Page 18

Chapter 17

W hile Baalor, nestled at the edge of L’Oden Forest, had been impressive, Emillie was not fully prepared for the splendor of the high fae capital of Cerelis. Bronze trees the diameter of large homes, glowing as though lit from inside, created the foundation for the community. Whereas staircases had been suspended or added to the trees of Baalor, the steps here were carved directly into the trunks with careful precision. All around, people climbed up or down, and each touch seemed to light the space with an ethereal glow.

Luminescent plants here took on a different hue as well. While those nearer the edge of the great fae kingdom took on the colors of the plant itself, painting the world in stunning swaths of color, the capital was more refined. Golden light seeped from the massive, flat-capped mushrooms that grew on the trees like natural lanterns. The flowers vining along the intricate fae-crafted railings poured forth a low, silver glow and filled the air with a tranquil scent that had Emillie turning in search of its source.

Even the fae here were more tame in their wardrobe and demeanor. Baalor, full of merchants with their lycan guards at the full moon, had given the high fae a boisterous appearance and lively attitude. Cerelis reminded Emillie much more of the regality of the Society.

Then again, they were not visiting the capital during a full moon. Perhaps here they celebrated the release of their lycan friends from the curses as well.

Emillie did not have much time to consider it before Edira signaled for them to stop, turned to Emillie, and said, “Pol, Haen, and I are late for our appointment with the Handler.”

The Handler. From what she had been able to gather, the Handler was a colloquial term used for the individual in charge of lycan sentences. They checked in with the fae to whom the lycans were appointed, discussed their merits or shortcomings, and determined how much longer the curse would be in effect.

It was the one person with whom Edira seemed apprehensive to speak and who she insisted Emillie avoid at all costs. They worried she would give away Luce’s part in her rescue or, at the very least call her sudden appearance in their merchant group into question.

With their restriction to traveling only at night, Emillie gathered she had put the company behind on their schedule. They often diverted any conversation surrounding the topic into the high fae language, leaving her out of the details. Though the group seemed to trust her enough, she had yet to divulge her own background and how she had come to be taken by the mercenaries in the first place. No one blamed her for holding her secrets close, but it kept them from fully trusting her nonetheless.

“Where shall we stay?” Emillie glanced at Luce, who was busy eyeing a passerby in their fine dress. The only other piece she knew of their meeting was that Luce would not be allowed to attend. The Handler’s decision could not be swayed by the one whose sentence they were discussing.

Edira swept her dark hair back from her face and smiled kindly. “Here is as good as anywhere. If you could begin setting up camp, it would be most helpful.”

Half a nod later, the three fae siblings hurried away together. Their dirty and brightly colored travel clothes stood out amongst the crispness of Cerelis, yet no local in their form-fitting and muted clothing batted an eye as they passed.

It took until Luce made a noise not unlike a scoff that Emillie stopped staring at the picturesque city and turned to the task at hand. She dismounted her horse and attached a long lead to the halter, tying the end to a low branch of a nearby tree. Only then did she begin to pull the items from the wagon necessary to set up the camp.

As though she had much practice in doing so on her own.

Another chuff from Luce had Emillie glowering at the lycan. “Do you think you could do better than me with this?”

Luce rolled her golden eyes as though to say Of course I could .

Though she would like to deny it, Luce probably was not wrong. A spike of irritation shot through Emillie, and she shook her head as she plopped the canvas for their tent down on the ground to stare at it for a long moment.

“To be honest,” Emillie said after cooling her own temper, “I have no idea what I am doing.”

The pointed look from Luce said That’s obvious .

Emillie was not accustomed to being so poorly educated on anything. After decades of lessons from her governess and her own plethora of research, she had gained a strong knowledge base in medicinals and the history of Valenul. Amongst the members of the Society, that was all she had needed to uphold a conversation as was necessary with those pompous aristocrats. Putting up a tent or starting a fire had not been pertinent in her studies.

“Growing up in the Society did not prepare me for this.” She sighed, turning away from the judgmental lycan. Yet Emillie continued talking before she thought to stop herself. “Of all the places I expected to be, Cerelis was not one of them. If you had asked me a year ago where I saw myself, I would have told you the library of my father’s estate.”

Heat pricked her eyes at the thought of her father. When she glanced at Luce, the lycan did not return her attention. She stared out at the fae walking by with a vacant look in her gaze.

So Emillie continued. Now was as good as any to divulge her past. After all, if everything went well with the Handler, Luce would likely be set free. They would never need to cross paths again.

As if the lycan wanted anything to do with her.

“I am the daughter of the Princeps.” Her voice was low and hoarse as she propped the canvas with the first pole. It did not hold, but she moved on anyway in the hopes that having multiple corners prepped to stand would make a difference in her feeble attempts. “I am the sister of the Golden Rose of the Season. I am the wife of the Lord Governor of Waer.”

Hot tears streamed down her cheeks. Though she looked at the poles fumbling in her hands, she saw blood pooling on the rug in her mind’s eye, spilling from the gaping chest of her father. She clutched the canvas, attempting to secure them in such a way that would keep them steady; she felt Alek’s shirt while she begged him to drink from her wrist—as he told her to run.

No. As he told someone named Vi to run. Run and hide.

Well, she had hidden. And look where that had gotten her: captured by mercenaries determined to sell her back to Loren, then rescued by a small band of spice merchants and their lycan guard who hated her—and for good reason.

“I have watched everyone I love leave me or die.” She grunted as she lifted a pole and cursed as the other collapsed around her. Brushing away her tears, she refocused on the task at hand. No tent would outwit her. Not tonight. “I have lived a lie for decades, hiding behind the perfect facade I built to make my own father love me. I played the part, married a man to save a fucking dhemon , and still, he hated me. He did not even know who I was. Who I am. Only my sister knew, and then Kyra—”

Her voice cracked, and when she hefted the tent back into a standing position, Emillie breathed a sigh of relief when it stayed. She adjusted the corner poles and tightened the canvas ties. Then she staked down the edges to keep the nonexistent wind from blowing it away.

Next was the fire. Emillie crouched a short distance from the tent and dug into the soil. Pol never needed to use his hands for such a task; fae magic allowed him to create the shallow pit without ever getting his hands dirty.

Another wipe of the tears, and Emillie felt the grime from her fingers transfer onto her face. She ignored it. In what world would she have been allowed to dig in the ground and get herself so filthy? Certainly not her old life.

“Then my father died.” The words left her as a monotonous statement of fact. She glared at the hole before her, the dirt spreading between her fingers like his blood. “And I never got to tell him that I loved him after being so cruel.”

Emillie paused to consider it. Yes, that was precisely why it had hurt so much. Why it still hurt. They had both been so vile to one another in the weeks leading up to her wedding and his death. She had not even given him the only thing he desired as a father: the last goodbye of his final child as she left to start her own life without him.

Collecting stones around her, she lined the inside of the pit. “My husband died before I got to tell him how much I loved him. Before I got to thank him for trying to help me, especially after Kyra broke my heart.”

For she had loved Alek. Not as Ariadne loved Azriel, but as Emillie loved Madan. As she loved Revelie and Camilla. As she loved those who kept her from shattering when her life fell apart.

But the longer she thought of Kyra—beautiful, sexy Kyra with her flowing red hair and perfect curves—Emillie realized she had not loved her as she once thought. The possibility had been there, of course. The infatuation, sexual attraction, and freedom she felt when around the stunning Rusan woman had perhaps tricked her into thinking it could be so. Perhaps laid the foundation for that future.

But Emillie had not loved Kyra. She loved the idea of her.

“Here I am,” Emillie said after a moment of silent reflection. “Talking about myself to myself. Complaining about my perfect life. Maybe the mercenaries should have brought me back to Valenul.”

For the first time since she had begun her endeavors, Luce looked at her with those wide, golden eyes. Something akin to fear lit there. Though the lycan shut them and gave her head a quick shake, when she looked at Emillie again, the emotion had not dissipated. Tension curled through Luce’s body, and a small whimper struck Emillie like a shock to her gut.

“Do not worry,” she said. “I will not speak of it. To anyone listening, I escaped on my own and made my way to you.” Emillie forced a smile at Luce as she pulled firewood from the wagon. “I might be a pampered Caersan with no survival skills, but if there is one thing I am good at, it is keeping those I care about safe.” Then, she added under her breath, “Even if it means getting my face broken.”

Luce’s ears twitched, her eyes narrowing.

Emillie laughed mirthlessly. “Yes. Even you, Luce. You helped me, same as the others. I owe you my life.”

Stacking the wood carefully, Emillie shoved kindling toward the bottom and stared at it. Once again, the fae had used their magic to light it in the past. She had no idea where to even begin.

Rather than stand there like a statue attempting to will the fire into life, she returned to the wagon and pulled a bedroll free. She set it beside the tent, then added a second…third…

It was not until Emillie pulled out the last of the bedrolls that she paused to stare at them. She had not asked to whom the fourth bedroll belonged. The fact that they had the spare had not occurred to her as strange. Not until that moment, at least.

Emillie looked at Luce. The lycan lay in the dirt, her head propped on her crossed front paws as she stared at the place where the three high fae siblings had disappeared.

There was no other reason for it. The bedroll belonged to Luce, and yet when she shed her wolven skin during the full moon, she insisted on sleeping next to the fire. She had not demanded her blankets be returned or for the meager comfort of the thin padding. In fact, she had not mentioned anything of the sort.

And Emillie had gone to bed without giving it a second thought.

The rest of their time alone was spent in silence. Emillie did not so much as mutter to herself as she tried to create a spark for the fire. Though she failed to light the kindling by the time Edira, Haen, and Pol arrived, one thing did cause a spark in Emillie that she had not expected.

Luce was to have her curse removed immediately.

Ariadne bit back a scream of terror that quickly dissolved into nervous laughter as Razer completed his roll through the air, turning her and Azriel upside down. His arm pinned her tight to his chest, so when her legs failed to keep her in her seat, he became her anchor.

When she had ridden Razer on her own to save Azriel from Algorath, the dragon had done no such acrobatics through the sky. Much to her relief, he had stayed even and steady across the desert with no need for such tricks. Keeping her firmly on his back had been a priority—at least, that was what Azriel told her later.

Since then, her training with Whelan and Oria had taken her into the sky, where she had learned to fly properly. In the limited time they had together, however, she only practiced basic maneuvers such as lifting off, landing, and taking easy turns on her own. Whelan never sat with her and instead stood behind her, balancing along the dragon’s spine while shouting orders over the wind.

Now, her husband sat tight against her back, his peridot eyes sparkling in the moonlight with more mirth than she had ever seen before. His deep laugh reverberated through his chest and spread like an infection to Ariadne.

This. This was what she was meant to be—what they were meant to be. Together. Happy. Free to do as they wished and live in peace.

But that was a fantasy. That was not the life they chose together. The very conception of their relationship had been forged with blood in that duel, then lashed together by iron chains and sealed by a bond that provided no respite.

Ariadne shoved the negativity from her mind before it stole away her joy in that moment. Tonight was reserved for them to spend without interruptions or duty.

Looking up at Azriel, her heart soared right along with them in the night sky. He shot her an excited grin before planting a kiss on her lips and pulling her closer. His hold tightened, and his body tensed just in time for Razer to stretch his long neck and swoop up and over in a loop that had them watching the spaded end of his tail.

Azriel whooped, voice lost almost instantly to the speed and wind. In turn, Ariadne gripped his pants, her back sliding against his chest as she was once again kept in place by his arm around her waist.

“Are you having fun?” he asked when they leveled out again, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

She nodded. “It is thrilling!”

In response, Razer tilted his wings and swept them into a steep dive. Wisps of clouds whipped by, leaving her face damp and flushed from the cold air. He snapped his wings open again, serpentining with a snake-like elegance just over a mountain ridge. Rocks shot by as they passed, and though Ariadne knew they were plenty far from them, it felt dangerously close.

They soared, rolling over wildflower fields and banking hard through narrow canyons, until Ariadne laughed as much as Azriel with each sudden turn. Though her legs were growing stronger and no longer ached, she still could not stop herself from sliding. Quick changes in direction had her slipping dangerously without his arms around her.

Razer coasted to a stop in a field at the banks of a glacial lake when the moon reached its highest point. Steep cliffs rose up on the far side of the glassy water, piercing into the sky like craggy daggers. Deep violet larkspurs and rich, fiery paintbrushes spread through the wild grasses dotted by startling white and gold avalanche lilies. The only paths that cut through the beauty were the narrow trails left behind by wildlife. Thin clouds rolled overhead, breaking open like ice in water to let the starry sky peek through where it could reflect upon the black lake’s surface.

From her vantage point on the massive dragon’s back, Ariadne soaked in the beauty. She turned slowly, allowing her vampire eyes to reconstruct the colors, though she knew the muted shades could not do the daylit version justice. Nonetheless, she could not help the ease that overtook her at the sight of it and whispered, “It is stunning.”

“Agreed.”

When she looked up at her husband, his pale green eyes softened. Had he even taken his gaze from her? Something in them told her that he was not speaking of the landscape, and it made her heart ache.

“Come,” he said and leapt down from Razer’s back, then held out his arms for her.

Sweeping her legs to one side, she followed suit to slide down the smooth scales of midnight sapphire. His hands closed around her waist, easing her onto her feet.

The soft ground lightened her step as they moved closer to the lake hand-in-hand. Though the peace of this moment did not match the chaos of their world, Ariadne did not care to let even a single second be eclipsed by what awaited them when they were forced to return. She leaned into her husband, breathing in the scent of him and savoring the serenity.

A patchwork quilt was laid out in the grass at the edge of the lake. At its center sat a small woven basket filled with bread and cheese, fruit, and a bottle of Algorathian wine. No plates, cups, or cutlery accompanied the light spread.

“What is this?” Ariadne did not fight the smile that spread across her face or the leap of her heart. “When did you do this?”

Azriel’s cheeks flushed as he admitted, “I had help.”

Ariadne need not ask who would have insisted on setting something like this up. Between Phulan and Kall, the two most meddlesome and overprotective nannies she had ever met, they were more than capable of assisting Azriel in making this a reality.

Envisioning Kall flying up to the meadow ahead of them to throw down a blanket with a basket of food he had hand-chosen for them to enjoy had Ariadne fighting back a giggle. The scarred and, frankly, terrifying dhemon was by far one of the most kindhearted individuals she had ever had the pleasure of meeting. Though Whelan had been the first to bow to her, it had been Kall who did away with any misconceptions she had about dhemons.

After all, Azriel did not count. He was her husband to whom she had apparently sworn an oath, so he had sway over her heart regardless of his horned fae lineage.

“Our nights are too often taken over by meetings and training,” Azriel explained as they sat on the blanket. In truth, he looked odd amongst the picturesque picnic display. His sword, always strapped to his back, angled awkwardly when the tip rested on the ground. He had regained most of his weight and begun pulling his hair back into the top knot she was so familiar with from his nights as a guard. The dark clothing of choice mirrored those early nights of their introduction rather than the finer garb of a Lord Governor, which would have appeared far more in line with the scenery. He tilted his head back to look at her, stretching the fainter Caersan veins along his neck. “I thought you’d enjoy something a little more…simple.”

Ariadne bit her lip, leaning back on her elbows. “Thank you.”

“After all,” he said with a deadpan look, “our honeymoon was interrupted.”

The snort of laughter broke free unbidden. “That is one way to put it.”

Sadness glinted in Azriel’s peridot eyes despite his smile. “I truly am sorry for all of it.”

In a rush, Ariadne sat up straight to gawk at him. For a long moment, she could not find the words to express herself before settling upon, “You are not to blame for anything.”

His smile faded. “If I’d killed him in the duel, none of this would’ve happened.”

“If you had killed Loren in that duel,” Ariadne said as she shifted onto her knees, “my father would have had you arrested and hanged before Madan could fight for your title.”

Azriel cupped her cheek. “Nonetheless…I’m sorry for not being here for you.”

“No.” Ariadne searched his face. “I am sorry for not getting to you sooner.”

Silence stretched between them before Azriel finally pulled away and plucked the bottle of wine from the basket. “We can’t change the past, so let’s focus on our future together instead.”

The cork, they found, had already been extracted from the neck of the bottle before being replaced. Azriel yanked it free and gave the wine a sniff before taking the smallest sip, ignoring her outstretched hand as though to ensure it was not poisoned before letting her even smell it.

“I am certain Kall would not lace the wine,” Ariadne said a bit dryly.

His brows lifted. “It isn’t Kall I distrust. It’s Phulan who’d slip some sort of aphrodisiac into it without warning us.”

When he finally pushed it into her palm, Ariadne giggled. “And would that be so bad?”

“It’s been a while since I’ve gone to Algorath of my own volition,” he explained, “but I’ve seen some of the gatherings our darling Phulan has hosted in the past, and they could last for days .”

Ariadne almost choked on her sip. The flavor, a mixture of sweet and spicy, was like nothing she had ever tasted before. Though she had attended Melia’s soirees in search of Azriel, she had preferred to keep herself sober. The purely Algorathian taste, however, was not what took her off guard. “How did anyone manage to keep such a pace?”

“Exactly.” Azriel shook his head. “I don’t think Razer would appreciate having to return us to Auhla in that state.”

And by the slow smirk that spread across his face, Ariadne got the feeling that Azriel received a heartfelt confirmation from the dragon that took flight at that same moment. She watched Razer’s dark outline fade as he glided toward the high, sharp peaks across the lake. It was only when he landed to overlook the field that a second, somewhat larger shadow moved beside him.

“Who is that?” Ariadne asked.

Azriel followed her line of sight, his gaze going distant in that way that told him he was speaking to the dragons through the vinculum. “Mhorn.”

Eyebrows pinching, she studied the outline of the second dragon; horns curled from the top of his head, not unlike those sported by the dhemons. “I have not met Mhorn.”

“No.” Azriel’s eyes refocused as she turned back to him. “I wouldn’t think so.”

“Who is their bondheart?”

At first, Azriel did not reply. He opened his mouth and sucked in a breath, but a deep pain etched into his face before saying, “My father.”

Ariadne whipped her head back around to look at Mhorn. “I do not know why, but I assumed…”

“Most dragons die when their vinculums break.” Azriel’s voice was quieter. “Mhorn was very weak for a very long time afterward, but he fought it and survived.”

“They do not want to die with their bondhearts?” She turned her attention to Razer, a sudden cool dread leaking into her gut. “And is it the same in reverse?”

To her endless horror, Azriel nodded. “It’s part of the reason we didn’t take the dragons into raids very often. We’re linked, though it is possible to outlive one another, as Mhorn has proven.”

“Why have I never met him before?”

“He protects the clutch most often.” Azriel took the wine bottle and knocked back another swig as though thinking about it all was too much for him to handle sober. “But he mourns my father as well.”

Ironic, given the name. Ariadne accepted the wine back from him and drank as well. “Does his name mean anything?”

“Guardian.” He smirked at her. “My father had a strange sense of humor.”

Ariadne frowned. “I do not see what is funny about that name.”

“Mhorn is quite possibly responsible for the most burned villages in Valenul.” Azriel shook his head as though ridding himself of a memory. “I suppose it suits him now.”

“Is the clutch close by since he is here?” Her heart kicked up its pace in response to her own thoughts. Her own ideas.

“Yes.”

She held out the wine, which he accepted and sipped as she asked, “Could I visit?”

If she had not been mentally preparing herself for the reaction, Ariadne might have been startled when Azriel choked on the wine. He sat straighter to stare at her with wide eyes. “So you hear that a broken vinculum could kill you, and your first thought is, why yes , I would like that for myself ?”

“No.” She snatched the bottle back from him, sipped, and set it aside in favor of the fat loaf of bread, from which she tore a large chunk to pair with the cheese. “My first thought was that, perhaps, with a vinculum connecting me to the other dragons…you may not need Phulan’s potions so much.”

Azriel accepted a bite of bread and cheese. “If anything happened to your bondheart—”

“If anything happened to Razer ,” Ariadne cut in and glared at him. “You may have this bond messing with your mind, Azriel, but my love for you is comparable. Do not forget that.”

He sucked on his teeth as he studied her. “I wouldn’t dare question your love.”

“Good.” She chewed her bread slowly as the possibilities took form in her mind. “Besides. Once we figure out the ritual, you and I will be connected as well.”

A light sparked in Azriel’s eyes at that. He leaned a little closer, a wicked grin spreading across his beautiful face, and whispered, “And then you’ll understand just how ridiculous these bonds make you act.”

“Get me a dragon,” she said, brushing her lips over his, “and I can have a little preview of what I am getting myself into.”

Drawing a hand up her throat, he drew her into a kiss before saying, “Only if you swear that getting a look inside this twisted mind won’t scare you away.”

Ariadne kissed him again. “Nothing could scare me away from you.”

He hummed in delight. “Until the very end, alhija .”

With that, Ariadne shifted to straddle his lap and deepened the kiss. Azriel’s fingers buried in her hair, and before long, they had lost themselves together beneath the stars.