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Chapter 13

W ith Ariadne’s endorsement, convincing Azriel and the rest of their makeshift council to permit a trip to a dhemon keep in the southern reaches of the Keonis Mountains was not difficult for Madan. The Dhemon King had entered the war chamber with a lighter spirit than he’d seen since their arrival in Auhla . When he consulted Brutis as to what had changed, Razer’s link between the dragons remained suspiciously quiet.

As much as he didn’t want to think about his half-siblings’ physical relationship, Madan certainly hoped the ease was the result of a pent-up release for them both.

Whelan and Sasja joined him on the journey south to Rhuvensk . The former wouldn’t dream of sending Madan off on his own, while the latter, surprisingly, had once been familiar with the keep and the library contained within it. Before half of it had been burned down, of course. She insisted the wing containing historical records remained untouched.

To remove the risk of Madan contracting yet another case of aegrisolis, Ariadne gave him the Noct to allow him to journey both night and day. He protested at first—particularly when he noticed the flicker of panic in Azriel’s eyes—but accepted only after she informed them both that she’d never wear it again if he didn’t take it.

The reduction in travel time was an immense help. By the time they reached the ruins of the southern dhemon keep, they’d only stopped once for a short rest. Seeing no sign of Ehrun or his cronies for the duration of their journey was a relief…and anxiety-inducing.

If Ehrun wasn’t in the Keonis Mountains, where was he? Losing track of him was almost as detrimental as losing track of the clutch. Scrambling to keep up with whatever plan the false Dhemon King had next remained low on their list of priorities. Staying one step ahead of him would be their best bet in cornering him when the time came. Not knowing his location made that far more difficult.

When they reached Rhuvensk and dismounted Brutis and Oria, Sasja having ridden with Madan, the three of them stopped to stare for a long minute. Unlike Auhla , the building was entirely free-standing. No cliff rose up behind it, and no valley rolled out at its feet. Instead, the stone structure sat at the peak of a low mountain overlooking a grand lake. It was smaller than Auhla , but what remained appeared far more ornate, as though it would have been used as an ancient Dhemon King’s summer estate.

The burned half had long since collapsed into rubble on the northern side. Pillars of stone remained where they would have once supported the second and third floors. Scorch marks marred its face, and the front doors hung from hinges in such a way that suggested a forcible break-in had happened prior to the keep’s destruction.

“How did this happen?” Whelan asked in the dhemon language, his red eyes sweeping across the ruins.

Sasja was the first of them to break free of the trance that seemed to hold them immobile. She stepped past them with a neutral face and said, “Ehrun ordered it burned.”

That left entirely too much to interpretation. Madan followed, Brutis’s curiosity mimicking his own. Though the dragon didn’t move any closer to the crumbling building, he kept their connection fully intact. Oria and Whelan did the same to maintain the open lines of telepathy between the four of them.

“And who burned it?” Madan eyed her.

She shot a glare over her shoulder at him. “I was a child when this happened. This was my home.”

Whelan’s dark eyebrows shot skyward. “Your home?”

“ This place was once home to a clan leader ,” Oria confirmed, her sweet voice rolling through their minds like a calm stream over smoothed rocks.

Without looking back at the dragon, Madan asked through his vinculum with Brutis, “ And how do you know this ?”

Hot air blew across his back as she huffed indignantly behind him. “ We dragons talk just as much as you two-leggeds .”

“ Who knew this to be true ?” Whelan asked.

“The Crowe was not the only powerful leader, you know.” Sasja refocused on the building ahead of her, oblivious to the conversation happening between them. “A long time ago, there were several who brought many clans together. My father was one of them.”

Madan’s steps faltered. “Your father united clans?”

“He didn’t rule over much land,” Sasja continued, ignoring his probing question, “but enough to make him a threat to those who wished to rule over all of the dhemon clans.”

For a long moment, he stared at her back. The young dhemon prisoner who’d saved Azriel was the daughter of a clan leader, likely raised to one day take her place at the head of their region, not unlike Azriel.

“So why did Ehrun burn it down?”

“The Crowe killed my father.” Tension built in Sasja’s shoulders as she curled her hands into fists. She didn’t look back, leading them up the uneven steps to the half-destroyed keep. “Ehrun was ordered by your King to burn it down.”

Madan stepped forward as she struggled to shift the heavy, charred door. Still, she didn’t look at him as they pulled the wood aside and peered into the darkness beyond. After a beat of silence, he asked, “Then why did you follow him?”

“Because he killed the Crowe.” She finally turned her fiery eyes to him. “And I wanted to see his traitorous sons dead.”

Didn’t that just sound promising as they were about to embark into the ruins of her old home? Madan hesitated but didn’t back down. Whelan stood behind him, and through the vinculum, his partner’s apprehension grew.

“What stopped you?” Madan tilted his head at her. She had the chance numerous times in Algorath to put an end to Azriel. His brother never understood why she didn’t, and that confusion only grew with her exposed past.

Sasja studied him, unperturbed by Whelan looming over his shoulder. “Azriel was more concerned about keeping me safe in the Pits than he was for his own life. Ehrun left me to rot in prison after sending me into a trap.”

Now Madan raised his brows in surprise. “A trap?”

“I went to find liquid sunshine.” She shrugged and started into the half-collapsed foyer of the keep. Whelan and he followed as she continued, “I met with the mage who made it and was arrested during the exchange. Liquid sunshine is illegal in Algorath, if you must know, and the mage who sold it to me was never apprehended.”

That was definitely news to him. Loren’s possession of the poison made it seem as though liquid sunshine was readily accessible to mages. Though it seemed to be a relatively new invention, Madan hadn’t considered it to be illegal.

“So you’re ready to turn on him for leaving you behind?” Whelan yanked the broken doors open wider to let in as much of the day’s dying light as possible.

Sasja scoffed. “I don’t think he ever intended to keep me around. My presence and previous title were a threat to him. I’d merely—foolishly—hoped I was wrong. Azriel showed me how a true King should act. They protect their own.”

“High praise.” Madan followed as she took them up the crumbling stairs to the second floor. Each precarious step had stone tumbling beneath their boots. “Why won’t you go to the clutch, then? We need every mounted cavalry we can get our hands on.”

At that, Sasja didn’t deem it necessary to reply. She marched on in silence, leading them through the halls of the keep with expert skill. This truly had been a place she knew well.

The strange mix of light and dark had Madan’s vampiric eyes struggling to adjust appropriately as they turned away from the section of Rhuvensk that had fallen and continued into the shadows of what remained. They opened curtains as they passed, many of the rods clattering to the floor as they did so. With all the noise, Madan sent out silent gratitude to Keon that there were no other dhemons in the vicinity.

By the time they reached the library, Madan had decided two things about Sasja: she truly believed in Azriel…and she didn’t trust her oath to his brother to override that of her oath to Ehrun.

When she’d declined to visit the clutch, he’d assumed it’d been because she wasn’t interested in a bondheart; now, he understood. If Ehrun returned and demanded the location from her, she would have next to no choice but to give it to him. That alone made Madan like her more.

The library itself remained mostly intact. Broken bookcases and scattered and missing books told a story of a frantic escape. Several bare shelves stood amongst the chaos, every tome either removed or left strewn across the floor. Scattered pages covered by a thick layer of dust and ash showed no signs of disruption since they’d found their final resting place. Not so much as a boot print marred the surface.

Satisfied by the inspection that they were alone, Madan looked to his companions. “Split up. Search for anything that has to do with Anwen, Keon, or the western mountain region.”

“And tombs?” Whelan clarified as Sasja plowed forward, disappearing between a pair of long shelves.

Madan nodded. “Particularly tombs in the western mountains.”

A heat glowed in Whelan’s gaze as he gave him a quick kiss. “I love it when you give orders.”

His eyebrows shot toward the ceiling. “Funny. You don’t love to follow them.”

Grinning, Whelan started off in the opposite direction from Sasja. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Left flushed, Madan refocused on the task at hand. The library was massive. Though the building was smaller than Auhla , the record-keeping at the cliffside keep was abysmal and provided minimal insight into dhemon history—at least based on what remained from the obvious pillaging. Learning about this particular library had given him hope that, perhaps, he could find the missing information from the lackluster vampire texts.

With both dhemons scouring the outer rings of the library, Madan started at its center. Books with titles highlighting past clan leaders and families were skipped. Those depicting landforms or charted cave systems were yanked from their places in a plume of dust.

Bearing a stack of various texts, Madan wove his way back through the aisles of shelves and settled at a table on a tufted chair that whined under his weight. The books toppled off his short arm to splay across the wooden surface in a series of thuds. Whelan poked his head around a shelf a moment later with a questioning look. After seeing Madan was merely flustered with his own lack of coordination, the dhemon disappeared again.

The first four books proved useless. Maps of caves only showed those within the southern regions, ending long before reaching the western systems of the Keonis Mountains. Most were incomplete. Whether due to collapses or dead-ends, Madan wasn’t certain.

The fifth book, however, was the first hint of hope. A mention of a lost dhemon keep in the west, one with extravagant underground corridors, sent Madan’s heart racing. The text suggested it had once been a hub for pilgrimages but had never again been found after the fall of the last dhemon priestess.

Marking the pages, Madan set the book aside to take back to Auhla and looked up as Sasja reappeared from her section of the library with a single book.

“Not much over there?” He pulled the next tome on the desk closer.

Sasja, however, flipped open her book to a map, laid it on top of his stack, and pressed her finger to a dot on the page. “I found the tomb.”

Meeting Luce had incurred a strange mix of emotions for Emillie. The woman had stunned her and, over the following nights of the full moon, paid her so little attention that she grew quite certain the lycan hated her for reasons she did not know.

Well…two could play that game.

So, for the duration of Luce’s transition into her fae form, Emillie set about ignoring her the best she could. Luce never sat beside her or initiated conversation; therefore, Emillie mimicked the cold shoulder. Perhaps she merely disliked vampires after spending time in Valenul. Perhaps rescuing her from the high fae mercenaries had been forced upon Luce, placing her in a precarious situation what with her being in trouble already.

Emillie was grateful when Luce returned to her wolven body; the familiar brown fur and golden eyes were a source of comfort. At least as a wolf, Luce could not exclude her purposefully. It was difficult enough for Emillie to find her rhythm within the group that had adopted her into it without feeling like more of an outsider.

A strange silence fell over the five of them, however, as they continued on from Baalor. Pol’s usual bubbliness dissipated despite Edira’s efforts to keep the conversation moving. While the quiet was unnerving, Haen appeared to be at peace with the sudden shift in the overall demeanor. Emillie did not blame them. She, too, enjoyed the quiet.

Even if it remained tense.

Yet after watching Luce attempt to scratch an itch on her side with both teeth and claws, thus requiring Edira’s assistance, Emillie felt a pang of guilt. It was she, after all, who was the newcomer to the group. It was she whom they all risked their lives to save. It was she who disrupted their journey to Cerelis and put Luce in danger of others discovering what she had done on the highway through the mountains.

When the lycan trotted off ahead of them alongside Pol in search of their next campsite, Emillie turned to Edira on her horse and Haen on their perch in the wagon, directing the pair of stallions hauling their supplies. She opened her mouth once to ask her question, closed it, and almost gave up when Edira spoke.

“It’s a long story,” the fae woman said.

Emillie bit her lip. “You said you would not read my mind.”

A sly smile crossed Edira’s face, but it was Haen who said, “It’s all over your face.”

Sucking in a sharp breath, Emillie looked between them. Certainly, she was able to keep her expressions better controlled than that. Heat rose up her neck and spread like fire across her cheeks.

“It may be why,” Edira said, “Luce did not speak to you these last couple of nights.”

“My face?”

Haen snorted yet said nothing. They merely shook their head and refocused on the road before them.

“You’re a vampire.”

Emillie frowned. “That is more than obvious, I fear.”

Considering that not even closing her mouth to hide her fangs could keep her lineage a secret, the statement made no sense. Anyone who saw the blue veins running up her throat would know in an instant that she hailed from Valenul. Worse, they would know she descended from a Caersan family and should not be out of the kingdom without an appropriate chaperone.

Gods, she put the entire group in danger just by being there. Was that what put Luce on edge? She was, after all, their guard of sorts. If Emillie put a target on their backs, then it would be Luce’s responsibility to protect them from it.

“I swear to you,” Emillie said, that sickening feeling curling in her gut, “no one from Valenul knows I am with you.”

Edira frowned at that. “Oh, no, dear. That is not a concern of ours.”

“Then what—”

“Vampires are why Luce is where she is.” Edira’s face softened as she looked down the road to where the lycan and Pol had disappeared.

“What happened?” Emillie followed her line of sight, and when she saw nothing, she assumed the fae had reached out with her telepathic senses to ensure the pair were nowhere in earshot.

Edira sighed. “Luce had a little brother named Vinsint. He stole from a Caersan merchant, and after Luce sent him back to return the goods, the vampire killed him.”

With a sharp inhale, Emillie clutched at her reins a little harder. She could not muster the words to express her sympathy. Even in Valenul, thievery did not condone murder. The merchant would have been apprehended and sentenced harshly.

“Now you don’t know Luce well,” Edira continued, “but she has a big heart for those she loves, and Vins was the center of her world at the time.”

Emillie did not need to hear the rest of the story to understand what happened next. She had seen firsthand what happens when those who love deeply are wronged. Her own, once meek, sister had stuck a blade into a military officer’s leg. Though Emillie did not know what became of Ariadne in Algorath, she could only suspect her time in the desert city would come to an end in one of two ways: her death or the death of those who kept Azriel from her.

But Edira continued nonetheless, “Luce killed the merchant. What you saw on the highway was…very restrained.”

And Luce had been vicious even then. What she had done to the merchant, Emillie could not comprehend. She did not want to.

“I am surprised the Council did not demand she be deported,” Emillie muttered, knowing well what her father would have wished to demonstrate what became of a lycan who did such things to vampires. She banished the thought of her father as quickly as it came. Her heart squeezed at the memory of his face…the pool of blood on the rug of his office, seeping between her fingers…

“Seeing as the merchant was also out of line,” Edira explained, dragging her attention back to the fae, “your Council deemed it appropriate for Luce to be punished here in L’Oden.”

“How long ago did this happen?”

“It’s been ten years.”

Emillie’s heart sank. She could not imagine being so alone for so long, stuck in that wolven body. Any animosity she felt toward Luce dissipated the longer she thought about it. She had every reason to dislike Caersans.

Luce had every reason to hate Emillie.

Taking the next few heartbeats to sit with the discomfort, she asked in a quiet voice, “How much longer does she have before she is free again?”

Something lit up in Edira’s eyes at that. Even Haen’s mouth curled into a smile as their sister said, “That’s why we’re going to Cerelis. We’re to present her final judgment, and as long as all goes well, she’ll be set free of that wretched curse.”

Understanding sank in as Emillie considered this. They had asked that she keep Luce’s part of her rescue from the mercenaries a secret. Luce needed to return to Cerelis with a clean record to present to those who held the power to release her. If anyone heard of her attack on those high fae, it was a liability to her freedom.

“I am glad to hear that.” Emillie held back the new swell of emotions that came with their trust in her. Not one fae in that group knew her. Not one of them knew that she would never reveal the truth and put Luce in harm’s way. They had chosen to trust her despite it all.

After another moment of introspection in which Emillie grappled with how she had gotten so lucky as to have stumbled upon the fae merchants, she asked, “Why, then, did any of you risk her release by helping me?”

Haen and Edira exchanged a look that Emillie could not place. Their lack of response meant two things: they were having a silent telepathic discussion, and they hid something from her on purpose. Though Emillie knew she was not owed an explanation, she could not shake the feeling that it had something greater than just helping a woman in danger.

“We tried to convince Luce to stay out of it,” Haen said after breaking eye contact with their sister. They studied Emillie. “But seeing as it’d been her idea, we couldn’t keep her away.”

Emillie gaped at them, her mind going blank. “ Her idea?”

“Indeed.” Edira glared at her sibling. They had said more than what was agreed upon, it would seem. Emillie wished Haen had said more. “But they’re returning now, and I don’t believe Luce would be very keen on us speaking of any of this right now.”

They grew silent again. After a minute, Luce and Pol turned a bend some distance ahead and rejoined the group. Luce panted, her tongue lolling from her mouth as she slowed to a walk again without looking at Emillie.

And for the first time since finding a makeshift home amongst the small band of fae, Emillie realized that the lycan’s distance was not meant to hurt her but to keep Luce safe.

The long mirror before Loren provided him with dual views of Madame Revelie Ives kneeling before him. She held a measuring tape to the inside of his leg and muttered the measurements to herself as she straightened a bit to slide the tape around his hips. It had required some convincing to have her take on the assignment of creating an entire new wardrobe for him now that he was King.

“I am a seamstress,” she had insisted upon first entering the room where she was left alone with him. Nikolai had been ordered to remain in the hallway rather than by his side. A wide-eyed glance at the closed door had told him just how nervous she was. “I make dresses, Your Majesty.”

But Loren had not heeded her words. “Indeed. Yet your eye for fashion and impeccable stitching is precisely what I desire.”

A slow smirk curled his lips as she worked twice as hard to touch him with nothing more than the tape. She glanced up at him, her ebony cheeks flushing, before returning her gaze to where her hands lingered on his hip.

“As I am not practiced with trousers,” she said, moving to measure the circumference of his thigh, “I do not believe I will be able to deliver your first set of garments as quickly as a gown. Of course I will set aside my other projects for you, Your Majesty.”

Loren cocked his head to watch her actively avoid eye contact. “Yes, I do not believe that will be much of a problem from here on out.”

Now Revelie’s eyes shot up to him. “Your Majesty?”

“In lieu of a Council,” Loren said, “I am building a Court. You will remain here to focus on your tasks as my personal tailor and in preparation for my future Queen.”

And if he could get her on her knees like this again without clothes, all the better. He would very much like to part those lovely lips with more than just words. Resisting the temptation was already a chore he did not appreciate. After all, he was now King. A beautiful Caersan woman such as Revelie Ives should want nothing more than to take him into her mouth.

“But my shop—”

“Will close.” Loren cupped her cheek with tender affection. “This will be your home now, and as a first in my Court, I expect you to not only provide me with company but to provide me a list of the finest Caersans in Laeton to join us.”

Revelie sank back on her heels, pulling her face from him. She stared at her hands, which shook in her lap as she wound the measuring tape up again. After spending the last several years distancing herself from the Society, being thrust back into it likely unnerved her. No matter. There were ways he could assist with relieving such tension, given the opportunity.

“In addition,” Loren continued and stepped back while fixing the cuffs of his shirt, “you will write to Ariadne.”

The sharp inhale of breath brought his attention back to the Caersan woman. She looked up at him again and whispered, “I do not know where she is.”

“No, I do not suppose you would.” Loren turned then and crossed the sitting room to where Markus Harlow’s set of crystal decanters was displayed along a table behind the dark red couch. He poured a single glass and pivoted back toward Revelie. “So you will write several copies to be sent in all directions. She will return to me. And you.”

Something like disbelief crossed Revelie’s face before she schooled her expression to neutrality. She stood with all the grace of a former Golden Rose and held her head high. “I would not be so certain of that.”

“Oh, no, Miss Ives.” Loren sipped from his glass and closed the distance between them again. She craned her head back to survey him with a sudden, sturdy resolve that had not been present during her measurements. “I am quite certain Miss Harlow would do just about anything to ensure the safety of her friends. Since our last encounter had her cursing my very existence, I am positive she would believe you to be in danger.”

Shoulders pushed back, she locked eyes with him, and asked in a surprisingly calm voice, “Am I in danger, Your Majesty?”

Loren swept the back of his fingers down her cheek, bringing his face closer to hers. “Not yet.”

To her credit, Revelie did not balk. In fact, she did not so much as pale. Almost as though she were expecting that exact answer. Instead, she set her jaw in stiff resolve and said, “Then I am at your service. I will pen the letters and list immediately.”

“Good girl.” Loren smirked. “Bring them when you dine with me at dinner.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.” With that, she curtsied, waited for him to excuse her, then swept from the room.

If only he could get Ariadne to respond with such pleasing acquiescence, Loren would be thrilled. But he did not lie. He knew well enough that though Ariadne Harlow held some unfathomable disdain for him, she would do what was necessary to keep those she loved out of danger. Whatever dhemonic enthrall that bastard had Ariadne under would break one day—or he would break her of it himself.

Tossing back the rest of his drink, Loren set the glass back down and stared up at the portrait of Markus Harlow beside his wife, Jezebel. Yes, he would make their elder daughter his by any means necessary. Then he would make them watch as he rewrote every moment she ever experienced at the hands of Azriel fucking Tenebra.