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Life in the dhemon keep did not suit Ariadne. As such she spent as much time as possible avoiding the inner corridors, despite the weather’s steady descent into the mountainous autumn. Her clothes, tailored for the desert, provided little warmth as the cold air crept across the valley overlooked by the castle built into the cliffside, and with no one to journey into nearby vampire villages for shopping, the bitter nights ate away at her will.

Despite the unbearable chill, she spent as many waking hours outside as possible to distract herself in the way she now knew best: training.

Constant movement allowed Ariadne two very important things. First, it kept her warm. Incessant, fast blood flow to her extremities allowed her to remain in the cold longer than if she were to lounge about as she was once wont to do. No more romance books, in part due to her lack of access to them, but more so her new focus on building her strength, endurance, and arsenal of fighting techniques.

Second, it provided a much-needed reprieve from the torment of her own mind. She had discovered how well such distractions worked while training with Kall in the nights following Azriel’s arrest and subsequent imprisonment in Algorath. It continued to provide a safe haven from herself as she batted away thoughts of her murdered father and memories of the last time she had been kept within the stone walls of the dhemon keep. Each punch, dodge, or parry kept her so occupied, nothing else could creep in.

Yet dawn crept back day after day, stealing away her moonlit hours and forcing her back indoors to the halls chiseled into the mountain that she despised so much.

Ariadne dragged the sleeve of her too-large shirt across her face as she closed the keep’s door behind her. The sudden rush of warmth choked a fresh wave of sweat from her pores. Within moments, more slithered down from her hairline and dripped from the end of her nose. Every inch of her body stuck to the loose fabric, defining each curve and dip created by the muscles she now utilized with as much efficiency as her sparring partners.

Kall and Madan walked ahead of her, the former comically large with his massive black horns and broad shoulders compared to the latter, lithe and hornless. But it was her half-brother who looked over his shoulder at her, slowing his pace to not leave her behind.

A week. She had survived a week within the confines of the dhemon keep, yet she still halted just inside the doors. Her heart thundered from the exertion of their training but also the rush of memories that seized her. Without her consent, her gaze always locked first on the stones at her feet. The stones where she first met Ehrun’s displeasure and crumpled from the impact of his fist after trying to run to Darien.

The stones where she first heard Azriel scream.

Once her heart had had enough of that particular thought, Ariadne’s attention turned to the staircase leading to the dungeon. They had quickly discovered that, given too much time to dwell on that particular set of steps, she lost herself to the past.

Madan’s warm hand enveloped her own, dragging her gaze from the dark recesses of the dungeon. He tugged gently, forcing her feet to move, and said, “Your sword skills have improved since last I saw.”

Distractions on top of distractions. Kall waited for them before turning into the great hall at the end of the entry where everyone gathered for each meal. The room beyond the double-door threshold was as wide as it was long, built of dark stone with two massive hearths on either side. Long tables and benches stretched from the doorway to a raised dais at the far end of the room. Atop the platform was no table, only a singular piece of furniture that she had yet to see thanks to the dusty linen covering it.

Ariadne snorted. “That was weeks ago.”

“You work hard,” Kall said, his ruby eyes flickering over every dhemon, mage, fae, and vampire sitting on the benches at the long tables. “You stronger.”

“Thank you.” She squeezed Madan’s hand, and he returned the gesture. “I can do better.”

“You’ve got to rest, too,” he said, his brows furrowing. “Pace yourself. You’ve won your first battle. You’ve proven yourself.”

But Ariadne shook her head. “That’s one more reason to work harder.”

She never would have succeeded against Melia without the wards Kall had engraved into her armor. Without having trained with Phulan in advance to track magic. Without the pure luck of forcing the Desmo to ingest her blood, stripping her of the illusions.

“You no win,” Kall warned Madan, a grin spreading across his cobalt face.

“I’ll certainly try.” The vampire raised a brow at her, the sternness in his gaze sending a jolt of agony through Ariadne. He looked too much like their father—their late father, as confirmed by the two vampire Lords he had rescued. How had she been so blind to the similarities during his tenure as her guard?

Kall’s chuckle cut through Ariadne’s wave of anguish. He placed both hands over his heart and inclined his head at her before giving her a parting, “ Ydhom ,” and hurried off to find a plate of food.

Before Ariadne could do the same, Madan pulled her attention back to him. “I’m serious. Don’t let this consume you.”

“I am fine,” she said, praying to Keon that she sounded convincing. In truth, even she could not gauge how dishonest her words were. Only the claws of misery digging into her heart each time she let herself rest for too long told her just how much it hurt. If she did not run from the pain, it would drown her.

To her endless displeasure, Madan did not appear convinced. His eyes flickered over her shoulder before he gave her hand one last squeeze and pulled away. “Perhaps your husband will be more persuasive.”

Ariadne feared the night her heart did not skip at the mention of her husband . It lurched in her chest, and she turned to find Azriel’s vampiric eyes locked on her from the entrance to the great hall. The peridot green searched her face as though he still could not believe she was alive. Melia’s illusion of her decapitated head had buried itself so deep into the unreachable recesses of his mind, he required almost constant reassurance of her well-being each night.

“My love.” The words rasped from him at his approach. He slid his too-thin arms around her and pulled her close, burying his face in the crook of her neck and inhaling deeply.

And for those heartbeats, nothing else mattered. Ariadne’s worries disintegrated. Her agony dissipated. Her past drifted away. In his embrace, time stopped, and for a few moments, she felt like herself again.

Then reality set in, and Ariadne squirmed out of his hold. “I am disgusting. At least wait until I have bathed.”

Azriel chuckled, the deep rumble seeming to vibrate straight from his chest. “As though I could be repulsed by your sweat. You forget, my love, that I’ve been your reason for such a disgusting appearance before.”

She hummed, a smirk curling the corners of her mouth. “Yes, but I can guarantee that half of what you feel is courtesy of Kall.”

Something dark flickered through his eyes, and regret choked Ariadne at her choice of words. Azriel’s gaze snapped to the dhemon now seated and digging into raw, poorly seasoned venison. A muscle ticked in his jaw as he silently battled the bond within him. Whether due to his need to protect her or the intrusive thoughts that Kall had done more with her than mere training, she did not know.

Ariadne cupped his face in her hands and pulled his attention back to her. “ Alhija . I am here. I am safe. I am yours .”

The words were not new to them. Since their reunion, she had had to reassure him of such things each night. Between the terrors that tore him from slumber and the pieces of his bond healing, he had required many reminders. And each one broke her heart a little more.

Azriel nodded, leaning his cheek into her palm. “I know.”

“I am sorry,” she said, heart still aching. “I should not have said that.”

“No.” His eyes bore into hers. “I trust you. I trust him. Thank you for being patient with me.”

Ridiculous, really. He had had to be just as patient with her far more often. The memory of her reentrance to the dhemon keep would haunt her for years to come. After so bravely stepping through the front doors that first night, Azriel had been forced to collect her in his arms when she had frozen while staring at those stones. At those stairs. The number of times he had soothed her vastly outnumbered what she did for him .

But that was love. That was what she would do every day and night for the rest of their lives to remind him of her devotion to him. They had both endured too much at the hands of monsters. Only together would they heal.

“Come.” She laced her fingers with his and pulled him toward the table where Margot sat with Phulan and the dhemons Lhuka and Sasja.

They settled onto the bench, Azriel beside Margot. The elderly Caersan smiled up at her grandson and cupped his face as she said in such a way that Ariadne realized they had encroached on a conversation, “And this one looks just like my daughter, Mariana. A Golden Rose as well. Chosen by Keon himself.”

“Truly?” Ariadne’s heart skipped. Having never heard any of them speak of it before, nor seen signs at either of the Caldwell homes, she had not expected to have such a connection with her husband’s mother.

“She refused to be painted with any reminders of the matter.” Margot sighed, but merely shook Azriel’s face gently. “So beautiful.”

Lhuka made a face, the black tattoos across the bridge of his nose crinkling. “She was prettier than him.”

Before Ariadne could summon a rebuttal, Azriel grunted. “Says the one who had to stab his face with a needle to turn any heads.”

To her surprise, Sasja chuckled. Ariadne had not heard the dhemon woman speak much, though she discovered it was due to her lack of common tongue. That she could understand their words well enough had made it easier for Ariadne to thank her for keeping Azriel safe in the Pits. Without her, he would have died when she saw them fight together.

“I’m dashing.” Lhuka tilted his chin up in defiance. “Grandmother told me so.”

Azriel glowered at him. “Get your own grandmother.”

The bickering went back and forth for some time. Ariadne helped herself to the limited supplies of food, prepared by a lycan with an affinity for cooking called Ben and Phulan with the supplies of spices from Algorath she so wisely grabbed during their mad scramble out of the city. She slid a plate of food in front of Azriel and nudged his side. In response, his arm snaked around her waist, pulling her closer and kissing the top of her head before tucking into the meat and vegetables.

It felt oddly normal for such a simple transition to occur between them.

Ariadne’s heart constricted at the thought. They did not live a normal life. They never had. And like everything else, this too would change.

Azriel didn’t know how to function in this life. How to balance his vampiric side with the dhemonic. His marriage with his bond. Past and present.

Living in Auhla didn’t help. Centuries of memories swirled around him every time he entered a room. Laughter when his father chased him through the corridors as a child. Sorrow when he paused to look out a bay of windows overlooking the mountain valley, recalling the dissonance after his mother’s death. Pain and confusion when his body transitioned for the first time without warning. Hate when losing friends to the war. Untempered rage when being dragged down to the dungeons at the orders of someone he once considered a mentor.

Nothing compared to the guilt simmering deep in his gut each time he saw Ariadne pause, face blanching in the entry hall. No matter how many times he justified their occupation of the castle to himself, there would be no coming to terms with the way she wilted whenever she entered the front doors. That she tried so hard to hide her discomfort only hurt more.

So when she excused herself from the table to go wash up after the night of training, Azriel made to follow—to ensure she didn’t lose herself to the memories as he so often did. Phulan laid a hand on his arm and shook her head as she stood.