7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

T o Azriel's bemusement, Melia didn't make any indication she recognized him during the exchange between her and Nikolai. The lack of acknowledgment was, perhaps, more unnerving than if she'd accosted him the moment those metallic eyes had slid to him. He'd been prepared for her wrath. What he hadn't prepared for was her utter detachment.

Melia led him, surrounded by a small and unnecessary band of sentinels, through the maze of streets lit only by the moon and stars above. The silent journey only proved to shake him more. She had to remember him. To remember the threat on his life were he to ever set foot in the mage city again.

Yet even as the sentinels bid their farewell and they continued onto the grounds of her regal chateau alone, she didn't speak. She didn't so much as look at him as her guards, dressed so similarly to the city sentinels, intercepted to redirect him to the lower levels of the grounds. As Melia disappeared into her massive home covered in jasmine—her favorite flower— and surrounded by lush, beautiful gardens filled with foliage he couldn't place by sight or scent, he turned down a small path to a solid iron gate haloed by a thin barrier of magic.

With the lower reaches of the grounds cloaked in night, Azriel's eyes couldn't pinpoint anything of note as he followed the guard to a single-story adobe building. Its flat roof and no windows underscored his place in the world: a prisoner to be contained on the far end of a powerful mage's estate. A single door at the center of the building shimmered with more magic, and upon their approach, he noted the way the guards along the surrounding walls turned to supervise their movements. No one got in or out of the barracks without their knowing.

The magic flared as the leading guard opened the door. The black depths of the hallway stretched in either direction. Doors lined the walls on both sides as rough hands shoved Azriel to the right, where he was forced to bow his head to keep his horns from scraping the ceiling. The silence grated on him, either due to the magic swaying like heat waves over each threshold or the prisoners' slumber, Azriel didn't know.

They reached an empty room—no, cell —almost at the end of the hall. He strained his eyes, wishing his mother had granted him more of her vampiric night vision. Through the near-total darkness, he found a straw mat on the floor and a small clay bucket in the corner that smelled foul. No blanket to shield from the desert's nightly cold. No window for light. Hardly enough space to stand and pace.

The door snicked shut behind him without warning, and when he turned to look back at it, the same rippling effect he'd seen along the hall blurred the wood grains. Azriel reached out a tentative hand to touch the magic. It seared his fingertips, and an electrical shock leapt up his outstretched arm. He jerked back with a snarl before his body could lock up.

He settled on the small mat, his dhemon body too large for it so his lower legs and feet rested on the cold, stone floor. With no light aside from the faint magic on his door, he had nothing to focus on other than his thoughts.

And what a horrible place to be that was.

Azriel got no sleep that night, his mind gliding from one memory to the next in an unbearable circle of anguish. Every wondrous moment with his wife collided full-force with each terrible deed, each mistake, each agonizing choice that landed him in that cell.

The night they'd tried to leave Laeton, he'd woken up to Ariadne beside him in their bed. She'd been draped across her pillows like an angel, her midnight curls a dark halo around her head. The gentle slope of her breasts moved in the steady rhythm of her breath beneath the sheer nightgown she'd worn.

He'd left her there to sleep—a foolish mistake. He'd wanted to ensure the preparations for their departure were underway. The sooner he got her to Monsumbra, the sooner he would be able to indulge in her body. Of course, she hadn't been so patient in the carriage, but if only he'd spent that extra time with her in the comfort of their first home together…

At no point had he considered that to be the last night he'd have with her. Azriel had been selfish and taken those moments together for granted. He'd planned to shower her with affection throughout their journey to Monsumbra. Gods, he'd warned Madan to be out of the manor when he arrived, for he planned to utilize every damn room to make her come again and again—to rewrite every memory he had associated with the wretched place with the woman he loved.

He'd watched every one of those plans wither and die the moment they'd been stopped on the highway. They burned on a pyre when Loren drugged him with the liquid sunshine, forcing his change. Every ash blew away in the breeze as he watched Ariadne struggle to get back to him, as that fae collar went around his neck, as they traded his soul for profit in the desert city.

So Azriel didn't sleep as the sun rose over the dunes to the east, somewhere beyond the dark walls locking him in. Rather, he wept for all he'd lost for not remaining vigilant. For all he'd lost because of his desperation to cling to all that'd gone right in his world. He curled in on himself and clutched his own horns, tugging them down to hold himself close.

Only when the magic vanished from his door did Azriel wipe away the tears and stand. He brushed himself off and left the barracks into the golden morning sun that painted a very different image than what he'd seen on his journey across the estate grounds hours before.

Melia's chateau, a grand building made of red sandstone, massive windows, and a pergola-shaded deck, stood at the top of a sheer cliff overlooking the training yard. Rich emerald vines full of large, colorful flowers curled up the corners of her home and around the open windows. The ivory curtains fluttered with a breeze unfelt by Azriel, and her guards, clad in mulberry and russet uniforms and shemaghs, stood at regular intervals along the cliff edge. Half looked out at them. Half turned in, protecting their mistress as though she didn't hold enough power to level the entire estate.

The enormous training yard swept out from the barracks door, surrounded by a tall stone wall. Golden sand gave way underfoot as he stepped out to survey the other prisoners—men and women he may one day be forced to partner with or, worse, kill. Rattan weapons were heaped at the foot of the cliff; swords, spears, pikes, maces, and even bows and arrows were left untouched by those who passed by without looking twice.

Instead, the others formed a line. They carried a wooden bowl and spoon and paused long enough by a large cauldron to collect a ladleful of questionable food from a household servant. A handful of the rare magickless humans were scattered amongst the dozen mages whose powers were bound by the thin inhibiting cuffs around their wrists. A mere three fae, their ethereal grace and beauty marred by the battles they'd endured, wore collars similar to his own to keep their own brand of magic and agility tempered. No avians or lycans made their way to collect their morning meal.

The one Azriel found most interesting, however, was the only other dhemon. With a lighter blue complexion and thinner horns that didn't quite curl around her ears yet, the dhemon was clearly young—perhaps not even a century old. The sides of her head were shaved, and her long, black hair was braided down the center in a tight weave. The way her deep, cherry-colored eyes sized Azriel up, however, told him the dhemon had been under Melia's thumb for a while.

Or, perhaps, she noted the dirtied Caersan clothes Azriel still wore. He'd need to change into something more suitable for fighting soon.

Azriel stalked across the yard, well aware of the prisoners watching his every movement like wolves ready to strike. Though they sat together, spoke together, and laughed together, each of them were one another's enemy. No one was safe from even those they considered friends, for once they faced off in the Pits, only one of them would walk away.

Picking up a bowl and spoon from a stack, he stepped into line behind a burly human mage with short-cropped blond hair and a deep tan. The man glanced over his shoulder, his hazel eyes narrowing a bit before raising a brow and saying in a drawled common tongue, "When did you get in?"

With a snort at the irony of the question—at the top of the list for any prisoner—Azriel cocked his head and said, "Here? Last night."

"What's a dhemon doing in such finery?" The man flicked the open collar with a dirty finger, the cuffs around his wrist glinting in the sunlight.

Now Azriel grit his teeth, letting the displeasure settle on his face. "Living a lie, it'd seem."

"M'name's Raoul." The human stepped forward in line and looked at him expectantly.

He hesitated. This was the moment he needed to make himself known as someone worth allying with. He could align himself with Valenul, with the vampires, and make a name for himself as the only dhemon to infiltrate them. But that didn't sit right with him. His wife was still one of those Caersans, and he'd protect her—somehow, some way—until his last breath.

"Azriel the Crowe." He surveyed the human carefully. His father's name had influence in and out of the Keonis Mountains. Just how far that reached was unclear.

But Raoul's eyes widened with acknowledgment, and he didn't say anything as a portion of the morning stew slopped into his bowl. Azriel followed suit, accepting his meager ladle of questionable food, and the human beckoned for him to follow into the sun, where they sat leaning against the tall stone wall.

"You related to the Crowe of Keonis?" Raoul dug into his stew, the mixture of meat and vegetables with no correlation a clear indication of them being leftovers from the chateau.

Azriel grunted in confirmation, then pushed the chunks of food around in his bowl. The unappetizing combination of colors and smells didn't stir his appetite despite his meager helpings throughout his journey from Valenul. He scooped up vegetables and tried them.

Raoul chuckled at his grimace. "You get used to it."

"Doubtful." Azriel pushed the meat aside again and shot a glare up at the chateau. Melia no doubt found this hilarious. She knew he couldn't eat cooked meat, and neither could that other dhemon who kept glaring at him from across the training yard. He returned the hard stare and asked Raoul, "What's her name?"

"Sasja." Raoul raised a hand in greeting to the woman, who scowled in return. He chuckled. This man had no qualms with talking about anything and everything, it seemed. He would be a well of information. "She speaks very little common and usually fights solo."

"How long has she been here?"

"About two months."

"And how often do we go to the Pits?"

Raoul cast him a miserable look. "About once a week."

Far less than Azriel had anticipated. One fight per week wasn't as horrible as he'd imagined. He could survive that. For how long, he wasn't certain. Particularly with the meager helpings of edible food. "What do you do in the meantime?"

"Train." Raoul's expression soured even more, and he threw a sneer toward the chateau. "Entertain."

An oily feeling squirmed through Azriel's gut at the prospect. If this human found the very memory of entertaining so terrible, he could wager a guess as to what it meant. Melia as good as owned each and every one of them. They were her property to do with as she wished.

"How often does she require entertainment?" Azriel tipped the bowl into his mouth, using the spoon to hold back the meat so he could drink the broth.

"She enjoys throwing extravagant parties." Raoul set his bowl in the sand and crossed his ankles out in front of him. "Many of the Desmos take turns to show off their fighters."

Desmos. The wardens across the eight districts of Algorath. Once, Melia had shown them as much disdain as Azriel. She'd hated the Pits and the barbaric practices of using violent prisoners for entertainment in any way; she'd been particularly vocal against the practice of trial by combat. Now she ruled over the small Suin District's prisoners in the south sector of the city and seemed to bear the title of Desmo with pride.

As though she'd known he would one day end up right where he was: in the perfect place for her to torment him mentally and physically—all in the name of justice .

It made him ill.

"When will she host next?"

Raoul sighed and closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall as though to soak up the sun at the beach. "Soon, I'm sure. We're due in the Pits in three days."

"Fantastic…" Azriel didn't relax. He couldn't until he understood the ins and outs of this place. So far, it seemed tame…unnervingly so. No good Desmo would allow their prisoners to sit around without training. They required each of their fighters to be in top shape to succeed so they could collect the coin and distribute any payments to others merely loaning out their captives—like Markus Harlow.

After a moment of silence between them, Azriel shifted his weight to his feet. Still crouching beside his new…alliance…he said, "I'm going to talk to her."

Sasja still sat alone, carefully sifting through her own helping of stew. Since dhemons couldn't eat cooked meats, they were in the same predicament. They wouldn't be at their full strength unless given the proper nutrients, and the meager vegetables weren't enough.

With a scoff, Raoul shook his head without opening his eyes. "May the gods watch over you with that one."

Azriel ignored him and stood. He dropped the bowl into a basin with other dirty dishes and stalked across the training yard. Sasja sat cross-legged in a sliver of shadow alone. Her steel-blue skin glistened with perspiration as the arid desert heat settled in for the day. Upon his approach, she turned her scowl to him and sat a little straighter.

"What do you want?" She spoke in the dhemon language, her accent similar to those of the western reaches of the Keonis Mountains. How she'd ended up so far from home, Azriel now wanted to know.

Instead, he leaned a shoulder against the wall and crossed his arms. "Needed a friendly face, I suppose."

Sasja scoffed. "And you chose this one?"

He cracked a smirk like he'd done so many times with the dhemons he'd commanded under his father. "I'm Azriel. The Crowe."

"I know who you are," she spat back and gestured to his clothes in disgust. "Traitor."

The jab hurt more than he was willing to let show. His easy grin didn't slip, though he fought the urge to grit his teeth in response. "I'd have thought you'd be pleased to see me heading into the Pits, then."

She rolled her cherry eyes before returning her attention to her stew. "You're already dead to me, little prince ."

A spark of heat slid through his veins at that. Dhomin . She would've heard that from very specific people. "You fight under Ehrun and call me a traitor?"

"At least I didn't throw my lot in with murderers." With that, Sasja stood and made a point to shove past him, her shoulder slamming into his with more strength than he anticipated from her slim frame—made slimmer, he suspected, by the inedible food.

He pivoted to watch her go. She spoke to no one else as she deposited her bowl in the wash basin and drank a ladle of water from a clay vase. The only person Sasja seemed to acknowledge at all was a tall guard in a slightly different uniform. Gold stitching stood out from the deep colors, and a curved, ornate sheath hung at their hip. With their face obscured by a hood and shemagh, Azriel couldn't decipher their features other than glittering burnt umber eyes lined with thick kohl.

The guard's attention flickered to him, and Azriel inclined his head a touch. If there was anyone in this training yard he needed on his side, it'd be the captain of the guards—and this person appeared to be precisely who he was looking for.

With the introduction to Whelan putting Ariadne on edge, she and Madan decided against meeting the other occupants of the Caldwell Estate so soon. The manor itself, minimally maintained by a butler, a handful of cooks and cleaning staff, and several busy stable hands, rivaled that of the Harlow Estate. Its many rooms were well-kempt, though mostly vacant, and despite Madan's recent promotion to Lord Governor—much to Ariadne's surprise that Markus would approve—he insisted she take the suite reserved for the head of the house.

"I'm quite content where I'm at," he explained as he showed her into the enormous set of rooms on the ground floor, "and don't exactly feel like having Azriel's things moved. It feels too…permanent."

She understood what he meant. His new position had happened with very little warning. Alongside Azriel's sudden arrest and now harboring a fugitive, Madan's entire world had turned upside down. Hers had as well.

He continued, "Your own wardrobe arrived some time ago, and I haven't requested any change of their placement. Please wash up, and we will have dinner soon."

After Madan's departure, marked by the quiet click of the door shutting, Ariadne turned in place to take it all in. This was the home she had meant to discover alongside her husband, not her brother. Despite his insistence and sincerity, she half-wished he had taken the suite for himself. At least then, she would not need to find solace in a room she had imagined with Azriel inside it.

The walls and high ceiling were a deep navy, not unlike Azriel's complexion as a dhemon. They soared above her with fine silver accents toward a broad chandelier that looked like stars falling from the night sky. Straight ahead, a bay of tall windows and doors opened to a huge, private porch overflowing into the lower gardens with a fountain at its center. Long, heavy silver drapes pooled on the floor between each window, ready to be drawn before sunrise. On either side of the wide sitting room were twin hearths with ornate mantels, each sporting a low-burning fire. Before one was a small desk with various writing tools and stacks of crisp, blank paper. Across the room sat an arrangement of plush powder blue lounges, chairs, and, nearer the windows, a settee.

Ariadne's heart grew heavy as she entered the washroom next. In stark contrast to the dark colors of the sitting area, everything in this room lit up with ivory marble and the same silver accents. The sunken bathing tub, large enough for her and Azriel to have had more than enough room to glide about, sat before yet another bay of windows with a view into the gardens. It steamed with fresh, hot water, and a great willow tree's branches outside provided a natural barrier from any prying eyes. Two large washing basins stood across the room from one another, with mirrors over each, and low tables were neatly arranged with various beauty products. Her own, having been shipped ahead of them many nights ago, and even Azriel's meager supplies.

She picked up a small bottle from his table and lifted it to her nose. His cologne. The scent crashed into her like a punch to the gut, and she closed her eyes to brace against the impact of it. Before she succumbed to the grief of his absence, she set the bottle down again.

Opening her eyes, she nearly jumped at the sight of herself in the mirror before her. Over the last year, she had spent very little time looking at her reflection. So much had changed after her abduction; she had lost weight, hardly slept, and, on the best of nights, she appeared as a ghost of her previous self.

Now she had changed once again, only this time, she could stomach what she saw looking back. Her brown hair, so dark it appeared black in most lighting, framed her full, flushed face in wild, curling frizz, and the long ends wove into a haphazard braid over her shoulder. Where once shadows had lingered under her cheekbones, now her skin was alight with color. Even the vivid webbing of blue veins along her throat and jaw seemed to stand out. The dark circles beneath her eyes had reappeared thanks to her disturbed sleep over the last week.

Azriel had reignited her very soul. She would not let his efforts to see her regain such life and independence be in vain.

So Ariadne kicked off her boots and peeled the dirty clothes from her body. She ran her fingers over the brand on her chest, the symbol of Keon, and turned in the mirror to glare at the scars on her back. They had been a mark of shame for too long. Though she would not wear that monster's name proudly, she would no longer allow him to rule over her.

She slipped into the prepared bath and sighed in relief. The heat eased the aches of riding for so long. Come morning, she would be more than grateful for the bed she had yet to find—even if getting into it without her husband to keep her warm sent waves of sorrow through her.

After cleaning, Ariadne found her wardrobe hung and ready in a massive closet off the main bedroom. The imposing canopied four poster itself had been at its center, almost distracting her completely from the doorways leading to the closets. She chose a simple house gown of emerald and soft soled shoes before combing out her hair and making her way back out to the main corridors of the manor. Having a bedroom on the ground floor was…strange.

She found the dining room thanks to the butler, Ean, and froze, one foot in the room with her heart lurching into her throat.

A dozen dhemons stood about, speaking in their language that had begun to sound lyrical in Azriel's voice. From so many mouths at once, however, the sound shoved her straight into the past. The past she had just sworn would not control her life anymore.

They quieted at her appearance, and she sucked in a deep breath as she took them all in. After scanning their faces, she found two she recognized: Whelan and Kall—the dhemon who had helped fight off Ehrun and his cronies. The former gave her an encouraging smile. The latter looked about as pleased about being interrupted as he had the night he almost bled out on the highway. His twisted, scarred face remained expressionless.

" Ydhom ," Whelan said to break the silence and stepped forward.

At first, Ariadne's stomach knotted. The last thing she needed was for him or any of the others in the room to kneel at her feet as he had done in the foyer. To her relief, however, no one else moved. Whether due to their indifference or Madan's suggestion for it to not happen, she was not certain.

"Whelan," she replied, her voice airy with feigned ease. She moved a little further into the room, conscious of the red eyes tracking her. "I did not expect so many for dinner."

The dhemon grinned, and she understood what attracted Madan to him. Whelan's eyes sparkled, his mouth curled sensuously, and the angled, symmetrical planes of his face created a pleasing sight. She had not found any dhemons attractive in the past—something else Azriel had changed about her. Now she saw beyond her own terror to see the similarities between the horned fae and vampires. And there were a lot.

"We leave." Kall's deep voice, bearing an even heavier accent than Whelan's, jarred her.

Ariadne gaped for a moment, then shook her head. "No! You do not have to leave. I…I was only surprised."

The others looked between themselves but still did not move. Her heart thundered in her chest. They studied her as though sizing her up and determining her worth amongst them. One looked her over, his eyes tripping over the brand poking out from the collar of her dress. What did they think of it?

"We leave," Kall repeated, and this time, he turned to go.

Before she could talk herself out of it, Ariadne closed the distance between them and laid a hand on his arm. The huge, ax-bearing dhemon froze before looking back at her. His eyes, one red and one foggy and unseeing, burned like flames. Still, she drew herself up and said in as strong a voice as she could muster, "Stay. Please."

"Well, they can't all stay." Madan's voice jolted through her. She released Kall and whipped around as he continued, "Some of them are supposed to be on patrol."

With a grumble, all but four left, leaving Whelan, Kall, and two to whom she had yet to be introduced.

But they were not in the forefront of her thoughts anymore. An old Caersan woman had an arm looped through Madan's amputated limb. Her gray hair glittered like cobwebs, and her eyes—oh, her eyes —searched her face with quiet interest. They were the same shade of green as Azriel's. Her heart ached at the sight.

"Ariadne," Madan said, "meet my grandmother, Margot Caldwell."

The last living Original vampire stepped forward, her thin lips curling into a smile. "It is wonderful to finally meet you."

"I am honored." Ariadne bobbed a curtsy. Then she glanced at Madan and over her shoulder at the dhemons. She had so many questions and yet no words to voice them.

But Margot did not seem at such a loss. She took Ariadne's hand and patted it twice before finding a place at the long table. Despite her great age, the Caersan moved with slow, steady grace. As though knowing full well that every person standing in that room—in any room with her present—would wait.

"By the gods," Margot said as she settled into her seat and looked around at each of them still standing, "sit so we can eat."

Everyone moved at once. Madan took his place at the head of the table with Whelan to his left and Margot to his right. Ariadne hesitated, then sat beside Margot. She watched with a racing pulse as the dhemons also claimed seats. Kall across from her, his stern face unreadable. The other two she did not know sat across from one another, one next to her, and the other beside Kall.

Ariadne stared at a spot on the table just beyond her wine glass. Somehow, she had never pictured dhemons as the fae who would use cutlery or even dishes. With all of the horrific and gruesome tales told about them, she had spent her entire life imagining them clawing into their meals like animals.

Yet all four of them sat with her, straight-backed and as proper as any Caersan vampire. The dhemon beside her poured wine into the glasses he could reach, including hers, without so much as batting an eye or spilling a drop. When Rusans entered the dining room with platters of food to serve, each dhemon murmured their gratitude—particularly when a pile of raw meat was spooned onto their plates. None of the low-born vampires flinched, and one woman with mousy brown hair even leaned in to flirt with the one across the table as she served him.

She thanked the last Rusan to serve her before they departed from the room and stared at her plate of roasted chicken, potatoes, and fresh vegetables. The only difference between her plate and the one beside her was the cooked meat.

The same cooked meat Azriel had always pushed aside on his plate. Gods, how had she never noticed it before? Certainly, many fae were vegetarians, but most were not. He had never made a fuss over his food, and when served cooked meats, he had cut into it and moved it about as though to hide the fact he never touched it.

Ariadne looked up at the dhemon beside her, her heart lurching into her throat, and asked quietly, "Why can you not eat cooked meat?"

At first, the dhemon just blinked at her, his brows drawn low over scarlet eyes. The tips of his horns ended just below his jawline, and half of the ear she could see was missing. He opened his mouth as though to reply, then glanced up at Madan.

Her brother spoke in the dhemon tongue, but Ariadne could not take her eyes off the blue-skinned man before her. Whether out of fear or astonishment, she could no longer tell. She only felt the hard beat of her heart against her rib cage.

"Sick." The dhemon touched his stomach with his hand and then shrugged. "Just sick."

Well, then. That did not explain much, but what did she expect? She spoke to these people as though they were not working twice as hard as she to understand her words. Her cheeks flushed, and she nodded her understanding before asking, "Your name?"

This time, the dhemon did not look for assistance. "Jakhov, ydhom ."

"Oh." She swallowed hard. "Ariadne. Please."

As though noticing her discomfort and finding it amusing, Jakhov fought back a smirk. "No. Ydhom ."

Now Ariadne looked to Madan for help. Being called princess by every dhemon she met was not high on her list of desires. She had just escaped the title of the Golden Rose—ran from it, even—and was not eager to gain a new one. Particularly not when she still needed to get accustomed to even being around these dhemons without going straight back into that cell in the mountain keep.

"Jakhov," Whelan cut in with a pointed tone, then spoke quickly in their language.

Beside her, Margot ate her food, glancing between the dhemons as though this were a standard occurrence at her table. How long had they occupied the Caldwell Estate? She seemed so at ease with them in attendance, Ariadne got the feeling they had become the norm.

After a quick exchange between the dhemons, Jakhov cocked a brow at her and tilted his head to bring his horns a bit closer before saying in his thick accent, "Ariadne."

She leaned away from the horns tilted in her direction, much to the amusement of the dhemons around her. Her cheeks burned at the chorus of chuckles. She glanced at Kall, then Whelan. "What did I do?"

"This," Whelan mimicked Jakhov's movement toward Madan, "is an apology."

"Oh." She bit her lip. There would be a lot to learn about this vastly different culture. Food preferences, mannerisms, and their language—if she ever wanted to properly communicate with them.

"It will take some getting used to," Margot said quietly with a small smile up at her.

Ariadne swallowed hard. "How long did it take you?"

Margot's eyes softened, and she looked around at the fae gathered. "They have been here for several months now. Since my husband entered his final sleep."

Her heart stumbled at the implications. She cast Madan an uneasy glance. He had mentioned his theory that someone had been poisoning the late Lord Governor with liquid sunshine, causing his insides to slowly wither and die. After his own encounter with it, thanks to Loren, he understood the way the poison worked. Neither of them had shared the information with Azriel to allow her husband to focus on his position and provide Madan time to investigate who could have done it. Whether he had shared this information with Margot, she could not say.

Across the table, the unintroduced dhemon fixed her with an intense stare. His deep syrah eyes bore into her as though trying to understand her inner thoughts. Black tattoos seemed to drip down his cheeks from his lower lids to his jaw like tears.

"Why did you all choose to come here?" Ariadne looked at the dhemons, then hurried on, "I mean…why choose to come to a place where you would not be safe?"

Margot smiled. "To keep me safe."

She did not like the sound of that. If the wife of the late Lord Governor was not safe in her own home, then they suspected the worst of the Caersans—the worst of those who should have been her protector. Now Ariadne fell into that same category as their ydhom and a runaway. It did not sit right with her that these men who knew nothing about her would put her life before theirs.

"I want to learn to fight," she blurted, fixing her gaze on the plate before her. Under the table, she twisted her fingers into the fabric of her skirt as everyone went still. It had been something she contemplated along her journey to Monsumbra. If she knew how to keep herself safe, none of the protection they provided would be necessary.

Kall cocked his head and replied first. "Why?"

"We can protect you," Madan said, the color draining from his face despite the glint of interest in his eyes. "As we've always done."

Ariadne shook her head. "But you will not always be around, and I will not sit idly by as others go to Algorath for Azriel."

The dhemons exchanged looks, and the unintroduced man hissed something to Jakhov in their language. The exchange, cut off by Whelan, ended with light chuckles. Those tattooed eyes swung back in her direction, alight with renewed interest.

" Vampii girls no fight," the tattooed fae said, his accent as thick and difficult to understand as Jakhov's and Kall's.

The word he used for her, vampii , rolled through her mind, igniting a strange memory. It had been used in the dhemon keep; someone had once interrupted Ehrun's tutelage to ask a question and used the word. She had not placed the voice before, but after hearing the dhemon say it again, she knew it had been him. He had been there during her torment.

Her breath caught, and she stared at him. Stared and stared and wished she had known what else the man had said to Ehrun. What question had he asked?

"You are wrong," she croaked back at him, resisting the urge to curl in on herself. "I will learn to fight with or without your help."

"If that's what you wish," Madan said, "I will make sure it happens. But I won't always be around to teach you."

Ariadne pried her gaze from the dhemon and turned it to her brother. "Thank you."

"I teach her." Kall's eyes glittered with intrigue.

Her heart stumbled. Of course. Madan would be busy as the Lord Governor, so a dhemon would have to step in. The cutthroat horned fae across from her had faced off with Ehrun and his cronies mere weeks ago and walked away from it—even if he had been wounded.

Despite her reservations, she nodded and said again, "Thank you."

Beside her, Margot merely ate and listened to the exchange. When Ariadne looked to her for support of any kind, the elderly Caersan smiled encouragingly and nodded her approval. Such things had never been an option for her. The time to learn had long since passed.

"Tomorrow," Kall said, the corner of his mouth ticking up. The smirk twisted the scars across his face in a strange way.

Ariadne's confidence from moments ago flagged. Sitting in the same room as the dhemons was one thing. To have one teach her? Touch her? Perhaps she had been a bit hasty in the request. Nonetheless, she gave Kall a small smile in hopes it would be enough to fool herself into believing it would all be fine.