Page 10

Chapter 9

I t took time for Ariadne to convince Azriel that she would be alright. She knew his heart well enough to understand what he had done was in no way meant to frighten her. While alarming, his actions were logical, given their position at the edge of war. Like any army preparing for battle, they needed information. They needed to know Ehrun’s plans.

So after Azriel kissed her and left to meet with the makeshift council, Ariadne made her way down to the entry hall. Voices echoed from inside the great hall. Someone was always there, whether to eat or merely speak with the others who had begun gathering in the keep, and therefore, it remained the central hub of communication. Yet she did not turn to enter. She did not even pause at the doorway to see who sat together.

Instead, Ariadne stopped near the alcove from which Kall had scooped her up. She forced herself to stand straight and stare at that bloody stain on the stones, then the stairs that led to the dungeons below.

Her heart hammered, and sweat coated her cold palms.

Standing there alone was more difficult than she had imagined when she put on her trousers and shirt that evening. She pictured herself marching down those steps and taking in each room. Each cell. Each painful moment from her history.

Rather than mimic the motions she had so carefully planned out, Ariadne froze. Memories washed over her. The front doors bursting open, letting in her now-dead fiancé, Darien Gard. He had charged so magnificently over the threshold, sword drawn and ready to die to save her. She remembered the flood of hope and fear as Azriel screamed behind her.

When she had asked her husband what had caused such a reaction to Darien’s sudden appearance, his explanation had broken her heart. “I knew you’d go to him, and the moment you did, Ehrun would use him against you. If Darien had waited…if he’d prepared more…he would’ve been able to do what I couldn’t and lived a long, happy life with you. You deserved that happy ending.”

“But the bond,” she had said, curling in on him in their bed back in Laeton. “You would have been alright with us marrying?”

Azriel had not responded for several long heartbeats before admitting, “I would not have let myself live long enough to witness it.”

Now, as Ariadne stood before that dungeon, enveloped in her memories of that moment with Azriel’s scream still burned into her mind, she could not imagine having married Darien. She had loved him, certainly. She had wanted nothing more than to be Lady Ariadne Gard, wife of a future Councilman. But all of it paled in comparison to the utter devotion she felt for Azriel.

After all they had gone through, together and apart, no one else would ever make her feel as safe and loved as he did.

So it was of Azriel that Ariadne thought as she crossed the hall and took the first step down. She had never been the lone prisoner in those cells. It had been he who had caused the raucous during those terrifying nights. The distant screams that were not hers and the pounding on the walls had all come from him, trying to escape. Trying to get back to her. It had been he who kept Ehrun distracted as Madan hurried her out of the keep, claiming the reward and praise for her rescue.

Ten…

She sucked in a long, deep breath as she shook, her stomach roiling. Another step down.

Nine…

Ariadne closed her eyes against the darkness below. She laid a hand on the cold stone wall beside her as she exhaled, centering herself in the reality of where she was.

Eight…

Another breath in. Shallower this time. Her lungs did not expand nearly as much as they should, yet she took another step and forced her eyes open again.

Seven…

The air punched from her lungs at the sight of a flickering light below. There was still one prisoner down there. The one who had tried to kill her—who very well could have killed Azriel if that dagger had moved mere inches to the side.

Six…

She rasped in another meager breath. It burned her tight throat.

Five…

It left before she could remember what she planned to do at the bottom of those stairs.

Four.

Ariadne could not inhale. There was no more air. Her head swam. She teetered back and landed heavy on her rear, clutching at her throat, which felt as though it had closed entirely. Hot tears slipped down her face, and she tucked her face against her knees to keep from swaying. Heart pounding fast, she pinched her eyes closed again and wrapped her arms around her own body, desperate for a soft touch.

“ Yvhaltrinja ?”

The title startled her as much as the voice. The sound shocked her right out of her own head—her own memories—to refocus on the present. Ariadne snapped her head up to take in Whelan’s silhouette as he took a seat on the step, his red eyes studying her. Then they flickered down into the dungeon below, his beautiful face a mask of neutrality.

“You do not have to call me that,” she said, wiping her face dry on her sleeve. “Please, Whelan, we are friends. Gods, I am practically your sister.”

He tilted his head, remaining focused on the landing far below. “We are, but you know as well as I that with Azriel as my King, you are now my Queen, and I will be treating you as such.”

Ariadne stared at him for a long moment, recalling the night they first met. In the foyer of the Caldwell Estate, Whelan had taken a knee and addressed her as a princess. That title had been enough to shock her. Now that she had ascended even further amongst the dhemons, she did not quite know what to do with herself when they spoke to her with such reverence. Particularly when it was someone as close as he.

“I’m curious, though,” he said after a moment. “Why are you here? This is far from the place I ever expected to find you.”

Heat burned up her neck and swept across her cheeks. Why her gut twisted at the implication, Ariadne had no idea. In truth, she did not quite understand why she was so adamant about making it to the dungeon, either. All she knew was that it had to happen. She had to get down those steps and face the bowels of the keep.

“Being back here…” Her voice trailed away, and she shifted her attention back down the steps. Heart hammering against her chest, the stairway seemed to elongate as the seconds slipped by, entrapping her within her own mind and memories.

Whelan, however, finished her unspoken thought, “Being back makes it feel as though you never left.”

She swallowed hard and nodded. “It is difficult to separate the past from the present. I am trying to do so, but I cannot seem to make myself go down there.”

At that, Whelan stretched his long legs before him and shifted down a step to sit right beside her. His imposing form—so similar to those of her terrors—was strangely comforting. After so many nights of flying lessons with him, she had grown more than accustomed to Whelan’s presence. Even there, where she felt most exposed, his arm brushing against hers grounded her.

“I was imprisoned in Algorath once,” Whelan said quietly.

Ariadne’s breath caught. How had she never heard of this before? Without thinking, she took his hand between both of hers and held on tight. She said nothing, choosing instead to wait patiently for him to speak.

When he did, Whelan’s voice was distant. “I’d been sent there by Ehrun to find a mage willing to create liquid sunshine.”

“Is that not why he sent Sasja?”

Whelan grimaced and nodded. “You understand the memory loss of a broken bond more than anyone. I was merely unlucky enough to have been found by Melia Tagh herself.”

Gods, the story just got worse and worse. Of course it had been Melia who imprisoned Whelan.

“How did you escape?”

“You see,” Whelan said, placing his hand on top of hers, “I don’t believe he truly sent me for the liquid sunshine. He sent me as a trap for the Crowe.”

Now Ariadne’s brows hitched together. If the tale of his own imprisonment was meant to keep her from thinking about the dungeon, it was doing the job just right.

“The Crowe ordered all attacks on the vampires to end,” Whelan explained, “and gave Ehrun specific instructions to never mention Markus Harlow again.”

“Oh.” The sound escaped her before she could stop it, her father’s face swimming to the forefront of her mind along with the twisted pain of his loss. She ignored the sudden burning of her throat.

“I went through two rounds in the Pits.” Whelan pulled his hands away at that and stared at his own palms as though he could still see the blood that he’d spilled in those sands with them. “And Ehrun knew the Crowe would do anything for his sons.”

At Ariadne’s confusion, Whelan grunted in affirmation. “Yes. Even if Madan refuses to admit it, the Crowe loved him just as much as Azriel. And Madan was beside himself when they found out what had happened to me. So the Crowe and Kall left Auhla and went to Algorath, where they were able to convince the Medie District Iudex to release me—I’ll never know how since Kall had not been with the Crowe as he spoke to the Raegi. Isla, I think her name was.”

The name struck a memory for Ariadne—the first mage to whom she had been introduced at Melia’s inaugural party to meet Phulan’s new friend Of course Isla had been the one to free him as she disapproved of the Pits as a form of imprisonment.

“Why did Ehrun want the Crowe to leave?” Ariadne asked, eager for more of the story.

Whelan frowned then and turned to her. “So he could use Azriel to capture you.”

And all at once, she remembered precisely where she sat and precisely what she had been doing prior to Whelan’s tale. The screams returned alongside the pain. Fear. Darkness. Despair. And, strangely, the spark of hope that came with the moment she saw Madan’s face on the other side of her cell door before he pulled her to safety.

Then she saw Whelan all the more clearly and pinpointed his face from the depths of her hazy memories. “You were there when Madan got me out.”

The Crowe had seen them running from the keep, but with him had been two other dhemons. One she recognized immediately as Kall. The scars on his face did little to hide his identity. But the other... The dhemon who stopped to gape at them as they passed…

“Why did you never say anything?” she asked quietly.

Whelan smiled softly then. “I didn’t want my face to be associated with your fear.”

“Yours was one of the first kind faces I saw outside these walls,” Ariadne said. “I am sorry I did not realize it was you sooner.”

A silence stretched out between them. The darkness of the stairwell closed in, bringing with it a coolness from the dungeons below. Somehow, with Whelan beside her, the chill did not creep in quite as much as it had when Ariadne first began her descent.

“What was it like,” she asked cautiously, “when you learned of Azriel’s imprisonment?”

Another stretch of quiet before Whelan replied, “If it weren’t for Madan…I don’t want to think what would’ve become of me.” He stretched an arm out and pulled her into a tight embrace—one she melted into without second thought. “The mere thought of going back to the desert terrifies me. You, Ariadne, are far more brave than I am just by coming inside this keep night after night.”

That had not been what she expected to hear from him. Ariadne looked up to her half-brother’s partner with wide eyes. He smiled, placed a gentle kiss on the top of her head, and, after another beat of silence, stood to make his way back up the steps.

“Whelan.” She pushed to her feet and followed him back to the entry hall.

The dhemon pivoted back to her. “Yes, Yvhaltrinja ?”

Ariadne scowled at him but pulled him into another hug nonetheless. “Thank you.”

Azriel watched the members of his council trickle out of the war room, speaking with one another in low tones. After Whelan arrived late to the meeting and gave his perspectives on the discussion, they identified their next steps—including but not limited to sending Oren Theobald into a nearby vampire village to collect intel—and adjourned. One by one, they trickled back out, and Azriel stood, pressing his hands on the smooth edge of the wood table, and leaned towards the one person he needed as she turned to go.

“Phulan.” He ignored as those still present pause to watch the mage turn back to him, her amethyst eyes flickering with an unspoken question. “I need a word with you. Please.”

Madan stilled beside him. “Is everything alright?”

He looked to his brother for a long moment as Phulan wove between Thorin and Knoll on her way back to him. There would be no keeping anything from Madan. After so many centuries together, he could see through Azriel’s facades better than anyone. Nonetheless, he plastered what he knew to be a false smile on his face and nodded.

Cocking his head, Madan narrowed his eyes. “You’re lying.”

“Fuck off,” Azriel snapped and pointed to the door. “I’m fine.”

“Even with Ariadne?”

Gods, his brother was insufferable at times. Since Madan had reconnected with his half-sisters, he’d done well to put their safety before Azriel’s. Not that he cared. His wife, after all, benefitted from Madan’s overbearance.

“Even with Ariadne,” he grumbled. “I promise. I just need to speak with Phulan. Alone .”

Holding up his hand, a small smirk curled the corners of Madan’s mouth. “As you wish, Vhaltrinin .”

“Out.” Azriel pointed to the door. Little King . Pah.

With a chuckle, his brother did as he was told—for once—and closed the door to the war room behind him.

Left alone with the mage, Azriel collapsed back onto his chair. The hard wood dug into him no matter what position he tried to take. No amount of cushion seemed to help ease the aches it created from sitting in it too long.

“What have you done this time?” Phulan leaned a hip against the table and crossed her arms as she studied him.

He glared at her. Why did everyone presume he’d done something wrong? “I need your help.”

“I know that,” she said, the lilt of her voice at once soothing and disconcerting. The mages of Algorath spoke with the same accent, dragging him straight back into those Pits and the walls of Melia’s chateau. “Explain.”

“Something is wrong with me.” The words didn’t come easily. Admitting his weaknesses wasn’t high on his list of priorities, particularly when he held such a position of power within Auhla . If anyone knew just how much his sanity teetered on a knife’s edge, they never would’ve appointed him as their King.

“There’s a lot wrong with you,” Phulan teased, but she sobered when he winced and tried again. “Talk to me, Azi.”

“Don’t call me that.” He shuddered at the old nickname. “Please.”

Phulan sighed and lowered herself into the chair beside him that had been previously occupied by Kall. “You’ve been through a lot. What is this about?”

He searched for the words for a long, silent moment. They slipped through his fingers like a sieve. When, at last, he landed on something to say, he couldn’t bring himself to look at her as he whispered, “I think I’m broken.”

“Broken?”

“The bond.” He pressed his fists against his eyes as though the pressure would keep the images of Ariadne’s severed head at bay. It didn’t, and a wave of uncontrollable fury and sorrow gripped him hard. “She made me think Ariadne was dead, and ever since, I…”

They hadn’t known the extent of Melia’s magic. Not one of them could’ve predicted her ability to create illusions so complete that it would damage their psyches in such a way. He hadn’t known she could see into his mind—his memories—and bring his worst fears to life.

“I can’t stop it,” he said, finally looking up at her. “And I’m afraid I’m going to do something…terrible.”

Phulan nodded in grim understanding. She’d been there as he lost control with the prisoner. She’d seen the moment something inside of him had switched, and he went from causing minor injuries—a broken finger or pried-off nail—to slamming the dhemon’s face into the corner of a table again and again. It’d been she who got between him and the assassin, planted by Ehrun amongst the clan delegates, to keep him from killing the man outright.

“I’ve seen this before,” she said carefully, her eyes boring into him with a silent plea for him to truly hear her. “Your father struggled with this. Ehrun still does.”

Azriel curled and uncurled his fingers in his lap. “But Ariadne is alive . My mother…Rhana…they’re dead. Truly dead.”

Her sad smile twisted his heart. “But your bond can’t feel that. Even your father admitted to struggling any time he was separated from Mariana when she was still alive.”

“Yes,” Azriel agreed, “and he burned innocent villages because of it.”

As though he hadn’t done the same without a bond to drive his lust for bloodshed. So much had changed over the decades. He wasn’t the same man he had once been. Unfortunately, the bond reminded him just how much he truly hadn’t outgrown such untethered rage.

“Please, Phulan.” He searched her, remembering all too well how she’d once cared for him like a mother of sorts. She’d been there to pick him up when he fell, heal his wounds when his vampire blood couldn’t, and kept his head on straight. “Help me.”

“I couldn’t help them,” Phulan said and reached for him, enveloping one of his large hands in both of her smaller ones. “I see no way of keeping this from happening aside from pursuing the connection to the Underworld. Focus on that.”

Azriel swallowed hard and stared at the place where their hands connected. “I know of a way.”

The mage stilled. She pulled her hands back slowly, and when he looked up at her, she watched him warily. “Azriel…be very careful with what you say next.”

He shook his head. “Melia did it. She kept me from feeling…any of it.”

Grim understanding sparkled in Phulan’s eyes. She sat back in the chair and stared at him. “Have you spoken to Ariadne about this?”

“No. I want to know it works before I say anything. I don’t want to frighten her again.”

“I won’t—”

“ Please , Phulan.” The window of opportunity was shutting rapidly. If she didn’t agree to this request, he’d be left with nothing. No hope for the incessant pain. “I will tell her. I swear. I’m asking for a lower dose than what I had before. Something not so strong. Just enough to dull the broken pieces that won’t let me rest.”

To his relief, she didn’t immediately call him an idiot and leave. It was a ridiculous request—that much he knew. After everything he’d suffered while under Melia’s thumb, what he asked for seemed impossible.

“If I keep losing myself,” he pressed on, “I’ll either push myself to madness or push her away. Help me. Please.”

A long silence stretched between them, Phulan’s amethyst gaze never leaving him. She seemed to take in every taut muscle. The scan was akin to sold goods being inspected for discrepancies—as though she were searching for the answer in his soul.

When at long last the mage chose to speak, she sat forward and said, “I’ll do it.”

Azriel released the breath he’d held throughout her scrutiny. “Phulan, thank you, I—”

“Under one condition.”

He snapped his mouth shut, heart sinking. Phulan’s stipulations were hardly easy to appease.

“The moment it interferes with who you are,” she said, “not only will I ensure you never see another drop, I will never help you again.”

He blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I will return to Algorath.” The words were spoken in such a mild, matter-of-fact tone as she stood, he couldn’t quite process what she said at first. “And I’ll never speak to you again.”

“I would never do such a thing.”

She tilted her head at him. “I’ve seen you commit unspeakable atrocities over the years. Don’t lie to me, boy.”

Azriel watched in stunned silence as she made her way around the table. She paused at the door and looked back at him, her beautiful face looking far older than usual with such a grave expression. “Do not lose my trust, Vhaltrin , for once it’s gone, you’ll never regain it.”

It took Madan by surprise when Azriel insisted on keeping their inaugural trips to local clans short. He slipped the Noct around his neck, as Ariadne had worn it so many times, and layered on a hooded cloak for their visits to keep the sunlight at bay. When Ariadne had asked to join them that first day, Madan held his tongue as Azriel explained his reasoning for not taking his Queen with them: with only one Noct, he needed his brother by his side for protection.

What Azriel had not said was that he feared for Ariadne’s safety more than anything in the world.

His half-sister’s disappointment had been palpable when she kissed her husband goodbye and gave Madan a firm yet brief hug. She repeated the gesture for Whelan, and it was in that moment that he saw just how disheartened being left at Auhla made Ariadne. Kall remained behind with her as her everlasting shadow and guard.

The first clan proved a success. When they arrived on the backs of the dragons, dhemons of all ages shouted in alarm, with many children running to hide behind their parents. The clan itself was one of the few that chose to no longer migrate through the mountains. Their homes, therefore, were built into the stone cliffsides, much like Auhla . Few free-standing buildings sat closer to the heart of the clan’s village, but even those were constructed of stone and hardy pine. Small pastures held livestock, tended to by the young dhemons with horns barely protruding through their hairline.

When they recognized Azriel, they greeted him by his father’s name—the Crowe—and invited them to sit in what they called a common house where seasonal or clan-wide celebrations were held. To Madan’s relief, the discussions went well. His place beside his brother, though unnerving to many of the dhemons, had proved unnecessary. No one dared attack Azriel the Crowe with his bondheart just outside.

At the conclusion of their meeting, the clan leader, a bonded man who had lost his mate against the vampires, ordered half of his soldiers to Auhla . Then Azriel promptly demanded to speak privately with the dhemon.

“I don’t think you should do that again,” Madan told him in common tongue after his brother reemerged from the back room. “If something were to happen…”

Azriel paused on their way out of the common house, his eyes flashing. “I needed to know how he did it.”

Madan frowned. “Did what?”

“Stayed sane after losing his mate.”

Laying his hand on Azriel’s arm, Madan squeezed gently. The touch was enough to dim the fire that had sparked in his brother. He watched, as he had so many times in the year following Ariadne’s rescue from Ehrun, the tension ease from Azriel’s body. Somehow, the shared blood between him and his sister helped nullify the bond’s dangerous effects.

“He has two living children,” Azriel explained. “It’s kept him focused, but he admitted he has…problems also.”

The solution wouldn’t be as simple for Azriel, Madan knew. His brother’s bond was so horribly damaged from his near-constant separation from Ariadne that piecing it together day by day and night by night was difficult to witness.

So when they arrived back at Auhla , Madan looked on with Whelan as Azriel nearly collapsed into Ariadne’s arms. His heart cracked to see the dhemon transform into his vampire body mid-stride and hold his wife as though she were his only tether to the world. Perhaps she was, for Madan’s presence could only do so much.

It was with that in mind that Madan forewent the first meal of the night and excused himself to his rooms. Whelan kissed him goodbye before going to eat, leaving Madan alone to do his research.

After settling in amongst his books, he pulled out the notes gathered from Liulund about the high fae’s Vertium ritual to Silve. The high fae had not been entirely helpful. With most of his kinsfolk being connected to the goddess during their infancy, many adult fae were not privy to the steps taken. Those who were had been connected to Silve at various times of the year as their ritual wasn’t dependent on the holiday unless those seeking the goddess weren’t born a fae.

Like him and Ariadne.

What Liulund was able to provide, however, gave Madan a launching point from which he could research. Silve was most often associated with life, rebirth, and the season of spring. Since Vertium marked the beginning of the year, it made sense that the ritual would take place then.

In contrast, Keon was the God of the Underworld. He presided over death and was therefore attributed to the mid-autumn season when the veil between the dead and living grew thinnest. Noxidium.

Madan pulled a fresh piece of paper to him and began scribbling his notes. They now had a timeframe: within the three nights of the holiday. What worried him most was just how close Noxidium lay—a mere six weeks away. If they were going to jigsaw the ritual together, they were going to need to move quickly.

The second bit of information Liulund was able to pass on had involved two necessities: an item that came directly from the realm in which the Goddess of the Forest resided and a vessel. What that vessel entailed or why it was needed, the fae could not say. He’d never witnessed the ritual himself and had gathered the information second-hand.

If the gods were anything alike, Madan needed to find precisely what the equivalent of this was for Keon. That he had nowhere to begin such a search didn’t help him in the slightest.

Rather than lament over the low probability of finding Keon’s ritual requirements, he pulled forward a small stack of books. On the top sat The Garnet Tomb of Anwenja and Other Lost Fables . He hadn’t given the book much thought throughout his nights of searching, but perhaps he’d written it off too soon.

The binding of the leather book creaked upon opening. Brittle pages threatened to give way from the spine with each turn, alarming Madan. He hadn’t anticipated any of the texts he’d grabbed to have been in such disarray. Nonetheless, there he was, desperately trying to keep the ancient tomes from crumbling in his hands.

Each turn of a page had Madan’s heart stopping. What had Lord Knoll done to these books to let them rot away in his own library? These were clearly not the most prized or well-used pieces of literature.

Then again…why would a Caersan Lord wish to read about Anwen? The God of the Underworld’s wife may be idolized in their wedding ceremonies, but that didn’t mean they saw her as anything other than a mortal chosen by Keon. They couldn’t possibly understand the significance she held over the dhemons. Though she had lived and died a human, she was their reason for creation at the hands of their patron god. Without her existence, they would never have been born.

When he came to the correct tale, a faded image of a cavern constructed of red garnet accompanied the title page. Madan stared at it for a long moment, struggling to make out the details depicted. It took some squinting and tilting his head this way and that before he could find what he searched for: a sarcophagus etched from the red gem.

He dove into the story.

Everyone knows the tragic tale of the Mother and the Father, yet many do not know the lengths to which Keon went to immortalize his true love. The Keonis Mountains, which formed from the despair of his heartbreak, were a part of his dedication to Anwen. If he could never see her again, then he would be certain to leave behind a mark she could view from Empyrean.

When Keon disappeared into the Underworld, many believed it to be for the last time. This had been his desire: to fool all of Myridia and his celestial siblings into assuming he had disappeared for good. What many do not remember is his final walk amongst the living.

Keon returned to the mortal realm once more. He swept through the creation of his lands, amid the mountainous region he had created, and built tunnels through their heart. The underground maze, meant to confuse anyone who discovered them, led to many vast and enchanting caverns. Some he filled with gold to satisfy adventurers. Some he inlaid with iron to strengthen the armies of the dhemons who chose to stay behind. Some remained empty—great hollow caverns to fool those who had lost faith.

Every turn, every dead-end, every cavern remained a deterrent against invaders who sought to find the penultimate treasure: The Garnet Tomb of Anwenja.

It was there, at the heart of the mountains, that Keon created his final commendation to his lost wife. He spilled his heart’s blood into the stone. As he constructed the room, the bloodied stone imbued with his ethereal magic turned everything to garnet. It spread across the walls, floor, and ceiling.

But it was at the center of the room that he so carefully assembled the undying replica of his heart: the perfect and unchanging visage of Anwen lying at rest upon a bed of flowers. Within that room, he laid his beloved to rest.

Only the most faithful of Keon’s followers can find the tomb, and so the pilgrimage to the Garnet Tomb of Anwenja became an annual tradition amongst dhemons. In an attempt to fulfill the rite of passage, even Caersan men and women have sought the sacred caverns with no stories of success.

Surrounded by a spring of Keon’s tears rising from the Underworld itself, it is said no one can reach the sarcophagus. Yet the water remains connected to the heartbroken god, providing anyone who desires a tie to the Underworld with an unbreakable link when combined with the —

Madan froze. “No…no, no, no…”

The next several pages had fallen out of the book, leaving the sentence unfinished. His heart thundered in his chest.

This was it.

This was the first step to reconnecting with the Underworld. Keon’s spring of tears would provide anyone who desires such a connection to the god. Not just dhemons…anyone. Even the Caersans had once searched for it.

The region of the Keonis Mountains called Anwenja lay in the west. It’d been theorized that the area held dangerous secrets, which was why so many dhemons now avoided the range. In fact, so few clans remained throughout the west even when the vampires arrived in the Keonis Valley that it took very little effort for them to settle into what they later titled Waer Province.

Had that been their reasoning for moving the capital of Valenul farther west? It’d once been Monsumbra, yet as the vampires spread across the Valley, they’d reallocated the title to what they considered a more central location. In truth, the presence of Laeton and the Hub kept any further pilgrimages by dhemons from occurring.

Madan sat back in his chair. They needed to find the tomb, but first, he needed to uncover the answer to the question that now dangled before him: what did the spring water need to be combined with to complete the ritual?