her, Caersans whispered amongst themselves about her strange behavior as she stalked across the dance floor.

Until, of course, her way became blocked by the one vampire she did not want to see. Loren looked down at her, a smile curling his lips. His face was a perfect replica. But that was all it was: a replica.

"Stop hiding," Ariadne snapped, shoving against Loren's chest. He felt real, just like every other illusion she had experienced. "Are you truly so cowardly?"

Another push. Loren did not give. Then he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her in close, and she cursed in repulsion. His hold on her only grew tighter. Tighter. Until the air pressed from her lungs.

Then she smelled it. Smelled him . A crack in the illusion, or perhaps an effect of the wards. While the one holding her looked like Loren, it was actually Azriel.

His mind had been infiltrated, and Melia would use him to kill her. In his dhemon form, he was much stronger. Despite her stronger vampire bones, they would not hold up against him for long. Another piece of his endless torment.

Ariadne pressed the heels of her hands to his hips, desperately trying to remember Kall's instructions on how to get out of this as the air squeezed from her lungs. Of course it had to be one of the positions she struggled with the most in practice. Her saving grace was the Loren illusion. If she saw the dhemon beneath, Azriel or no, she would not be able to focus.

"Azriel," she said on an exhale, "let me go."

His hold loosened. Somewhere beyond the illusion plaguing his mind, the bond listened to her voice. He responded to her command despite himself, and she wished she knew what he thought her to be. Why was he trying to crush her? It made no sense. Not when she had seen his techniques.

Rather than dwell on it, Ariadne moved. She took advantage of the hesitation by pivoting to bring her back to his chest, hips low. Wrapping her empty hand up and around his arm, she pulled it taut to her chest, then brought her feet together and, using her hips to leverage him off his heels, rolled him over her shoulder.

Azriel-Loren landed on his back, then scrambled to grab her again. She stepped back, swatting his hand away. Again, he lunged. This time, his fingers wrapped around her ankle, and she stumbled. Pivoting, she swung into a crouch behind him as fast as her vampire body could move. It remained her only advantage against a dhemon.

Before Azriel-Loren could respond, Ariadne dropped her sword and snaked her hand around his neck, fitting the crook of her arm tight against his throat. She tucked her face close, just as Kall had instructed to protect herself from possible head-butts, and grasped her own bicep. Azriel had used the same move against Loren in their duel. Now she would use it on him, praying she knew when to let go.

"It kill," Kall had told her when explaining the technique weeks ago. "Let go to let live."

Her illusioned husband in her hold writhed, digging his fingers into her arm to pull himself free. She did not let go. Did not let him gain the upper hand so long as he did not remember who she was.

At least not until his body went limp. Her heart thundered, and she released him. She had taken too long, and though the illusion continued around her, Melia could be anywhere. Azriel-Loren seized on the floor before her, his body jerking as it slowly regained consciousness. If it were not for Loren's face plastered over that of her husband, she would not have been able to grope through the illusion for her sword and walk away.

As it were, Ariadne turned to follow the gust of magic swelling across the dance floor. Phulan had spent their weeks together ingraining the feeling of magic in Ariadne through incessant repetition until she was certain she could track it to its source. The more magic conjured, the stronger the currents.

And Melia used an exorbitant amount of magic for her illusions.

"Do you think you can kill me, Cressida ?" Melia's voice echoed all around her as though coming from the Caersans summoned from her own mind.

That the Desmo could see into her memories made Ariadne's skin crawl; it was not something anyone knew Melia capable of until the incident in the chateau. She continued forward, focusing hard to find a seam to the illusion sewn around her. There were telling signs; the sand underfoot, the lack of a dress hem around her ankles, the scent of death in the air, and most notably, the cool desert wind that rustled her loose hairs. Melia's strength was waning, and with it, the images.

Ariadne walked straight toward the wall behind which the magic seemed to pulse. Her mind told her to stop—to find a door or window. Instead, she plowed on. She closed her eyes, bracing for the impact.

But none came. The wall and surrounding illusion dissolved as she broke through the boundaries to find Melia on the far side, the tip of a sword against Azriel's throat. He still lay on the ground, eyes closed and blood dribbling down his neck from the point. Had she walked in a circle without realizing?

"Drop your sword." It was not a request, Melia's gaze burning with hate. "I don't want to kill him. Trust me. This will be far more entertaining."

Swallowing hard, Ariadne did as she was told. She took a step closer and raised her hands before her in surrender. "Let him go."

"Why would I do such a thing?"

Another step. "Keeping him here will not accomplish what you desire."

A small smirk flashed across the mage's face. "And you presume to know what I desire?"

"I know you want him to suffer." Closer. Closer. "I know you want him to pay for what he did to you."

The smile vanished as quickly as it appeared. "You know nothing . Step back."

This time, Ariadne did not do as she was told. She hesitated. Considered. Then she rushed the last few steps between them, lowering her elevation to grab Melia's forward leg, tuck her head against the mage's belly, and shove her to the ground.

The mage landed, stunned, in the sand, and the last of her illusions shattered. The Azriel on the ground became a dead guard. A decoy.

A fresh wave of hot anger swept through Ariadne. She bared her fangs and kicked the sword out of Melia's hand, but the mage grabbed her grounded foot and yanked. Ariadne fell hard, tucking her chin to her chest to keep from smacking her head upon impact.

Then another illusion blossomed around them. A forest at night amongst a sea of ferns. Broad evergreens stretched high above them, blocking out the starry sky above. Nocturnal animals rustled through the underbrush and scurried up trees.

Before Ariadne could focus on the new surroundings, she threw herself forward and wrapped her arms around the unseen mage. Melia slammed back down. A fist hit Ariadne in the cheek, and for a moment, she reeled back as the pain cracked through her face. Again, Melia tried to writhe out of her grasp, but she held firm with one hand before dragging her body to lie on top of the mage.

Another punch. Another scramble to get away. Something hot trickled from her nose, and a familiar metallic taste blossomed across her tongue.

Ariadne blindly felt up Melia's arms and neck until she found the mage's face. She returned the favor, then brought her own wrist to her mouth and used her fangs to tear open her skin. Pain lanced up her arm. It did not matter. Not if this worked.

For once, she prayed her father had been correct.

A different illusion replaced the forest. A trick of a different sense. As the sand and ruined red wall returned to Ariadne's view, Melia disappeared along with any physical feeling of her.

No . Ariadne grappled for where the mage's face had just been and slid her bleeding arm everywhere she could reach. Something—some one —was there, for her blood did not touch the sand. It smeared over…nothing before disappearing.

Within a few heartbeats, Melia returned, and all traces of her illusions withered away. Blood swept across the Desmo's mouth. She turned and spit into the sand as though ridding herself of the vampire blood would bring her magic back faster.

In truth, Ariadne had no idea how long she had before Melia regained her illusions. Rather than find out, she clambered onto the mage's chest and cracked a fist across her face hard enough to make her stop struggling.

Before Melia could recover, Ariadne dug her fangs into the mage's throat. At first, Melia shrieked and thrashed. Ariadne held firm, twisting her fingers into the woman's hair and pinning her head to the ground.

It was not long before the Desmo ceased her desperate flailing, and a pair of hands pulled Ariadne back.

"Enough." Nothing but that deep, gravelly voice would have sufficed in stopping her from completely draining the mage. "She's dead, Ariadne."

While not as potent as another vampire's, Melia's blood rushed through her like a breath of fresh air. She had not consumed so much in one sitting since Azriel had been taken—mere offerings from Phulan. It revitalized her in a way she dared not consider.

Particularly when she finally turned her gaze up to him . When she finally searched his ruby eyes as though seeking confirmation that it was truly he and not another trick of her mind. But the longer she stared, the more the reality set in.

Azriel was alive.

Ariadne's knees gave out from the relief, but she never reached the ground. His arms wrapped around her, hauling her up against his thin body. He buried his face against her neck, thick horns framing them in like a cage of bones, and shuddered.

"What is wrong?" she breathed, her throat hot and tight as he let out a quiet wail. "Azriel…are you hurt?"

He shook his head, horn bumping her face gently. "You were dead."

Her heart cracked. The look of astonishment on his face had given her the courage to face Melia. She had not realized it was because he saw a ghost. "Why would you think that?"

"Because Melia…" His voice broke, and he pulled back, taking her face in his hands to look her over as though still reassuring himself it was she he held. He rubbed his thumb over her cheek and shuddered. "She gave me your head."

Ariadne's mind whirled. The devastation she had endured in those moments at the Pits, watching him give up, had been excruciating. Time had slowed, and she had known nothing but the pure terror of almost watching the man she loved above all else die. Nothing would have brought her back from that.

But for him, bound to her through that soul-deep bond she could never understand, to have been presented with her head ? Unfathomable.

"If I could bring her back," Ariadne rasped, leaning into his touch to further convince him of her presence, "just to kill her again…I would do so a thousand times for what she has done to you."

Wing beats broke the eerie silence around them. Razer landed behind Azriel, tucking his membranous wings in tight to his scaled body. Though Azriel did not take his eyes from her face, he stilled, speaking to his dragon mind-to-mind. He threaded his fingers into her hair, the fear slowly draining from his eyes as whatever they said quelled his doubt.

"We need to go," Azriel said after a moment. He stepped back, still holding on to her like she was his last tether to the world. His hand slipped from her face, down her neck and arm, to her hand. "Kall and Phulan are waiting for us."

She nodded. There was so much to tell him, though she was certain Razer was able to explain a good portion through their mental connection. But it needed to wait until they were all far from Algorath.

Azriel hoisted her onto Razer's back before clambering up himself. He tucked his body in close behind her, one arm wrapped around her waist. Razer stretched his wings, readying to launch them into the sky, when Azriel said, "Burn it all."