5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

T he enchanted fae collar returned to keep Azriel under control during transport . Though at first the General seethed at being denied his execution, the Princeps and Alek agreed to a full company of Loren's hand-picked soldiers to ensure his arrival in Algorath. It appeared Loren was not satisfied with Alek's hired men to keep him contained.

Captain Nikolai Jensen, feeling much improved since enduring Ariadne's blade, was then assigned as their leader.

As iron shackles locked around Azriel's wrists outside the prison, Alek edged closer. With no prying ears, he said in a low voice, "You must survive those Pits."

Azriel tempered his frustration, refrained from strangling the Lord Governor, whom he'd once begun to consider a friend, for his short-sightedness, and stared straight ahead as he replied, "No one survives the Pits."

"No." Alek's tone hardened. He'd used such sternness when instructing Azriel on how to present himself before the Society at his wedding. The man didn't use it lightly. "This was not done on a whim. You must ."

Narrowing his eyes, he turned his attention to the Lord Governor. The Caersan's black hair shone in the low moonlight, and his onyx eyes gleamed with mischief. "What did you do?"

"Me?" The corner of his mouth ticked up in wry amusement. "This was also not my idea."

"Then who?"

"The lovely Miss Harlow—the younger Miss Harlow." Alek winked. "My future bride."

Did Emillie wish to see him dead as well? Azriel lifted a lip in a sneer. "You're in for some surprises with that one."

If his words had any impact on the Lord Governor, Alek didn't show it. He merely shrugged and glanced at Markus and Loren. They continued discussing transportation specifics and not paying them any heed. Alek continued, "If my timing is correct, then your wife is on her way to Monsumbra."

Azriel's heart stumbled. "Alone?" The word left him in a rasp.

"As it must be for now," Alek said and pivoted his body away as the others turned in their direction. "Keep your wits about you and this will not be the end. Have faith, dhom ."

With that, Alek stepped away and called to Markus, a vicious grin replacing his fervent stare. Azriel watched him go with wide eyes. His world turned upside down. If he survived the Pits, he could be free. Ariadne knew of the plan, and Madan would know how to help him.

Yet above all, Alek's casual and correct use of the dhemon tongue surprised him the most. For too long, Ehrun and his cronies had mocked Azriel's position at Auhla . They'd spent centuries calling him dhomin —little prince. A jab at his size and half-breed blood despite being the Crowe's son. Alek, however, used his true title: dhom —prince. Just prince.

The company started forward, and he followed obediently, his chains attached to the saddle of Nikolai's horse. Each step brought about another question. What could Ariadne do for him in Algorath? Did Alek know Emillie's true nature? What would happen to Madan? How did Alek know who he was ?

The next week whipped by in a whirlwind, leaving him little time to consider the answers to any of the questions. Instead, he scrabbled for the one connection to keep him sane throughout the long, arduous journey—made longer, even, by the Caersan vampires' inability to travel in the sunlight and summer's short nights.

His link to Razer, though faint, reassured Azriel. While he walked and sometimes ran to keep up with the company of soldiers, he conversed with his friend. At first, Razer insisted on rescuing him. It would've been simple enough. He could, after all, tear through such a small number of vampires.

But Azriel wouldn't risk it. Not when Ariadne traveled alone through the Keonis Valley foothills crawling with dhemons. Instead, he instructed Razer, " Watch over her ."

And he trudged on, one foot in front of the other, night after night. When they reached Eastwood Province, Azriel almost prayed for Ehrun's men to find them. The vampires wouldn't stand a chance against one of his ambushes and Azriel? Either they'd take him back to their so-called King or kill him just as readily.

None came.

They turned into the gaping maw of the Eastern Passage after five nights. Sheer cliffs rose on either side of them, cutting off all but the thin strip of star-flecked sky along their direct path. The green soldiers who'd never seen the barren highway grew silent as they marveled at the incredible size of the mountains they traveled between. Small merchant camps, set up for the night by traveling mages or fae, speckled the side of the road at random intervals. Those on watch stiffened at their approach until the crimson cloaks came into focus.

Valenul soldiers on the highway meant peace and safety—at least it did for them.

Deeper into the Passage, snow and ice coated the road, made possible by the higher altitude and lack of sunlight during the day. The camps grew few and far between, and the cliffs eased into traversable terrain. Nikolai's pace slowed. The soldiers around Azriel grew tense, keeping a close watch on the steep paths made from millennia of feet pounding the stone into submission.

Too far now to communicate with Razer, Azriel depended solely on his dhemon senses. Though his vision did not compare to a Caersan's in any form, as a dhemon, his eyes gifted him with the only advantage he had: if he focused hard enough, he could see the faintest heat signatures amongst the cold, desolate mountain terrain. It often paired with a vicious headache when utilized but remained useful nonetheless.

"Captain," a nearby soldier called out, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword, "I think I heard something."

Nikolai didn't look back. "Your ears are tricking you."

Azriel scanned the high outcrops with a discerning eye. He saw nothing through the darkness. No shift of rock or glimmer of anything alive moving amongst them. The Captain was correct: they were in no danger.

Part of him wilted at the lack of life. No beat of wings nor boots on stone. It reminded him that, not for the first time in his life, he was utterly alone. As his wife fled her family home in search of freedom and hope, his brother no doubt took up the mantle he left behind, and he had no way to escape, for once he entered Algorath, no one could get to him.

Yet he wouldn't change anything. Razer did as he always had: he protected Azriel's heart. Too many of Ehrun's cronies wandered the foothills of the Keonis Mountains. Too many knew Ariadne's face to leave her alone for even a heartbeat. The others were likewise too busy guarding the clutch to prevent Ehrun's numbers from growing.

Then he saw them. Flickers of red heat signatures slid into view, larger than vampires or humans and too far east for fae not selling wares. Quick as they appeared, they vanished again behind boulders high above the company of soldiers. Azriel tracked the movement. If dhemons wanted to attack, it wouldn't be he who alerted the Caersans.

A low, throbbing pain inched its way out from his temple after several minutes. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head to clear it. By the time he reopened them, the thermal patterns were gone. He rarely tapped into the ability for this reason. It only hindered him.

It wasn't long before the dhemons reappeared, this time for everyone to see. A woman emerged onto an overhang, a long, thin knife in one hand. Her elegant horns swept back from her face and hardly hooked around her ears before coming to a point. She was young—far too young to be watching the Caersan soldiers with such malice.

Her molten red eyes fixed on Azriel, and a frown formed between her brows. " Dhom ?"

Azriel glanced at Nikolai, who ordered his soldiers into a defensive position, then back to the young woman. If she recognized him as the prince, perhaps he had a chance. He responded in the dhemon tongue, "How many of you are there?"

"Silence," Nikolai snapped in common. His face had gone pale as he watched the woman studying them. Even on her ledge, it was clear how much larger she was than the average Caersan man.

"Four." She drew herself up, holding the knife aloft as a handful of soldiers aimed their arrows and bolts in her direction.

Nikolai drew his sword and brought its point to Azriel's throat. "Say nothing else."

He grit his teeth, leaning away from the sharp edge. "Find my brother."

Russet eyes narrowed, and Nikolai's mouth hardened into a thin line. He knew as well as Azriel that failing to deliver him to Algorath would not bode well with the Princeps. "What are you saying?"

The dhemon woman smirked down at them. "He seems quite unhappy. Where's your brother?"

Azriel chuckled in wry amusement, then choked as Nikolai's hold on the key to his collar closed his throat. He coughed through the pain before rasping, "The ancient grounds."

"We will free you from these leeches soon," she swore and tapped the base of her horn once before turning on her toes and stalking back into hiding. Her dark clothes and blue skin melded in so perfectly with the terrain, she faded like a wraith. Where her companions had stood, Azriel hadn't been able to make out.

Before he could take another step, the hilt of Nikolai's sword slammed into his gut. Azriel doubled over with a wheeze, his diaphragm struggling to expand.

"Next time," the Captain snarled in his ear as he gasped for breath, "it will be the blade, and your death will be written off as an accident."

Swiveling his eyes up to the Caersan, Azriel bared his teeth. It was all he could muster as his knees shook and his brain screamed for oxygen.

"Now keep walking." Nikolai shoved him forward.

By the time they'd exited the Eastern Passage several uneventful hours later, they were forced to stop yet again as the horizon lightened. As usual, the Caersan soldiers left him chained near the front door of their outpost like a disobedient cur to be watched by the Rusans and ignored by any passing merchants.

The last several nights of travel were then filled with the blistering cold of the Saalo Desert, while the days kept outside the Caersans' impenetrable tents remained agonizing in the heat of the sun. He shifted the best he could into the slivers of shade from the tents but often awoke to slow-healing burns across his exposed skin. The hue of blue quickly darkened to compensate, but it was never enough.

When at last they arrived at the massive mage city on the banks of Brulus Lake, the last of Azriel's nerves were shot. Between surviving off scraps of food and just enough water to sustain him through the desert, hardly sleeping through the days and the long nights of walking, and recognizing the first signs of memory loss thanks to his bond, he hadn't had the time to mentally prepare himself for what he saw as they crested the final sandy dune. Even in the moonlight, it was a terribly magnificent sight to behold.

The crimson walls of Algorath stretched high into the night sky and encompassed the city completely. Two colossal towers carved from single blocks of red jasper rose to frame the sculpted gates. Silhouetted figures moved along the wall and within the backlit windows of the monoliths.

A shout rose up upon their approach, and after a quick exchange with Nikolai, the sentinels at the top of the jasper towers eased the gates open. The city on the far side of the wall appeared silent and undisturbed. Flat-topped adobe buildings lined the stone streets and alleys with shuttered windows and sparse lighting. Not even a stray animal scurried through the cool desert darkness.

Behind Azriel, a soldier scoffed. "Mages, always asleep."

"We are guests," Nikolai reminded him quietly, the horses' hooves clicking as they made their way down the main road. "Hold your tongue."

"Yes, Captain."

Azriel threw the soldier a knowing smirk, savoring the Caersan's discomfort. The edges of Algorath remained calm and quiet even in the middle of the day; young mages or small bands of ruffians causing mischief for their parents were the worst of the offenders. It was the heart of the city which gave Algorath its reputation.

As they drew nearer, the noise built. Though not as many mages roamed the streets at night as vampires did in Valenul's markets, there were more than enough to remind him where they now were: the greatest mage city in all of Myridia.

Melia's territory.

Emillie couldn't have known what awaited him within these desert walls. She'd asked him to be sent here as a saving grace. Being back in the city, however, made Azriel's skin crawl and his senses go on high alert. Melia could be watching him already, waiting for the moment to strike him down.

Yet upon their arrival at the center of the bustling night market, she had yet to make her appearance. As if she needed to physically face him to cause him harm.

Nikolai spoke with a human sentinel, and they were directed to a building with elegant carvings and pointed arch windows. On either side of the entrance, like many within view, grew palm trees.

There, a mage waited, his hands clasped behind his back. His white-streaked ebony hair was pulled into a long braid, and his deep amber eyes almost glowed as he tracked their movement toward him. Fine lines spread out from the corners of his eyes and framed his mouth, his tawny skin weathered from age and the harsh climate. The intricate robes he wore appeared heavy and suffocating, but Azriel knew from experience just how deceiving the desert clothes were. Spun from enchanted wool, it likely kept the man warm during the cold nights while fighting off heat throughout the blistering days.

"Thank you for meeting me, Mair Solt." Nikolai dismounted and sketched a bow to the mage. His soldiers inclined their heads from their saddles but didn't join him on the ground. They didn't expect to stay long, then.

"Captain Jensen." Mair Solt didn't move, his light, lilting voice dancing like a song in the still desert air. As the primary elected official in charge of the courts and justice system within Algorath, soldiers—even ambassadors of other nations—were below him. "I received word you'd arrive with a prisoner. A traitor."

The Mair's gaze flickered to Azriel, then back to Nikolai. The Captain drew himself up and nodded once. "He is to go to the Pits."

"I see a dhemon, not a vampire." Solt studied the Caersan, his face a mask of neutrality. "They're your enemies, not traitors."

"You are mistaken." Nikolai glared back at Azriel. "He's a half-breed and disguised himself as one of us to steal a title and abduct a wife for his own gain."

Azriel's blood ran cold at the accusations—at how horrifyingly close the vampire was to the truth of his past. He schooled his own expression from tempered rage to the stony countenance he'd projected for so long as a guard.

Mair Solt narrowed his eyes. "You have the documentation of this?"

"Of course." Nikolai fished from his saddle bags a thick envelope sealed with the Princeps' wax, then another pressed shut with crimson. Loren's seal.

"Then we will take him from here."

Desert sentinels with their faces hidden by white shemagh scarves moved forward. They carried no weapons. There'd be no need. Not with their magic honed to kill or incapacitate. One took the key from Nikolai and unfastened the lock; fae magic didn't react the same as their own. Another drew from their robes a wide collar to replace the fae-crafted ring around his neck. The lighter metal was a blessing; the itch of mage magic against his skin, however, was not. It was sealed with magic, not a key.

"Do you have a warden with whom I may keep in contact?" Nikolai stepped back and accepted the fae collar and its key from the sentinel. He tucked it into his saddle bag from whence he'd pulled the envelopes. "My Lord Princeps expects regular updates and proof of payment for his prisoner."

Mair Solt nodded and shifted away from the doors behind him. "Indeed."

As though summoned by the question, a beautiful woman with sun-kissed skin and thick, straight brown hair stepped out. She wore finely embroidered robes that hugged her curves and enhanced her figure from sandaled feet to bejeweled neck. Her silver eyes shone like moonlight as she shifted her gaze from Mair Solt to Nikolai before finally settling on Azriel.

His heart crashed against his ribs, and it took every ounce of his self-control not to run—run as fast and as far as he could into the desert. Whatever awaited him out in those sands, the sun and heat and inevitable death, would be far better than what awaited him within those jasper walls. He'd accept even Nikolai's sword through his heart.

"Good evening," the mage said, her soft and angelic voice far too familiar. "My name is Melia Tagh, Desmo of Suin District."

Waking up beside Whelan never got old. The dhemon's massive body curled around Madan, radiating heat. Winter days were perfect. Summer days, the blankets tended to be pushed aside in favor of his partner.

Still better was waking up to Whelan kissing down his chest and stomach, sending a flush of heat through his body. It built with every gentle touch before the dhemon took his hard cock in his mouth. Madan groaned as the sleep rushed from his body. That familiar fire took up residence in his veins with every touch. Before opening his eyes, he swept his hand up Whelan's arm to guide his way to the dhemon's horns. He gripped it hard, the annuli fitting perfectly between his fingers, and worked his hips.

They moved together, and when he finally cracked open his eyes, Madan cursed. Riding through the waves of pleasure was one thing, but seeing the way Whelan's lips wrapped around him, taking every inch, heightened every sensation. Every draw of his tongue along his shaft. Every grip of his fingers on his ass. Every brush of his hair along his thighs.

" Fuck ," Madan breathed as that fire built into an inferno. He released the horn to provide the dhemon with more freedom from his own eagerness. "Whelan, I—"

But Whelan was already moving—already anticipating his wants. His needs . He slid Madan's cock from his mouth and hooked an arm under his thigh to push his leg up high. The dhemon stroked himself, rubbing oil along the full length of his cock, and smirked down at him with that heady, knowing glint in his red eyes.

Then he draped his huge, heavy body over him and eased himself into Madan. Whelan groaned long and low, his eyes closing to relish his own rush of pleasure.

Likewise, Madan cursed again, the sensation of fullness building with each slow thrust. He moaned as every pump of Whelan's hips stroked that perfect place while the dhemon wrapped his fingers around Madan's length and pumped in cadence.

Now, the inferno roared, the heat weaving throughout his body as they moved together. Yet each time he felt ready to shatter, his body tensing and his mouth gaping open, Whelan slowed to a stop. His fingers dug into Madan's hip.

"Patience," Whelan rumbled in the dhemon language, then kissed him hard so their tongues entangled as much as their bodies. "You'll come when I say you come."

When Madan's muscles unclenched, Whelan continued, savoring each pulse. Their rhythm built together, growing more fierce and demanding, and soon they were both slick with sweat and breathing heavily.

Madan drew his tongue along the long, pointed shell of Whelan's ear before nipping at it lightly with his fang. The dhemon hissed, and he lazily licked the blood away, the metallic taste of it driving him mad. It surged through him, beginning that whole-body cracking sensation once more.

This time, Whelan didn't stop him. He thrust hard and deep again and again. Madan grappled to cling to his slick back or horn—anything to keep him from sliding too far up the bed as each powerful thrust pushed him over the edge physically and metaphorically.

"Now. Come for me," Whelan demanded, the tip of his spiraling horn pressing hard against Madan's throat as he hung his head, panting.

And they broke together. Madan's body tensed and shattered, and Whelan went rigid, his cock throbbing inside him. Wet heat spread across his stomach from his own release.

Sitting back, Whelan gave him a lazy grin. He eased his length out and collapsed beside him, cobalt chest still breathing deep. "You're a mess."

"And whose fault is that?" Madan tugged the tip of his horn with a hooked finger.

"You're supposed to meet with Lord Knoll tonight."

Madan sat up fast, mind reeling. "Fuck. I completely forgot."

The Lord Steward had sent a message the previous evening announcing the Council's intention of naming Madan Lord Governor. There'd been no official reason given for Azriel's notable absence, though he assumed Markus had either exposed his brother completely or developed a cunning lie to hide behind.

Given his daughter had married Azriel, Madan suspected the latter.

"You can always tell him to come back another night," Whelan drawled, his hand sliding up Madan's back and his fingers twisting into the shoulder-length hair.

A wave of heat rushed through him at the thought of another round with the dhemon, but he shook his head. "I need to get this over with."

Whelan sighed, releasing his grip. "Fine. I will draw a bath and be waiting for you, then."

Madan shot him a heady glare, then clambered off the bed. He stalked, knees still wobbly, to the washroom where he cleaned himself up before dressing for the evening. The finely tailored clothes still felt strange on his body—a bit too tight and restricting—even after so many weeks of wearing them.

"Your ass looks good in those trousers." Whelan's red eyes tracked Madan as he made for the door.

He looked back at the dhemon still draped naked across the bed. Damn, he was beautiful. His cock throbbed in response, and he shook his head with a chuckle. "I'll be back for you soon."

Before he could be sidetracked any more by his partner, Madan exited the room and made his way down the corridor. Family paintings lined the walls. He hated them and had long since wanted to take them down. While Azriel's sentimental heart continued to ache for what could have been, Madan's brief memories of the manor as a child were not pleasant.

Only three remained in good standing with him: one of his grandmother, one of his mother—heavily pregnant with him and holding Azriel's small hand, and the recently completed wedding portrait of Azriel and Ariadne.

Those were the only family members he cared to remember. Even in his final years, his grandfather had been a callous and wicked man despite the way he'd finally softened to the dhemons. He'd only done so in memory of his daughter. If he could see how many dhemons now prowled the Caldwell Estate, he'd be furious at the desecration of what he considered to be a private and holy land.

At least Garth Caldwell had been correct about one thing: the land was holy. For the dhemons. Which was exactly why the Caersan ancestors had snatched it away from them.

If Azriel had a problem with any of them missing upon his return, they'd discuss it as they always did. Loudly and with a plethora of foul words.

By the time he reached the massive foyer with its tiled floor, circular walnut wood table at its center, and a dripping crystal chandelier, Lord Knoll stood patiently awaiting him. The tall, stately Caersan vampire wore the latest fashions with his navy tailcoat, white cravat, and tan trousers. He had a shaved head and umber skin, and his discerning jade eyes were kind as he sized up the last of the Caldwells.

"Good evening, Lord Knoll." Madan stretched out his hand upon approach.

Knoll shifted the small stack of papers under his arm, then grasped his forearm and gave him a wan smile. "Lord Caldwell. Or should I say…Lord Governor Caldwell?"

"This way." Madan gestured for the Lord to follow him to the study. The towering shelves and Azriel's haphazard mess of paperwork made his chest tighten. This wasn't his. None of this had been meant to fall to him, yet here he was, picking up the pieces where his brother could not. He closed the door behind the Caersan and continued, "Do tell me…what has become of my cousin? Last I heard, he had…disappeared."

Even then, no one knew the truth of their relation. How could they? Only a handful were aware. Less had the power to do anything about it.

"A grievous report," Lord Knoll said, taking a seat on the couch offered to him. "I am afraid he has been killed."

Though Madan knew it to be a falsehood thrown together by Markus, his stomach twisted nonetheless. The very words were one of his greatest fears. To lose Azriel would be like losing his other arm, leaving him helpless to the whims of others.

Only Brutis's calm reassurance in his mind eased the knot forming. His brother's companion may have been too far away to speak to through their connected telepathy, but Razer would've reported back had anything happened.

He made a show of silent grief. Caersan vampires weren't ones to express their more tender emotions. Playing the part required walking a fine line between cold and aloof or bursting with dismay. He settled for drawn brows and tight shoulders, mimicking Azriel's quiet turmoil throughout the early weeks of the Season to the best of his ability.

"I am most apologetic for having to bear such news." Knoll set the papers still in his hand on the low table between the couches.

Madan settled onto the cushions across from him. "How did it happen?"

"A dhemon attack."

Of course. Blame the dhemons. Blame the fae lineage that ran through his brother's veins—the very people who'd raised them both and whom he loved with his entire heart.

Whelan's lazy grin from the bed flashed through his mind.

"And Lady Caldwell?" Madan made a point of sitting back on the couch to appear as though the news had quite literally stunned him.

"Praise Keon," Lord Knoll said with a shake of his head, "she was spared and has returned home to the Princeps."

Madan nodded. "Thank the gods for that."

A moment of silence stretched between them before Lord Knoll cleared his throat and began sifting through the papers. "To business, I am afraid."

"Yes." Madan gave him a small smile. "To business."

"As the late Lord Governor Azriel Caldwell had not yet finished writing his Will," the Caersan explained, "we must look to the late Lord Governor Garth Caldwell's Will for instructions. As it were…he named you second successor."

Of course, Madan knew this as well. He'd been in the room when his grandfather had penned the succession list. It'd been short. Just the two names—the last of his line.

Another show of grief as Madan used his amputated arm to rub his forehead with a grimace. "I see."

"I need your signature on these documents to be sent back to the Council." Knoll pushed the papers across the table and pointed to several pages with blank spaces waiting to be filled with a curling name. "They will expect you to come to Laeton early next month to take your place."

"Very well." An excuse to see Ariadne. Perhaps he'd make the journey sooner in order to put any of her worries to ease. Azriel, after all, would not be executed. Razer had been kind enough to impart such information to Brutis before going silent again.

Then again, being sent to Algorath was a death sentence all on its own for Azriel. If Melia discovered him there…

Madan shook such thoughts from his mind and refocused. After collecting a pen and ink well, he settled in to sign the documents. He forced his hand to shake as though it were all so sudden and unexpected—as though his grief were too overwhelming to sketch his signature with confidence.

By the time he sent Lord Knoll on his way, Madan felt ready to keel over from exhaustion. Theater actors didn't get nearly enough credit for what they did. Constantly hiding his emotions and how he truly felt for the incredulous story being told about Azriel put a damper on his plans to rejoin Whelan in bed.

No , his stomach growled at him. Food .

And so he brought a tray of fruits and cheese to his room to share with his lover.

Loren stared at the pamphlet of ivory paper. The curling letters, so carefully stamped by one of Laeton's many presses, became a blur. Colonel Trev Wintre delivered the news and gossip report not long after dusk. He had not said much, which had been curious. Trev was not one to keep his thoughts to himself.

But when the Colonel excused himself, Loren had read the latest scandals and stumbled upon a page he had not expected titled The Fall of the Caldwells .

At first, he felt a burst of anticipation. Finally— finally —the bastard-born dhemon masquerading as a vampire would be exposed. Everyone would know of the half-breed's treachery. No one would second-guess Loren again.

The following information, however, curdled his victory, and a slimy, sickening feeling slipped through his gut. Lord Governor Azriel Caldwell was discovered deceased on the highway to Eastwood Province after a dhemon attack , leaving behind his wife, Lady Ariadne Caldwell, widow to a hero .

A hero . The word drove a knife into Loren's chest, and each praising word after that only twisted the blade a little more. The entire ordeal had the stench of the Princeps all over it. Of course he would drum up an excuse for the half-fae's sudden absence and his elder daughter's renewed availability.

Because no one would want her if they knew she had been wed to a dhemon.

Loren ground his teeth, that bitter taste of lies unbearable. He shoved to his feet, crumpling the pamphlet in his fist and throwing it into his cold hearth as he passed. This would not stand. Not while he had any say in the matter.

If the Princeps wanted to play games, Loren would be ready, and he would destroy the very platform from which that self-righteous Caersan leered down at him.