4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

N othing tasted better than victory. Aside from, perhaps, vengeance…and Loren had both. Witnessing Azriel's downfall after all he had done since the beginning of the Season had soothed the wounds to his ego. For the brooding bastard to have proved him right by tearing down soldiers like a savage beast had only sweetened the moment.

The scene replayed in his mind's eye again and again as he arrived at the prison the following night. Ariadne's screams. Azriel's look of utter defeat. The Princeps' disgust at what he had allowed into his own home. Even the blood of his soldiers, Nikolai included, had been worth it.

Everything had gone exactly as he had planned, short of one thing: Madan's absence. Somehow, Azriel had been wise enough to send the traitorous Caersan away. After the nights Loren had spent attempting to extricate any incriminating information about the disgraced Lord Governor, he was shocked the vampire survived. No one survived aegrisolis.

Reining in his stallion, Loren dismounted in a sweep of his crimson cloak. Wearing his uniform without critical Caersans leering at him stoked his pride. News traveled fast through the Society; his instructions for soldiers to spread the word had helped. In truth, he never truly set the uniform aside and, indeed, continued many of his duties as General during his leave of absence. Still, he had not enjoyed the glares from the men and women of the Society. They were beneath him in more ways than one, and now they would all see him for what he truly was: a leader and threat to any enemy, in or out of their great kingdom.

The prison loomed behind the Court House where the Council met, and many of the capital's crimes were sentenced. Though hidden from the main highway, a large courtyard sprawled before it where a wooden stage stood. Atop it were various tools for punishment: the stocks, pillory, noose, and Loren's personal favorite, the lashing post.

Azriel would not receive any of those punishments for his crimes. No. Loren could not risk him surviving another beating or his strong dhemon bones saving him from such a short drop. He could not even leave the bastard's body hanging for the sun since it would not kill him.

No. He would not make such mistakes again. This time, he would not be satisfied until the filthy dhemon's head was mounted on his wall.

At the doors to the prison, the guard placed his fist over his heart and inclined his head in the traditional salute of a soldier. Loren's mouth curled, and he swept by without a word.

The last time he had gone in search of Azriel in the prison, the bastard had been held in a common cell easily accessible by any soldier or guard. This time, Loren did not stop until he arrived at the block containing the most terrible offenders: murderers and rapists. They sat behind doors of iron in cells with no light and hardly large enough to lie down. The key for each lock remained separate from the warden's key ring to prevent any mass break-outs.

Loren alone held Azriel's.

He pulled the thick skeleton key, hanging by a silver chain, from his pocket and stood in silence outside the cell for a long moment. Too soon, he would bring a greatsword down on the half-breed's neck. The motion would put an end to that chapter of his life. Until then, he would relish every second he had lording his victory over the pathetic horned fae.

Several clicks sounded as the lock tumbled and gave way. The door swung open, allowing the torchlight of the corridor to bleed into the tiny cell.

The dhemon knelt at the far end, navy arms stretched taut in either direction by chains, and his face tilted away from the sudden rush of light. The annuli of his black horns appeared to ripple as he turned his squinting red eyes back to the corridor. He bared his sharp teeth like an animal, and his expression shifted into a glare.

"Come now," Loren simpered. "Is that how you treat your General?"

Azriel said nothing. His mouth closed, and as his eyes adjusted, he looked at him fully.

"I came to let you know," Loren continued, unperturbed, "all has been settled between the Princeps and me. I look forward to ending the Season as it was meant to start: with Ariadne in my bed."

Rage pulsed from the dhemon. His fingers closed into fists, and his muscles rippled with the strain of self-control. That ruby gaze hardened from hatred to pure loathing.

Loren did not hide his smirk. "Tell me something…did you love her?"

Again, no response.

"Or…" Loren leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, crossing his arms as though the one-sided conversation were a casual chat amongst friends. "Did you bond to her, as you ridiculous fae are wont to do?"

A muscle ticked in Azriel's jaw. Though he did not verbally confirm anything, he let his gaze drop to the floor. It was enough of a confirmation for Loren.

"You did." He chuckled at the absurdity of it all. "That explains a lot, I suppose."

Azriel's nostrils flared, eyes wide as he studied the stones between his knees. What Loren would not give to listen to the bastard's thoughts. To taste that tang of hate. To revel in the gut-twisting defeat he no doubt felt.

"I want you to rest assured," Loren continued, "she will be well taken care of—night and day. I will see to her every want and need, and she will forget you ever existed."

Then Azriel did what Loren least expected. He laughed. The dhemon raised his gaze back up to him and laughed, dark and filled with heartless mirth. The sound, hollow and cold, echoed off the prison walls.

"Perhaps I will keep you alive a little longer," Loren spat, heat rising up his neck. "And make you watch."

The dhemon leaned forward, arms stretching and face twisting with wicked glee. When at last he spoke, his voice was not as Loren expected. The lower tones and gravelly crackle pushed him fully into the category of monster . "If watching her put a blade in your throat is to be my final moments, I will greet death with open arms."

Loren stared at him for a long moment. How was one meant to respond to such statements? The idyllic threat of a dead man. He pushed off the wall and squared up to the prisoner. "If she wants to play with knives, I will gladly show her how. I get the sense she is not only accustomed to such activities but will do precisely as I tell her once I have made her a little more…agreeable."

The glare returned in an instant. So the bastard knew something Loren did not, it would seem, though he guessed correctly. Ariadne had been so tight-lipped about what occurred in the mountains with the dhemons, Loren was uncertain he would ever get any useful information from her. Now he knew why: she had spent her nights at the mercy of monsters, enduring a similar level of agony he had inflicted on Madan.

"General Gard." Markus Harlow's voice cut through Loren's thoughts.

Shaking the mental image of Ariadne strung up naked from his mind, Loren turned to look down the corridor again. "My Lord Princeps, what can I do for you?"

"I am glad to have caught you here." Markus clasped Loren's forearm. "I had hoped to have a moment to speak with the prisoner."

"Of course, my Lord."

"Privately."

Something cold twisted in Loren's gut. The last time they had rendezvoused at the prison to speak with Azriel, it had been together. No secrets between them—aside, perhaps, from Loren's own intention of foregoing their agreed-upon punishment of fifty lashes. That the Princeps now wished to speak with the bastard on his own only made Loren suspicious.

Despite his misgivings, Loren nodded. Markus outranked him, after all. That he had not merely demanded the private setting was a sign of the Princeps' full forgiveness.

Loren placed the key in Markus' hand and stepped aside. "I shall wait in the next block, then."

"Very good."

Markus shoved the key into his pocket, then waited in silence as Loren retreated down the corridor. Of course he would not begin speaking until he was out of earshot. Loren would do the same.

Closing the door between cell blocks, Loren could not shake the feeling that all of his plans were about to change.

Azriel had known this moment would arrive as soon as he shifted in the Harlow Estate foyer. Not only Loren's poor attempt at goading him into a violent reaction but Markus' inevitable questioning. Even as he'd ripped through the soldiers holding him back from Ariadne, he'd seen the sudden, jarring understanding on the Princeps' face. All Markus needed now was confirmation.

And Azriel had yet to decide if he'd give it to the Caersan.

When Loren retreated, the door of the cell block closing and locking behind him, Azriel leveled his gaze on the man left before him. Once upon a time, he'd feared Markus Harlow—feared the man he'd called Father for so long. It'd only grown to sheer terror after those violent moments in the woods outside the Caldwell Estate.

After cutting down Azriel's mother, Markus had turned to him, face dripping crimson and twisted with hate. Behind the then-General, his mother watched in horror and uttered the final word he ever heard from her: " Run ."

Azriel had been young. A teenager in years, but his body had been small. His short legs and frail muscles were no match against a full-grown Caersan vampire. He'd listened to his mother's final request and turned, heart thundering in his little chest, to race away.

At first, he'd stumbled, the ground damp with slick fallen leaves. Markus's footsteps behind him were slow and steady. The vampire stalked him like a lion, relishing the moments before his kill. Still, Azriel had scrambled away, blinded by panic and the desperate wish that it was all just a bad dream.

Markus never spoke during those moments, but Madan had. The tiny, toddler-sized boy barreled into his father's legs and clutched him at the knees. His small voice had cracked as he screamed, "Please, Father! Stop! Stop !"

Then, the Crowe had appeared. Azriel reached for him, and like a true father, the Crowe clasped his hand firm to pull him away from the murderous Caersan. At the sight of the dead woman on the ground behind them, the Crowe had lost all senses. He'd yanked Madan back from Markus and barreled into the Caersan with a roar.

Azriel had covered Madan's eyes as they fought, but he could not peel his own from the carnage.

Now, as he stared up at Markus Harlow, shoulders aching from the strain of the chains, Azriel felt nothing more than an empty void. He'd trained for centuries to become strong enough to face Valenul's previous General and make him pay for what he'd done to his family.

"I have questions for you." Markus didn't lean casually in the doorway as Loren had. He stood, feet spread and arms crossed, as he surveyed Azriel with cool calculation.

As he had done with Loren, Azriel said nothing. The murderer before him didn't deserve any answers. He'd already gone too long pretending as though he had nothing but respect for the Caersan. There was no need to continue the charade.

Markus' lips thinned at the silence. "If you do not answer them of your own free will, then I will make Madan answer them by force."

Cold dread pooled in Azriel's gut. Madan could withstand torture—he'd proven that time after time. But after he'd been taken and nearly killed by Loren, Azriel wouldn't gamble on his brother's life again. If he were to die soon anyway, the least he could do was keep his wife and brother safe.

So Azriel let his head drop onto his shoulder, his horns curling around his arm, and responded, "What do you want to know?"

A small smirk of triumph curled the Princeps' mouth. "Who are you?"

"Lord Governor Azriel Caldwell, half-dhemon and your son-in-law, whether you like it or not." Azriel noted the tension in the Caersan's shoulders building.

"Marriage to dhemons is unlawful, therefore—"

"There is no law stating such," Azriel cut in. "Arrogant Caersans assumed it unnecessary to make it official."

Markus narrowed his eyes. "I will make it so that wedding never happened."

"You're quite good at that." Azriel sneered, lifting his head again. "Not the first time you've made a marriage disappear from history books and silenced those who knew of it."

The Princeps stilled. His nostrils flared, and that golden, hawk-like gaze seared into him like an inferno. He shifted his footing. "Interesting. So I ask again: who are you ?"

"Lord Governor—"

"No." Carefully tempered rage radiated from Markus. "How do you know of my past?"

Now they were getting somewhere. Azriel smirked at him. "Before I tell you anything, I want you to understand one thing: Ariadne knows everything. Everything . And if you so much as look at Madan wrong, she will expose you. She's stronger than you believe."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Tell me something, Father ," Azriel hissed and slowly pushed to his feet, using the chains to stand so, despite the awkward position from the shackles at his wrists and ankles, he towered over the Caersan. "Did you get pleasure out of killing her? Drinking her blood to save yourself? Trying to murder a young boy who'd idolized you?"

The color drained from Markus' face. He set his jaw in defiance and glared up at Azriel with disgust. "Isaiah."

"Did you love me once?" Azriel asked, tilting his head and taking a small step forward. To his credit, Markus didn't balk. "Or did you always hate me?"

"I am the one asking questions."

"Are you ashamed of me?" Azriel pressed, fists curling.

"Enough."

Another step forward—as far as the chains allowed. "Or have I finally made you proud ?"

"You are not my son." Markus' voice dropped to just above a whisper. He glanced behind him as though to reassure himself no one could overhear their conversation. It had taken a turn he hadn't expected. "You were never my son."

Azriel lifted a lip in a snarl. "But you were my father —Mattias's father—and we both loved you more than anything."

"Lies." He let his arms fall to his sides as though preparing to block a blow that would never come. "You always knew of the Crowe. And Mattias—"

"Was always your blood-born son."

"The Crowe killed him."

The laugh Azriel let out turned cold. "You've tried so hard to ignore what's right in front of you."

A crease formed between Markus' brows. Azriel watched as the calculations totaled up and the Princeps' lips parted in understanding. He said nothing, however, as he glared back.

"Perhaps," Azriel continued in a low growl, "things would've been different if you'd just accepted us all rather than run from your responsibilities. If you hadn't abandoned us in Eastwood, we never would've known—"

"I kept you in Monsumbra for your own safety."

"Now who's lying?"

Markus stood a little straighter. "You dare to understand—"

"I do understand." Azriel leaned forward, his full dhemon height still enough to scowl down at his would-be father . "And I hope the rest of our life is filled with regret and sorrow, for now you know: your only blood-born son lives, now rules Eastwood Province as a Caldwell, and despises you. Your daughters know the truth of your lies. You will never escape the choices you made."

The door to the cell block opened, and two voices filled the corridor. Markus shot a final glare at him, then stepped back to look down at who entered.

"You have no business here," Loren snapped.

A low chuckle, then Alek Nightingale replied, "Oh, but I do. The Princeps and I have an arrangement."

"With him ?" Loren's voice bordered on hysterical.

Azriel frowned and retreated again. The walls and ceiling pressed in on him. What sort of arrangement could Alek have with the Princeps, and how did it pertain to him? Cold seeped into his bones, and for a long moment, Azriel couldn't comprehend what was happening.

"Lord Governor Nightingale," Markus said, his voice returning to its usual imperiousness, "thank you for meeting me here."

"My Lord Princeps." Alek stopped to grasp the other Caersan's forearm, then turned to peer inside the cell. He winked before turning back to the other vampires. Strange. "My men are ready to leave immediately."

Loren balled his fists, face red with rage. "What is the meaning of this?"

The corner of Markus' mouth ticked up in a sly smirk. He glanced back at Azriel. "I swore an oath to protect Valenul from all threats. This particular manner of beast threatened not only the lives of those I love most but the livelihood of our High Society."

All around Azriel, the air grew thin. He looked between each Caersan with wide eyes. He'd expected an execution—a swift end to the life he'd taken for granted. This was not what he'd planned.

"Lord Nightingale wishes to open a fighting arena," Markus continued, "to profit from violent prisoners and make their executions a bit more…entertaining."

No. Azriel knew what came next. He scrambled to keep up with the sudden shift of his fortunes.

"How does this pertain to that monster?" Loren jerked his head toward Azriel.

"Algorath already has a similar system in place," Alek replied, his black eyes glittering with mischief. "I suggested a demonstration of just how much gold such sports can bring in. Much of it would go towards the military."

Still, Loren shook his head. "This prisoner is not for sale."

"Oh," Alek chuckled, "but he is."

Markus nodded once. "Very good. He is to be sent to Algorath immediately, General, to fight in the Pits. If he dies there, then his execution is concluded. If he survives…perhaps we will bring him back as our first fight in Valenul."

Azriel couldn't breathe. If he went to Algorath, there'd be no coming back. He had enemies in the mage city. Enemies he couldn't hide from if he were to become a spectacle. If Melia found him…execution would be a dream come true in comparison to what she'd do.

"My Lord Princeps," Loren hissed, "I must insist he remain for—"

"It has been decided." Markus looked to Azriel, a grin displaying his long fangs. "This monster will finally get what he has been owed for centuries."

You will not return the same . You never do .

Ariadne's father had said those words to her at her wedding reception. Unfortunately for him, he had no idea how true they were. When she had been taken to Ehrun in those far-off mountains, she returned half the Caersan she had once been. She barely ate, woke frequently from day terrors, and could not withstand the din and pressure of Society balls. A ghost of her former self had roamed the halls.

Then she had returned after learning of Azriel's true lineage—after learning it had been he who abducted her from her own home. Again, she had felt broken and betrayed, though she had stood up for herself. She demanded more from her husband in every aspect to earn back her love and trust.

Now she returned a thunderstorm at midnight, billowing through the manor without regard and leaving wreckage in her wake. She had worked too hard for too long to regain her sense of self, and Azriel had been an integral part of that. To have him taken from her so swiftly and without any true accusations aside from his parentage—a fact he could not control—opened a chasm within her from which every shadowy piece of herself crawled.

"I am going to the prison," her father had announced to her and Emillie at breakfast. "Would you care to join me?"

Ariadne had glared at him. "Are you releasing my husband and allowing us safe passage to Monsumbra?"

He had looked at her with exhaustion written across his face, golden eyes flashing. "That monster deserves nothing more than—"

She stabbed the tip of her cutlery knife into the wood of the table, making Emillie jump at the sudden show of aggression, and stood to seethe down at him. "Release him."

"Never." He had sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closed for a long moment. "Daughter—"

"You are not my father," she snarled, shoving away from the table. Across the table, Emillie sucked in a sharp breath. "You are no better than the dhemon who carved his name into my back."

He looked at her, aghast. "What?"

"You have imprisoned me here," she bit out, "sentenced my husband to death for a crime he did not commit, and expect me to see you as anything other than the true monster?"

"Ariadne, enough." He shook his head and turned back to his plate. "You are acting like a child."

"Fuck you." She had backed away from him, unwilling to turn her back to the Caersan. "I pray Keon finds you in the end."

He had left shortly after, and she had sequestered in her room, unable to stomach anything more. Even Emillie's presence had done little to soothe the war raging inside her. Soon, Loren's announcement for Azriel's execution would come, and she had no idea how they would escape this time.

Even Azriel could not withstand a noose around his neck.

The thought churned Ariadne's stomach. She paced her book-strewn sitting room, brushing past the velvet couches with each round before flinging open her veranda doors and stepping into the warm night. The gardens sprawled out below her, and in the distance, the forest loomed in the dark, trees swaying in the breeze.

How could she save him? No Lord Governor would listen to her pleas. Not when her own father—no, Markus , he no longer deserved such a title—so adamantly desired him dead.

No matter the direction her mind wandered, she could not discern an adequate path. Her voice, the voice of a Caersan woman, would not be heard in any setting. Her strength, great and persistent as any vampire's, would be no match against a trained soldier. Her cunning or stealth, uncovered by Loren after she rescued Madan, would not go unnoticed.

"Ari?"

Emillie's small voice jolted Ariadne from her thoughts. She turned to her sister, halfway across the room, and crossed her arms. "You should leave."

Her sister bit her lip and stood a little straighter. She moved forward with determination in her eyes, twin to Ariadne's. "No. We need to talk."

"There is nothing you can say to make this better."

At first Emillie's steps faltered. Her brown hair curled over her shoulders and she lifted her small chin. "I have a plan."

Everything went quiet and still. No gentle hum of night from the gardens. No fire crackling in its hearth. Not even the sound of her blood pulsing through her body, though she felt her heart pick up its pace.

"What do you mean?" Ariadne could not breathe. She took one step closer to Emillie, burying the spring of hope that threatened to fill that dark chasm within her. There was no room for such foolish thoughts. Not yet.

"I spoke with Lord Nightingale."

She could not hide the light frown of confusion. What could he possibly do to help them?

When she did not respond, Emillie continued, "They will be sending Azriel to Algorath."

The understanding dawned slowly. For months—maybe even years—Alek Nightingale had vied for a fighting arena to be erected in Valenul as a way to provide entertainment…and a way to deal with prisoners. He often cited Algorath's Pits as an example of its success. It released the responsibility of trials from the Council and laid it at the feet of the gods. Trial by combat.

"Why would they do that?" Ariadne clutched at her throat, the air burning with each breath. They were sending Azriel to the Pits—to fight, perhaps, forever.

"Because once he is in Algorath, he has a chance." Emillie rushed forward and took her hand, squeezing it hard to center her in their usual way. "He is not being executed. He will live ."

"In the Pits!" Ariadne's voice rose, becoming shrill with her poorly-masked panic.

"Algorath's laws are different," Emillie explained, and her voice sounded so far away. "He was imprisoned under our laws which poorly state he cannot be a dhemon. In Algorath, that may not stand."

Ariadne stared at her sister without seeing. The chasm, so deep and filled with darkness already, seemed to yawn into an unmanageable expanse, and she stood on its floor with no way out. Each word Emillie spoke chipped away at those sheer stone walls, providing a treacherous path she could not follow. Each rocky hold, filled with hope and certainty of a future, crumbled within her grips.

"They will kill him," she croaked after what felt like an eternity of silence. "Before he even arrives."

"Lord Nightingale assured me he will not be harmed." Emillie squeezed her hand again, the only rope dangling low enough to drag her from the darkness. "I swear to you."

A flash of clarity took hold of Ariadne, and she focused her gaze on her sister. When she spoke, it was low and slow. "Why did he agree to help me? To even listen to you?"

Color rushed to Emillie's cheeks. She tried to pull her hand back, but now Ariadne held firm. "We made a deal."

Fresh, hot dread leaked into Ariadne's veins. "You made a deal with Alek Nightingale."

Not a question. A damning statement. After all the rumors swirling about the Lord Governor, in what world did Emillie feel it necessary to go to such a cruel and despicable Caersan as he? They could not trust him. Ariadne certainly did not. Not with her sister.

"We are to wed." Emillie lifted her chin again.

Ariadne knew that look. It was the same confident face she had worn when engaged to Loren anytime someone congratulated her. Tight lips, stiff jaw, and eyes that bore into the other person. It hid a well of secrets and sorrows.

"Emillie, you cannot—"

"We agreed upon it last night after…everything happened." She swallowed hard. "I asked for his assistance, and he granted it in return for my hand. He spoke with Father before they left for the prison."

Still, Ariadne shook her head. "Take it back. I will find another way."

"There is no other way." Emillie closed her eyes and sucked in a long, deep breath. When she opened them again, a fire burned within them. "You have to leave."

Ariadne's breath caught. "You know I cannot. Father would never allow it."

"You are correct." Her sister turned on her heel and padded to the door, her soft-soled shoes silent across the plush rugs. She cracked the door and pulled in a satchel that she carried back to shove into Ariadne's arms. "You leave now. While he is gone."

"No—"

"Everything is already in motion." Emillie nodded to the bag. "Thom has Astra ready."

Events were unraveling too quickly. From the elation the night before while locked in passion, to the devastation of Azriel's arrest, and now to the one-two punch of Emillie sacrificing her future to Alek Nightingale and risking her peace with their father to smuggle her out of the manor all in order to preserve her happiness. There would be nothing she could bestow upon her sister to accurately express her gratitude.

"You did not have to do any of this," Ariadne whispered, eyes stinging. "This was not your battle to fight."

Emillie gave her a wan smile. "Your battles are mine, as mine have always been yours."

"But then I will not be here to help you."

She took a step back, eyes rimmed with silver. "You would have left anyway. Now you are free."

With that, her sister turned and hurried to the door. Ariadne's heart crashed against her ribs. She lurched forward as the door swung open. "Em!"

Her sister paused without looking back.

"I love you." The works broke, and she clutched the satchel to her chest, curling her fingers into the fabric. What else could she say? She had no other words. Be safe? Thank you? Every thought and feeling wrapped into those three simple words: I love you .

Emillie's shoulders rose as she sucked in a deep breath, then closed the door behind her.

There was no time to think. Her fath— no , Markus—could return home at any minute. Ariadne had no idea how long he would be at the prison or if he would accompany Azriel's procession to the outskirts of Laeton. If she were going to get out of the manor before his arrival, she needed to act quickly.

That lethal spring of hope began to trickle into Ariadne's dark chasm again, and she had no intention of stemming its flow. To focus on that meant shifting from the task at hand. She needed to move fast.

The last time Ariadne had traveled east, she had no time to prepare. No warning. Not even the courtesy of a cloak for the end of winter. This time would be different. She had her provisions and way of travel, thanks to Emillie, and now she needed the appropriate clothing. If she could make it to Monsumbra—to the Caldwell Estate—she would be safe.

Madan would keep her safe.

Her half-brother. After he had rescued her from Ehrun, she had come to consider him as close and doting as a sibling. She had never imagined him to actually be her kin. Though they only shared a sire, it was more than enough. Even if they had not been related by blood, it would have been enough.

Ariadne swept through her near-bare closet and pulled from its depths a pair of old brown riding trousers, scuffed and worn-in black boots, and an airy white shirt. She yanked the simple powder blue house dress from her body and stepped into the trousers.

The way the fabric hugged her legs felt strange. It had been years since she had worn them. Decades, even. Once she had begun observing balls and their glamorous fashions, she gave up the clothing Markus had always hated in favor of gowns and heels. Now, returning to them was a foreign affair.

She stretched her hips from side to side, reacquainting herself with the unyielding cotton before tugging the shirt over her head. Her short stay showed through the thin fabric, and the shirt did little to hide the curves she had regained in her time with Azriel. Ignoring what that meant for how visible the scars were on her back, she tucked the tails into the trousers and buttoned them up to hold everything in place.

Once she had on her stockings and boots, she grabbed a thicker traveling cloak large enough to hide under were she to be caught outside at dawn and hurried back into the sitting room. She gathered up the satchel, slung it over her shoulder, then made for the door. Not into the corridor but the still-open veranda.

Three floors. When Azriel had made the jump from her old bedroom—gods, when he made the same jump from the library mere months before—it had been from the second floor. As she peered over the railing, her heart stumbled, and her stomach knotted. If she injured herself, her progress to Monsumbra would suffer. If she did not try, she would then be forced to leave through the manor and not only face questions from staff but potentially put them in harm's way when Markus inevitably discovered her missing and searched for information.

Not one of the servants deserved such ire.

So she clambered over the rail, heart thundering in her ears. As she lowered herself to a hanging position from the veranda, she threw a haphazard prayer to Keon, then released her hold. Her stomach lurched into her throat. Air rushed around her.

Ariadne's knees buckled as she hit the ground. She swore under her breath as her foot twisted at an awkward angle and gave a soft pop .

"Gods, no," she whispered and grabbed her ankle. A slow turn of her foot told her it had not broken, but the moment she eased onto her feet, it nearly gave out under her. Sprained. Not at all what she needed before a hard ride—and she would need to push Astra to put as much distance as possible between her and Laeton.

Her only advantage remained her head start. The moment Markus discovered her missing, every soldier would be searching for her. Again.

No time to worry. Ariadne gritted her teeth and limped forward as fast as she could muster. Pain lanced up her leg. Every rough or uneven step sent daggers through her, twisting her stomach.

None of it compared to what she had endured at the hands of Ehrun. She had learned to live with pain—physical and mental. Running on a sprained ankle, though unpleasant, did not hold her back.

By the time she reached the stables where Thom waited, holding Astra's reins and scanning the grounds with an anxious expression, her uninjured leg burned from compensating. She gave the stablehand a weak smile. "Thank you, Thom."

Thom's face paled. His mouth twisted in a grimace. "My Lady…where are you going?"

Ariadne winced as she hauled herself into the saddle and repositioned her feet. "When the Princeps asks, tell him you last saw me riding in the fields."

"I can't lie to him." Thom glanced at the manor again.

"Then do not." Ariadne turned Astra toward the same fields through which she had once raced Azriel. "I will ride in the direction of the fields, and you will walk away."

Again, Thom made a wry face. "But, my Lady—"

"Good night, Thom."

With that, Ariadne shot into the field, barreling east. As she reached the treeline on the far side of the grounds, she looked over her shoulder to find Thom nowhere to be seen.