9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

A zriel's first fight in the Pits was a mere three days into his imprisonment under Melia. Despite the careful tallies he kept on his wall to mark the long, grueling days of training in the heat, his mind muddled the events of one day to the next. Memories of conversations he'd overheard from the Valenul soldiers mixed with those from the prisoners, contorting the past with the present.

The second time he asked Raoul to remind him about his time in Waer Province, the human had looked at him as though he had lost his mind before informing him he'd never set foot in Valenul.

Fuck . It was the only word appropriate for what Azriel knew to be happening. It'd occurred once before, not long after Madan rescued Ariadne from Auhla . He'd returned from Algorath and found he couldn't differentiate the nights, remember critical information needed for his role as a guard to the Caldwell Estate, or even recall where his own room had been.

It'd taken Madan weeks to get him back on track. Months to begin the healing. Then a single fucking request to ruin every step of progress he'd made.

Dhemon bonds differed from other fae in one critical aspect: they lost all sense of the world when separated from the one with whom they'd bonded. Though any fae carried the risk of growing volatile or even downright destructive in the wake of separation, nothing compared to the world-shattering blind rage which took over a dhemon. Azriel had unfortunately witnessed the steady spiral into madness with both his father and Ehrun. He knew it well as an onlooker…and as someone who had tried to hang himself to avoid the encroaching darkness.

Memory loss and confusion were always the first signs.

Madan's blood connection to Ariadne had somehow tethered Azriel enough throughout the first separation that he had been able to find his way back. The same had happened for his father with him and Madan, though not before he'd raised an army and burned vampire villages in the name of vengeance. Ehrun had had no such blood connection to his dead mate. His only daughter had been killed as well.

And without that tether to the real world, Azriel wasn't certain what would happen to him. Though Ariadne wasn't dead, her inability to bond with him left him without a lifeline. Most fae bonded to one another, creating a two-way connection between them. It allowed them to feel the other's presence, sense their emotions, and, for some, communicate telepathically. Those fae knew exactly how their mate fared, for if that connection ever severed, they'd feel it immediately.

Azriel had no such connection with Ariadne. Therefore, he could never know if she was safe. His bond depended on their near-constant interaction. Without it, that horrible monster inside him reared its ugly head and whispered to him every possible nightmare, driving him down that path of agonizing worry and, ultimately, hate.

Oh, the gods were cruel for giving him someone who could not complete the mating bond. How had his father survived without his mother within arm's reach at all times? No wonder she disappeared into the forest so often when he was a child.

So as he sat beside Raoul, picking through the bowl of Melia's latest leftovers with disgust, he forced himself to push past the mortifying realization of what plagued him. He apologized for confusing his new friend's history with that of an oddly friendly vampire soldier and turned the topic back to the matter at hand.

"When do we go to the Pits?"

Raoul stabbed a piece of meat from Azriel's bowl as it was swept aside and said, "Just before dusk."

"Why waste the daylight?"

The human chewed the stolen bite. "Not all the fighters are able to compete in the sun."

Compete. As though what they were to do was a matter of winning or losing a medal of honor and not their lives.

Azriel froze at the implication, however. "Vampires?"

"Of course." Raoul frowned at the question.

He didn't think Markus or Loren approved of the Pits—at least not before him. Why would any vampires be left in Algorathian prisons where their options were so limited? That they were not extradited back to Valenul meant one of two things: either the vampires' crimes were never revealed to the Council, or the Council didn't care.

"And they're Caersan?" Azriel pressed.

Now Raoul waved his spoon dismissively. "I don't understand, nor do I care to know, the meaning behind those ridiculous labels. A vampire is a vampire. Every kid in my village was raised on tales about those monsters that'd keep me up at night. They're wicked strong, faster than any human—mage or otherwise—and will drain you of every drop of blood, given the chance."

Azriel snorted into his bowl. "You're afraid of vampires?"

"Anyone who isn't," he huffed, "is a damn fool."

A slow, sly grin spread across his face, wide enough to show his fangs, longer than the rest of his viciously sharp teeth. "My mother was a vampire."

The color drained from Raoul's face, and he shuddered with a groan of discomfort. "This is why I don't ask personal questions. I'd have rather died not knowing that bit of information, thanks."

"What fun would that be?"

"Just…" Raoul made a disgusted face. "Don't ask to drink from me."

"You have my word." Azriel struggled to keep the grin from broadening. "But if they ever put us against each other…"

Raoul raised his face to the sun and muttered a low prayer to Emry, the Goddess of the Desert and Steppes, before turning back to point his spoon at him. "I will put you in the ground before you can get to my throat."

Azriel chuckled. "If you say so."

A shadow fell over them, bringing their téte-a-téte to an abrupt end. Azriel blinked up at the intruder and found himself glaring up at the guard he had run into after speaking with Sasja. Having not seen them since that day, he had not thought much about the guard's position within the Desmo's rankings. Still, they wore their gold-stitched clothes with the shemagh covering their face; one hand rested on the hilt of the curved sword at their hip.

"Up, dhemon." The guard nudged his outstretched foot with their boot. "The Desmo wishes to speak with you."

So Melia finally decided to acknowledge him. Interesting. He dragged his feet back in and used his back on the wall to slide into a standing position. His vision darkened for a heartbeat—a recent development since arriving and receiving inadequate nutrition. After blinking to clear his head, he shoved off the wall and followed the guard across the yard, depositing his bowl in the wash basin on the way.

The guard led him out of the training yard and up toward the regal chateau on its cliff. Unsurprising. To step foot in the same sand as her prisoners would be beneath her.

A glimmer of magic shone around the outer walls of the chateau and even stretched out to the balcony overlooking the prisoners below. At first, Azriel assumed it to be protective magic—a way to ensure those prisoners could never harm the Desmo or any guests who might visit. When he crossed through the shimmering bubble, however, he realized it did more than protect her from potential riots. It protected her from the sun and heat.

The balcony remained bright and warm, but gone was the skin-blistering pain of the desert sunshine. In an instant, the sweat that had dappled Azriel's brow and body felt cold and clammy against his skin. The sweet scent of jasmine hung heavy in the air.

He dragged his forearm across his face, dodging his horns with practiced ease. When he settled once more, the mage of his nightmares stood before him.

Melia wore a thick, silver headband that pushed her hair back from her elegant face. She surveyed him with those piercing moonlight eyes for a long moment before giving the guard a curt nod. "I will call when we're finished, Paerish."

Azriel didn't dare turn to see where the guard, Paerish, went. Turning his back on the woman before him would be a foolish thing to do. He'd made that mistake once and ended up with a literal knife in his back. That was all it took to teach him.

"You broke your promise." Melia tilted her head, her long earrings sparkling in the sunlight. "Again."

Again. As though he'd intentionally led her to her imprisonment at Auhla . Unlike the ultimatum Ehrun had used to coerce Azriel into dragging Ariadne into the mountain keep, he'd had no idea of his father's plans for the willing mages he'd brought back, Melia included.

"If you believe I want to be here," Azriel ground out, "then you've learned nothing about my sense of self-preservation."

Melia turned on a sandaled heel and paced back to a waist-high table behind her, where she poured a glass of water from a pitcher. The very sound of the liquid hitting the glass brought Azriel's full attention to the dryness of his mouth. A dangerous place to be when in the desert. Dehydration placed one foot in a grave.

"Self-preservation." Melia drank from the glass as she turned back to him, the fabric of her gown seeming to move like the very water she indulged in. She set the cup down and leaned an elbow on the table. "I'd heard you'd made a name for yourself amongst the very creatures you swore to annihilate."

Guilt twisted in his gut. Indeed, he had used that exact word. Annihilate . And he had leveled villages with his small companies of dhemons, set fire to buildings with vampires still inside, and listened to their screams like music.

"That was a long time ago." He kept his face straight. She believed him to be the same man she once knew.

"Lord Governor Azriel Caldwell." Melia scoffed and poured another glass. His eyes locked on the water before he could stop himself. The corner of her mouth twitched up. She continued, "A step down from dhom , wouldn't you say?"

Azriel dragged his gaze from the water again and tried to summon enough saliva to coat his throat. He swallowed dryly. "I was never a prince, and you know that."

"Then you were as blind to your devotees as you were to your own father's plans."

"I had nothing to do with—"

"I didn't ask for you to be brought up to me for us to banter about the past," she cut in, her lips pinching. "Your first fight is tonight."

He blinked. "Why do you care?"

A small smirk played on her lips. "You have been given to me as an experiment of sorts for those fanged freaks in Valenul."

Now Azriel grimaced but said nothing.

"And Mair Solt has informed me that if all goes well," she continued, "Lord Governor Nightingale will get precisely what he's desired for quite some time: permission to build an arena of sorts not unlike the Pits here."

Azriel grit his teeth. The entire prison system in Algorath was barbaric. For people so much farther advanced as a society than the vampires in Valenul, mages clung to their most ancient of traditions. Their justice system allowed the gods to determine the fates of criminals. Prisoners always had a choice: endure the years behind bars or step into the Pits and fight their way to freedom. Those the gods favored won enough matches to secure an early release. Those the gods deemed unworthy died a brutal death.

Each crime equated to a correlating number of years in prison or matches to win. Even a lowly thief either served three years…or fought three matches. For someone unskilled, they often chose the long way through paying their debt. But someone trained in combat could potentially walk out of the Pits after two hundred matches and continue their nefarious ways.

If, of course, the Desmos didn't stack the odds against their prisoners, as Melia was sure to do to him. Azriel didn't even know how long he had to fight before freedom. He didn't know if freedom would even be an option.

She must have seen the realization in his eyes, for she stepped closer. He made to back away only to find his body locked into place thanks to the collar around his neck. The magic felt different than that of the fae—harsher and far less natural, thanks to his strong fae blood.

Melia stroked her fingers down his cheek, a mischievous glint in her silver eyes, and said, "It may come as a shock, Azi , but I want you to win."

His skin crawled at her old nickname for him. She had stolen it from Phulan, the mage who'd once been a mutual friend between them, and had healed his leg after Ehrun broke it and turned it into something vile. A taunt not unlike the way some dhemons called him dhomin .

"Why?" He bit out the question as though it tasted rancid.

"Because if the vampires see how lucrative this business is," she explained, "they'll be more likely to open an entirely new avenue of trade between us."

Azriel stared at her in horror. "People are not goods to be sold."

"No." Melia ran her fingers over his horn's annuli. "But documented crimes are."

"You speak of slavery."

She clicked her tongue and shook her head. "Indentured servitude. Do not conflate the two. Slavery assumes there would be no way out of the contracts. Indentureds are free to walk away after their final bout."

"It's sick."

"It's business." Melia tapped the tip of his nose and paced back to the table to pour a third glass of water. "I'd had no idea Desmos made so much money from the Pits when we were together. Perhaps that Azi would've seen things differently."

The slow release of the collar's magic had him lurching forward from the strain to break through it. He caught himself before stumbling into her and reeled back. " That version of me is long dead."

"I do hope not." Melia snapped her fingers, and a servant scurried out from the chateau bearing a tray with a plate of raw meat and another pitcher of water. The small woman placed it on a low table next to a chair and disappeared back inside. "I need you in top shape for tonight."

Azriel stared at the offerings for a long moment. His stomach growled, and a low hum started in his head, drowning out any sounds around him.

Yet he didn't move. He couldn't trust anything on that tray. It could all be a trick.

Sensing his apprehension, Melia groaned and rolled her eyes. Without a word, she picked up the pitcher and drank straight from the lip. Then she plucked up a cut of the raw meat and ate it as though it were nothing different from the fine food she consumed each day.

It was all he needed to see. Azriel collapsed into the chair and, ignoring the cup provided, brought the pitcher straight to his mouth. He drank greedily, hardly stopping to suck in a breath, the cool liquid seeming to soak into him before even reaching his belly. Then he dove into the plate of meat. Though it wasn't seasoned—a regular misconception by anyone not dhemon that they ate it plain—he didn't register the bland taste.

And gods, he needed the sustenance before his first fight, for when he walked into the Pits at dusk, Azriel understood precisely why some prisoners would never choose this option. Algorathians clustered around the massive open-aired dirt arena. Four elongated pits sank into the ground with waist-high metal rails at the tops to keep spectators from falling into danger. Tiers of seating rose along the walls, with balconies jutting out like box seats in a theater.

Melia led her procession of prisoners. Azriel's collar flared with magic that singed his neck and kept him from making any movements grand enough for an escape. He stood at the back of the line, just behind Sasja, and forced his spine straight as the Algorathian elite began placing bets on them both.

Weakness in the Pits would be used against him. He'd give them none.

They lined up along a wall between two of the pits, and Melia stepped away to speak with another Desmo. In her absence, Paerish stood before them, silent and unreadable—as if the shemagh allowed anyone to get a read on their face either way.

"How many times have you fought in here?" Azriel asked Sasja in the dhemon tongue, low enough to not draw attention.

She didn't look at him. When she didn't respond right away, he assumed she'd decided to ignore him. Then she whispered back, "Enough."

He looked down at her with an assessing eye. She stood rigid and stared ahead, her brows low over her eyes. Though she wasn't much shorter than he, her frame was considerably more lithe. He'd seen her train with smooth, quick movements that often out-paced her partners. She was built for speed and precision, not brute strength. Nonetheless, muscles rippled in her arms as she flexed her shaking hands.

"How many more do you have?"

Now Sasja glanced at him, her red eyes sharp and discerning. "Enough to know this place will be my tomb."

What had she done, then, to deserve such a fate? Gods, what had Mair Solt and Melia been told he had done to be brought here? It seemed as though they didn't need much convincing to throw a would-be criminal into the Pits.

"I will get us out."

Sasja chuffed. "You're not the first to say such things."

But Azriel merely raised his brows and said, "What kind of little prince would I be if I didn't try to protect my own?"

"I am not yours," she snarled.

"Far from," he agreed. "But I have reasons to be free and see no reason to leave anyone behind."

She didn't look up at him again as the first of their line-up stepped forward to climb into the nearest pit. Instead, she hissed from the corner of her mouth, "And how do you plan to do anything with that band around your neck?"

Azriel didn't get the chance to explain that he hadn't thought that far ahead, for which he was grateful. Paerish pointed to him, then to the pit on the left. No need to speak. Azriel grunted in response, then said in parting to Sasja, "Don't die."

If she told him off or made a rude gesture in return, he didn't know. He turned and stalked to the edge of the pit. The way to descend the sheer twenty-foot drop was unclear. For a long moment, he scanned the rough walls, searching for a way to clamber into the hole where three massive lycans paced wearing similar collars to his own.

"Afraid?" Melia's voice registered at the same moment a hand shoved hard at his back, sending him reeling over the edge.

Laughter echoed above him as he hit the ground hard. The thin layer of dirt over the stone floor did little to break his fall. He groaned and glared up over his shoulder at the Desmo before shoving back up to his feet. On the far side of the pit, the lycans chittered their own amusement as they turned on him. A quick sweep of the pit revealed no weapons had been supplied.

Fantastic.

Azriel didn't waste the energy to dust himself off. He settled his weight low in his thighs to study the way the wolven fae moved. This would not become his tomb. He would survive. He would find a way not only to escape but kill Melia in the process. He would see Ariadne again.

But to accomplish all of that, he had to focus on the task at hand. The lycans fanned out—a deep russet on his left, charcoal gray to his right, and silver in the center. They moved methodically, each slow step a planned maneuver to advance and trap him against the back wall.

So he stepped closer, opening his back to a possible attack. He kept his focus low and center, tracking their movements in his periphery and noting every flicker of tension.

The russet lycan moved first. It launched forward, forcing Azriel to sidestep to avoid its snapping jaws—right into the gray's path. Gray lunged for his knees, massive teeth bared, and Azriel sprawled his body forward, kicking his legs out of reach of the snapping maw as he wrapped his arms around the wolf's neck.

To keep the other two in his line of sight, Azriel locked his hand over his bicep and heaved the lycan up as he regained his footing before pivoting. Gray yelped, front legs lifted from the ground, claws dragging across his abdomen. Pain lanced through him, followed by the telling sensation of heat running down his stomach.

Azriel tightened his hold, pressing the lycan's head into his chest and heaving his arms up hard and fast. With the weight of the massive body holding Gray down and his grip lifting at his neck, the resounding crack told him he'd succeeded in snapping the wolf's neck.

Just in time for Russet to barrel into him and clamp his jaws down on Azriel's arm. He roared in pain, stumbling back, unable to rip his arm away. The lycan locked down harder, yanking back like a dog with a rope. Azriel tripped over Gray's corpse and landed hard on his knees, losing sight of Silver as the third lycan stalked behind him.

Fuck .

All of the bloodthirsty cheers around them had long since faded into the background. No thoughts rolled through his mind other than the roaring pain and the frantic search for a way to get out of the situation. Every one of them returned to letting Russet tear his arm off, but that wasn't a very good plan if he had any hope of getting out of Algorath alive.

Instead, he lifted himself onto his free hand and toes to drive himself forward. Russet, not anticipating the shift of momentum, stumbled back, jaws loosening just enough to rip his arm free. Azriel hurtled to the lycan's side, ignoring the agony throbbing through his arm as he grabbed the foreleg. In a single, swift movement, he yanked it to the side and front-kicked Russet's hips.

Another crack. Another shriek of pain. Another broken bone.

Screams of excitement from above slammed into him again as the third lycan finally joined the fray by leaping onto Azriel's back. He fell to the ground as the new set of teeth mauled his shoulder.

His vision swam, the pain too shocking for his system. He gasped for breath, clinging to whatever scraps of consciousness he had left. It would be so easy to give in. To fall into the darkness beckoning to him and let the damned wolves eat him.

But there was too much to live for. Too much at stake if he didn't win. Didn't survive. Ariadne, not only hunted by Ehrun, would be a true widow, and Loren would imprison her through marriage. Madan would be left to fend for himself, no longer seen as the brother of the Dhemon Prince but as a liability in the war against vampires and dhemons alike.

So Azriel used Silver's momentum to roll forward, taking the lycan with him. They landed in a heap, scrambling for the controlling position. Grappling with wolves was different than how he'd been trained all his life. Five centuries of battle never prepared him for facing off with such an opponent.

But they lived and died no differently than a dhemon, vampire, or mage.

Azriel slammed his fist into the side of Silver's face, stunning the lycan long enough to tackle it back to the ground, where he sat all his weight on the thick, barreled chest. Silver snapped his massive jaws at him, and after a moment of timing it out, Azriel shoved both hands into his mouth.

Gripping the upper and lower jaws hard enough for the long teeth to dig into his hand, he jerked Silver's mouth wide. Though the lycan resisted and Azriel's ruined arm roared in protest, he felt the hinging point give. Silver screamed in pain, mouth hanging loose.

He didn't hesitate. He couldn't. The wolf writhed beneath him, and he held the huge body tight with his knees. Gripping each side of its head, he twisted hard.

Two broken necks. One lycan still alive.

Right on cue, Russet returned, limping around the broken leg. The lycan snarled and bared its fangs, hackles raised. Though it put on a fierce show, fear danced in its eyes. This should've been an easy fight for them. Three against one, the odds had been in their favor.

What had kept Azriel upright throughout it all went beyond the fear of death. He knew who he'd be leaving behind, and that was not an option. Not anymore. Not like when he'd put the rope around his neck all those months ago.

He needed to live .

He advanced on Russet, every movement one of agony with his arm and shoulder nearly useless. He'd never thought to ask anyone if a healer would be brought in after the fights. Worse still, he'd need blood after this. And Ariadne wouldn't be there to provide this time around.

He eyed the final wolf and its mane of thick fur around its neck. There was a purpose to all that hair: to prevent teeth like his from getting through. Not that he wanted a mouthful of lycan fur anyway.

Yet as he now stalked forward, his head swam. Too much blood loss. Too much pain. A mangled back courtesy of Loren had been one thing. Almost having a limb torn off was completely different. At least after the lashing, he hadn't been expected to move.

Russet backed away as Azriel stalked forward. The lycan knew it would die. He had no other choice. The only way out of that pit was by stepping on the bodies of the dead.

At last, Russet shifted directions, snapping at his legs. Azriel brought his knee up, connecting with the lycan's maw and slamming his fist into the side of its head. It stumbled to the side from the impact, opening its uninjured side to him. He kicked out hard in front of him, another crack confirming the broken ribs as the wolf yelped.

Azriel advanced again, and this time, the lycan backed up. Above them, spectators screamed for more blood. More death. More pain. Killing had never been a sport to him but a necessary part of war.

Until those dhemons threatened Ariadne.

He shook her from his mind and grabbed Russet by the scruff, hauling the lycan back to him. Russet shrieked and flailed again, front paws rising from the ground just as Gray's had. Gods, he could smell the blood around him. His mouth watered, and he contemplated draining the wolf again.

Instead, he grabbed Russet's head and hissed through gritted teeth, "I'm so sorry," and broke the third lycan's neck.

The body landed with a thud in the dirt. Azriel stumbled back to survey his wreckage and swayed. He blinked as his chest heaved, looked up at the spectators cheering his name—the Crowe—and shook his head in disgust.

Then, the darkness claimed him.