Page 21

Chapter 20

A riadne desired nothing more than to begin their journey to Anwenja immediately. Doing so, however, was impossible. They did not yet have the resources to make it across the Keonis Valley. Though the dragons would make the trip faster than on foot or by horse—mere nights rather than weeks—staying hidden from the vampires required more planning than she had been aware of.

So, as Azriel and Madan bickered about how best to navigate four dragons across Notten Province without being seen or drawing attention, she turned her attention to the impending celebrations of Noctium.

Celebrated across Myridia, the holiday honored Ern, the God of the Ocean and Isles far to the south. It marked the change of the seasons from summer to autumn with a focus on the impending final harvest. In Valenul, it also signaled the end of the courting Season with a magnificent ball held by a Councilmen in Laeton.

Ariadne could not help but wonder if Emillie would be attending with Alek. Their wedding would have been one of the highlights of the summer, and even with Loren’s murderous usurpation of power, he would want to keep as many Caersan traditions as possible. Foregoing Noctium could incite the wrath of Ern, ruining the much-needed northern harvest.

If rumors of foreign merchants and their year-round access to highly desirable goods leaving Valenul were to be believed from Oren Theobald’s reports, they needed every crop possible.

The various ways folk around Myridia celebrated Noctium intrigued Ariadne. Caersans did what they always had: found an excuse for elaborate balls and fine dinner parties. Food was a centerpiece of the holiday in Valenul, with the women of the households—even those of the Society—entering the kitchen to prepare a wholesome meal for family and friends.

Dhemons, she learned, were similar in their offerings of food. While vampires focused on serving roasted meats and exotic vegetables from the southern regions, the horned fae enjoyed comfort foods such as vegetable stews and fresh breads. They honored the farmers of each clan by stepping up to cook while the hardworking field workers relaxed. Large community dinners were common across the Keonis Mountains.

According to Liulund, high fae and lycans celebrated together by having everyone from royalty to vagabond stepping into the fields to assist with the harvest for three days. Whatever they took home was what they used to cook. This meant that households split between various farms to bring home the greatest variety possible. Their meals were more of a private affair with a communal offering to Ern from each of the hearths.

Phulan brought perspective from Algorathian mages, who used magic to create elaborate dishes utilizing their rich spices and enchanting sauces. Mage farmers resided in the Leus Plains, so many desert mages often traveled west to cook them fresh meals. The farmers would open their homes to families from Algorath and the surrounding villages, where they would trade stories, recipes, and food in honor of Ern.

Though no one in the keep hailed from the Vol Isles, where the god oversaw everyday life, the lycan named Ben had traveled through the area many years before. Getting to the islands themselves was next to impossible; avians were notoriously secretive, and the few who left the south often never made it back. Ben, however, had been fortunate enough to meet an avian willing to fly him up the steep cliffs, where he learned about their society. As Ern was the local deity, the winged fae spent the vast majority of the year honoring him. They ate mostly seafood and encouraged regular offerings of whatever they harvested throughout the year.

With the knowledge of the various lands in hand, Ariadne, Kall, and Ben set to work in the kitchen to cook up a cocktail of dishes such as vegetable stew, river fish, and fresh flatbreads with rich, spicy sauces. Phulan took charge of decorations—local foliage magicked to remain lively despite being trimmed from the surrounding forests. Liulund and Veron Knoll were then given the responsibility of organizing the events to take place, including music, dance, help with local dhemon clans’ harvests, and when the main meal would be served.

Planning for the holiday required the help of every willing participant. The moment Ariadne had sat down to begin listing her ideas, she was transported back to the drawing room of the Harlow Estate in the weeks leading up to her and Loren’s engagement announcement. Rather than letting her thoughts flow onto the paper, she froze and remained stuck there until Kall had come to collect her for training. Seeing her state of distress, he enlisted the help of others, and it was with their combined efforts that everything came together.

By the time Ariadne left the kitchen in the early afternoon of Noctium to clean herself up, she was exhausted. Though she enjoyed cooking, she had quickly learned that Kall was just as ruthless a chef as he was a training partner. His love for food had her running around the keep’s kitchen until she had worked up a sweat and was covered from head to toe in flour, broth, and indecipherable bits of food.

To say she was not practiced in cooking such elaborate meals was an understatement. Her years of jumping into the kitchen back in Valenul had not prepared her for anything more than kneading dough or cutting vegetables—and even in that she was woefully inept, according to Kall.

“You hold knife like dragon,” he had snapped at the beginning of the ordeal, forcing her fingers into the correct place on the blade’s handle. “Slice. No hack like butcher.”

Unlike the nights of training, he had no time to continue berating her poor culinary skills and left her with a shake of his head and a grumble of some dhemon words she later learned to mean why do I even try .

In her room, Ariadne had little time to clean and ready herself for the start of the festivities. She used the water basin and washcloths to clean up, saving the full bath for the following morning.

Pulling on her dress for the evening—a long-sleeved colorful piece with a plunging neckline gifted to her by the clan leader H’alhen and fitted to her much smaller vampire frame by Phulan—Ariadne turned from side to side before the floor-length mirror. The majority of the dress was a rich chestnut with intricate gold stitching and vibrant, abstract flowers lining the hems. It hugged her waist more than any ball gown she had worn in Valenul and flared out at the hips, so when she moved, the skirt swayed and twirled with her.

“Beautiful.”

Ariadne choked back a squeal as she turned to find Azriel leaning a shoulder just inside the door, his dhemon form imposing as always. Heady crimson eyes raked her body as though devouring her from afar. If she did not know him, she would have assumed the look to mean disdain. Once upon a time, that had been exactly what she thought.

Now she knew it for what it was: desire.

“You’re missing something.” Azriel held out his hand, palm down, and let a necklace dangle from his fingers. The Noct. Only, now half the size and caged in fine gold.

Ariadne closed the distance between them. “What did you do to it?”

Brushing her curls over one shoulder, Azriel laid the stone over her breastbone and clasped it. His fingers lingered against her skin for a beat before being replaced with his lips in a soft kiss. “Phulan assured me that it would not lose its properties by being cut in two.”

“And the other half…”

“Is with Madan,” he finished as she turned to look up at him.

The hard edges of his face did not change from one form to the other. Ariadne had been a fool to not see the truth sooner when they met. She brushed her fingers over his jaw and high cheekbones, heart swelling at how unbelievably lucky she was to have him for her own.

“I admit I am glad we need not share anymore.” She drew her thumb over his lower lip.

Azriel hummed his approval. “I was thinking the same. I hate worrying about either of you.”

“Whelan was pleased, too?”

He grunted in affirmation as he brought his face close to kiss her lips. “May he revere Phulan forever for her generosity.”

Gripping a horn, Ariadne leaned back in the same moment he wrapped his arms around her waist, drawing her in close. “We are going to be late.”

“I believe,” he murmured against her neck, “we’re their King and Queen. Let them wait on us.”

Heat flared in her core, yet she placed her hands on his chest and pushed back. At the slightest pressure, he released her as he always did. “We need to be there.”

With a deep inhale, a wicked smirk twisted his mouth. “You don’t want that.”

“What I want is irrelevant.” She fixed her dress and swept her hair back into place. “As their King and Queen, we should be present. Besides…I worked hard all day for this.”

Azriel grumbled. “Alright. But I’m bringing you back here as soon as it’s over.”

With that, they made their way down to the great hall where music played. Voices echoed into the entry where Azriel turned his body, blocking the dungeon steps and bloodstain from her view. Upon their arrival, dhemons cheered. Liulund and the fae called to Azriel, drinks already in hand. Lords Knoll and Theobald raised their glasses, inclining their heads in respect. Even Phulan nodded her approval.

“I told you,” Ariadne whispered to him, her face and neck warming from the sudden attention as they made their way towards the throne.

The mage had done a beautiful job with the decorations. Evergreen boughs wove together along the center of the long tables, dotted with late-summer wildflowers. Bowls sat evenly amongst the foliage, bearing blue flames that danced and warmed despite no fuel at their base. Even the throne on its stage was draped with ivy and moonlight flowers—the same white and red as those at the Caldwell Estate.

The same Azriel had secretly gifted her after their introduction.

“I did not know these grew here.” Ariadne leaned forward and inhaled deeply. “I thought they were only in Eastwood.”

Azriel sat, pulling her onto his lap. On either side were small tables where a glass of wine awaited each of them. He wove an arm around her waist as he said, “There’s a cave nearby where they grow rather well at the entrance. No one’s certain why of all the places they grow there, but we attributed it to our ancestors spreading seeds across the north.”

Odd. Ariadne picked up her glass and paused before drinking. “Are you still taking the potion from Phulan?”

Tensing, Azriel nodded. “It’s helping.”

Her stomach twisted a bit, but she sipped her wine and leaned into him. “I wish it was not necessary.”

“Soon.” He nuzzled her neck. “Once we figure it all out. We’re so close.”

It was her turn to nod, not quite trusting herself to speak. The potion would remain a necessary evil until they unlocked the secrets of the ritual. With the location of the tomb, they were now one step closer. One step closer to winning a critical battle, yet leagues from ending the true war.

The potion helped, certainly, but Azriel couldn’t rid himself of the dread he felt sitting on that throne with her again. The number of dhemons residing in Auhla had quadrupled in the last week. Every bed chamber had been filled with multiple people, and now the great hall held them all. Nearly one hundred gathered together, including his oath-bound prisoners and the Caersan Lords. With them all talking at once, the great hall vibrated with noise.

A trio of dhemons sat in the corner, playing their woodwinds in lively tunes he recognized but whose names he could never remember. A small group danced near them in a fast-paced jig very different from the formal steps of the Society. As there were fewer women than men, it didn’t hinder the latter from partnering together to participate—another vast difference from the vampires.

The wine he drank had a spice to it, giving it away as Algorathian without him needing to question the mage who’d clearly smuggled it out of her home. Ariadne had said they were rushed to pack and brought with them very little. Azriel didn’t put it past Phulan to have magicked a bag to pack it full of essentials for the moment she needed to run. Her inventory of spices, after all, hadn’t seemed to lessen over the weeks.

Then again, her visions of the future may have helped her to prepare ahead of time.

Azriel finished his wine quickly in the hopes of easing the growing knot in his chest. Alcohol had always been tricky for him. His vampiric side made it difficult to reach the point of drunkenness, and his sheer size only inhibited him more. Drinking, therefore, had become an expensive pastime in which he did not often indulge.

A young dhemon boy appeared at his side no sooner than when he set down his glass, however. More wine poured in, and when Azriel thanked him, his azure cheeks flushed as he said in the dhemon tongue, “My pleasure, King.”

Ariadne turned her attention to their interaction with interest. When she smiled at the boy, he nearly smacked himself in the head with the wine bottle as he attempted a shaky bow. The gesture, uncommon amongst dhemons, looked strange from the young lad.

“Oh!” Ariadne lurched forward, then stopped and waved a hand dismissively. “Please. Tohs .”

The boy gaped at her for a moment, then asked in the dhemon tongue, “You speak our language?”

“She’s learning,” Azriel said, translating the words for Ariadne.

“Forgive me.” He tilted his chin up.

Ariadne gave him a quizzical look after Azriel relayed the words and said, “There is nothing to forgive. Enjoy the celebration.”

Another lift of his chin and the dhemon boy scurried away into the crowd of laughter.

“Look at our people,” Azriel said. “You made this happen tonight.”

Turning to search his face, Ariadne said, “I am but one person. We all did this.”

He chuckled, looking out as Kall entered flanked by several dhemons he instructed to pass out the platters of food they held. More cheers went up as the hungry bellies were poised to be fed. It had been Ariadne who set up the plan to make their first holiday in Auhla one to remember. Even more, none of the people in the room would be there, celebrating a god who didn’t even rule their lands without her very existence.

Ariadne was, as always, the center of it all—the eye of the storm in which war and peace chased one another into eternity.

Before he could argue his point, Kall stood before them with two bowls of stew, a large bread roll shoved into the broth. “Eat.”

Azriel’s stomach growled, and he accepted the offering from his friend. “Did you make this?”

The dhemon’s mouth ticked up at the twisted, scarred corner. “ Yvhaltrinja cook good.”

But Ariadne bit her lip before saying, “He told me how to make it. I could not have done it otherwise.”

Kall winked his blind eye, then turned away without another word to slide onto a bench beside Gavrhil.

“I didn’t know you cooked at all.” Not knowing that about his own wife bothered Azriel, weighing on his chest in a strange way. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

But Ariadne merely shrugged. “I did not cook often back home. Only for Noctium. It had yet to come up, I suppose.”

Azriel blinked at his bowl for a moment, then unwound his arm from about her waist and tried the stew—delicious and hearty with root and vine vegetables alike. The broth held a specific flavor he remembered from growing up amongst the dhemons. Amongst the clan from which Kall hailed.

“Do you like it?” Ariadne had yet to eat but watched him with tempered hope.

He grunted as he took another bite, drawing a laugh from her. The sound eased that phantom weight for a beat but didn’t alleviate it altogether. Then she started in on her own helping with a hum of satisfaction.

The din of the room lessened. Before them, the Auhla residents tucked into their meals; even the musicians put down their instruments in favor of the food presented. Bursts of laughter punctuated the muted conversations, the joviality infectious and clawing at the edges of his thoughts.

These people had allied themselves with him. Through the oaths given by their clan leaders, they were bound to him. Their lives were his to command—his to send into battle against their kinsmen and lifelong enemies alike. His responsibility.

Weight pressed down on his chest again. He pulled in a deep, slow breath and refocused on his beautiful wife and the meal she had made for them all. On his lap, she looked out at the room with more serenity than he’d ever seen from her. For a fleeting moment, he couldn’t help but think…he envied her peace. Her joy.

Before Ariadne could question her culinary skills, Azriel dug in again. The bread had a crisp crust with a satisfying crunch when torn into and a soft, airy center. He dunked a chunk of it into the broth, softening it before ripping it with his sharp teeth. Savory herbs danced across his tongue, and he hummed in satisfaction.

“Did you bake the bread?” He nuzzled her neck, running a hand up her inner thigh, and inhaled his favorite scent in the world. His body heated in response, once more nearly alleviating the knot in his chest.

Ariadne tilted her head to the side to study him. “I kneaded it, but Ben made the dough.”

He nodded, and they continued eating. It wasn’t long after the music picked up again that he set his bowl aside and asked her, “Will you dance with me?”

Now, Ariadne whipped her gaze over to him with wide eyes. “I do not think that is a good idea.”

Nonetheless, Azriel took her empty bowl from her hands and set it on the small table as well. Then he scooped her into his arms, winning a squeal of delight, and stalked down from the stage to the space dedicated to dancing before the trio of musicians. Setting her on her feet, he stepped back and presented her with a bow.

In response, Ariadne curtsied with her brightly embroidered dress, a swath of pink across her cheeks and nose. Before she could open her mouth to speak and insist they don’t dance, he took her hand to sweep her into his arms.

Out of view of the keen, critical eyes of the Society, he held her closer than was proper for even a married couple. He pressed a hand against her lower back, bringing her body tight against his so he could feel her move with him. Ariadne craned her head back, eyes widening in alarm as he led her into a smooth, easy dance that matched the pace of the music.

“ Sabharni , alhija .” Azriel twirled her out, feet stumbling, before pulling her in again. Fear lit in her gaze at the mistake, and she sucked in her lower lip to bite. “No one knows what this should or shouldn’t look like. That isn’t how our dances work.”

Her attention flew to the onlookers before reverting to her feet to no avail. Their bodies were too close to see beyond. “What do you mean?”

“We have no dances like this.” He pivoted back on one foot, guiding her with him so that her toes barely touched the ground. “Ours are not partnered. Everyone moves as the music demands.”

“But if there are no set steps,” Ariadne said, still angling her gaze downward, “then how do you dance together without trodding on one another?”

Azriel could almost taste the uncertainty and worry dripping from her. He released her back and, using his thumb and forefinger, angled her chin up to force her to look at him. “If we do so, then so be it. No one cares.”

Lips parting slightly, she searched his face. “I would like to see this.”

“You will.” He angled his mouth over hers.

Ariadne hummed thoughtfully as she accepted the kiss while he slowed them to a stop. A mere beat of quiet, then the next song began, and dhemons were on their feet, moving with the music. Someone nearby spoke with a group about the surprising elegance of the vampire dance, yet they showed no interest in learning as they shifted their weight and swung their head, horns streaking through the air.

Not having expected Ariadne to witness their dances quite so soon, Azriel stepped back, guiding her with him to stay out of the way. A dhemon man hooked a horn with a woman, and she laughed with delight.

“That’s a way to show interest in someone else,” Azriel explained, nodding in the duo’s direction. The woman accepted the advance and moved in a circle with the man, her pale red eyes sparkling.

“Is it the only way to do so during a dance?” Ariadne watched as the two unhooked their horns, and the man drew the woman in close with one arm, their bodies moving in unison to the rhythm for a moment.

The heaviness returned as the dhemons laughed and danced around one another. One of them, if not both, would die under his command. They’d die, and it’d be all his fault. All his fault. His fault.

This is your doing . This is your fault . This is what you deserve.

Soft flesh peeled away under his fingertips, revealing bone and sinew. Blood stains on a carpet gave way to bruised and battered fists—a ravaged fae face beneath his onslaught. Echoes of bones snapping in his hands, accompanied by lycan yelps of pain. The unseeing eyes of a dying friend begging for an end he feared most in the world. Ariadne tucked tight against Loren, nothing but pure adoration on her beautiful face as he kissed her.

Bubbling hot rage battled with the choking weight of his choices, and for a moment, Azriel saw nothing but the despair left in his wake.

“Azriel?” Ariadne’s voice sounded so far away.

He blinked, trying to clear away the encroaching darkness—the pressure that shrouded his body like a stone, burying him in the soil and crushing the air from his lungs as sure as the depths of an ocean.

A hand slid into his and squeezed hard. Another pressed against his cheek. Wide blue eyes searched his face. Perfect rosy lips parted. Words crashed through his ears, but he heard none of it, and any hope of responding remained well beyond his reach.

Before he could gather his thoughts, Azriel ripped away from the gentle touches that burned like hot coals. He shook his head, and, shoulder against the wall to guide him, he stumbled to the exit.

Madan swayed with the music, having been dragged before the musicians by Whelan as soon as Ariadne and Azriel finished their dance. The woodwinds swelled and eased in an upbeat, classic dhemon tune he recognized from previous holidays at Auhla . It had him thrusting his chest out in rhythm as he turned in place, face lifted to the ceiling. Whelan danced around him, a hand drifting across his shoulders.

With no horns, there was no way for them to connect as other dhemons would. Whelan never saw an issue with it, even when Madan felt self-conscious about his differences. They danced as everyone else did, and when anyone turned their interest upon Whelan, Madan hooked his fingers around his partner’s horn and drew him closer. Newcomers, after all, didn’t know of Whelan’s bond and wouldn’t expect one with a Caersan.

They moved together, limbs and trunk undulating alongside dhemons dancing in tandem, and for a moment, the world felt right. It’d been too long since Madan had been able to stop and enjoy any kind of festivity. Even Emillie’s wedding had been dampened by worry for his younger half-sister’s well-being in a home with Alek Nightingale, Ariadne’s safety in Algorath, and Azriel’s imprisonment.

Nothing compared to slowing down and enjoying an evening with his partner, family, and friends.

“Azriel?” Ariadne’s voice cut through the music in alarm. “Azriel!”

Well. So much for that peace.

Madan turned to find his brother tripping over his own feet on his way out of the great hall. The great brute didn’t so much as look back as Ariadne stood for a long second, watching him go, before picking up her bright skirt and hurrying after him.

“Fuck.” Madan pulled away from Whelan. “I’ll be right back.”

Whelan slowed to a stop. “Do you need help?”

Shaking his head, Madan wove through the dancers and pushed past dhemons twice his size to grab his sister’s arm. She whipped around in alarm as he asked, “What happened?”

“I do not know.” Ariadne lifted her ashen to look at him. “We danced, and then…he left.”

“Did he say anything?”

She shook her head, mouth opening and closing with unspoken words.“I have not seen him quite so out of sorts since…”

Madan took her hand and squeezed. Of course he knew what happened at Melia’s chateau. Knew what Ariadne had witnessed and how much of an impact it had on her—both in Algorath and here in the mountains.

“I’ll check on him.” Madan pulled her back from the door. “Let me make sure he’s okay.”

“I do not know—”

He squeezed her hand again. “Stay. They need to see one of their leaders here enjoying the holiday. This isn’t new territory for me. I can help him.”

At first, Ariadne frowned. She searched his face as she racked her memory for when it’d been he, not her, who helped Azriel push through whatever troubled him. Though they had centuries of sibling history, even she knew of a time when she couldn’t so much as be seen with him without fearing repercussions.

“Alright.” She bit her lip and turned her attention to the room, seeking out familiar faces.

Turning to follow her line of sight, he nodded to Phulan and Margot. “They will be happy to see you.”

In an instant, the mask of false confidence he’d seen so many times in Laeton slid into place. She stood a little straighter, lifted her chin, and pushed her shoulders back. The stance appeared far more empirical with her stronger figure and held an air of regality with it. Despite the sea of dhemons between her and her targets, she swallowed hard and plowed forward with determination.

Good. One sibling taken care of. Now for the next.

Madan slid out of the great hall to the empty entry hall. If there was one thing his brother was good at, it was running off into the night to cover his problems. To Azriel, facing his torments meant beating them into submission with a stick until they burst forth in an explosion of emotions he could no longer control. There was no better place to loosen that hold than outside, where no one else could see or hear him wailing.

“ Where is he ?” Madan sent the question through Brutis to Razer.

His brother’s bondheart almost seemed to ruffle with indignance. “ He needs a moment .”

“ He needs help .” His feet hit the grass, and he strained his vampiric ears to listen for the Dhemon King. “ Let me help him .”

“ Don’t blame me when he’s pissed at you .”

Images of Azriel in a room lined with near-empty bookshelves flashed into Madan’s mind. He followed the corridor his brother took to find him just as Razer depicted. Sitting behind a familiar shelf, one Madan had been searching for, Azriel had his knees drawn to his chest and his head bowed. He held his horns in a white-knuckle grip, his chest heaving with quick, shallow breathing.

Madan said nothing as he crouched beside Azriel, knowing well that he hadn’t been silent upon his approach. Still, he watched his brother squeeze his eyes shut tight and grit his teeth hard enough to chip them, were he human.

“ Rholki .” Madan tilted his head to put his face in view as Azriel’s red eyes snapped open. He continued in the dhemon language, “What happened?”

It wasn’t often that they communicated through a series of emotions through their respective vinculums. Doing so often upset the dragons or caused more trouble than it was worth. After being in Laeton for so long and separated from any such exchanges, Madan had grown out of the practice entirely. This time, however, he kept his mind open and receptive.

Yet no matter how often he’d done it in the past, nothing prepared him for the crushing weight that slammed into him as Azriel cracked open wide. Fear swallowed hope like a gaping maw of death and destruction. Visions of families ripped apart, both dhemon and vampire alike, with loved ones wailing for their losses. In the center stood Azriel as the catalyst of it all—the one who sent them to their deaths.

“None of that is your doing.” He reached out, but his brother flinched away, tears sliding down his cheeks. “What’s to come has been millennia in the making.”

“They’re all going to die.” Azriel’s voice rasped. Another image of two laughing dhemons dancing in the great hall shot through the vinculums. “And they expect me to lead them to victory in the process. How can I send them to their deaths?”

Madan shook his head. “You’re not alone in this.”

“They think I’m my father.” Sitting back against the wall, he let his hands fall to his lap and gazed up at the ceiling. “I let people die for my freedom in Algorath because I wanted vengeance. Now? I can’t risk them.”

“Stop.” Madan grabbed the nearest horn to him and forced Azriel’s head to turn and look at him. “They died because they were fighting for their own freedom. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

“The oath—”

“That oath didn’t put them in prison in the first place.” Madan glared at him and gave the horn a light shake. “They were there for their own mistakes. You gave them an opportunity, and they took it. Whether their freedom was in this life or the next, they made it out of that hell.”

Azriel lifted his lip in a sneer and jerked his head back, forcing Madan’s fingers to unfurl. “But now people follow me willingly, and their deaths will be on my hands.”

“Are you listening to yourself?” Madan stood and crossed his arms, internally grumbling at the way his remaining hand fumbled with his elbow. “They’re following you willingly . They know exactly what you promise: war.”

“But—”

“No.” So much for trying to be understanding. Madan kicked his brother’s boot. “We all need the Crowe. We need someone willing to make sacrifices so we can put all of this behind us. We need you .”

“I’m not my father.”

“You keep saying that.” Bending at the waist, Madan brought his face closer to Azriel’s to look him in the eye. “But I know what you’re capable of. You’re more the Crowe’s son than you want to believe, and they chose you to be their King because they can see it in you, too.”

A beat of silence stretched between them. Azriel stared, expressionless, even as the tears slid from his eyes. When he dropped his gaze to his hands, he heaved a deep breath and sucked on his teeth. “We have to use the dragons.”

Madan stared at him. “Against Ehrun?”

“Against everyone.”

It was inevitable that the dragons would clash in the battles against the false Dhemon King. Revealing them to the vampires and putting them in the line of fire of their massive artillery was beyond risky. “That could destroy all of Valenul.”

Those red eyes lifted to him again, this time hardened in a way Madan hadn’t seen in a long time. “You want me to be the Crowe? This is what my father would do. What I will do as Vhaltrin . If it’s a choice between winning the war and exposing the dragons or losing and watching everyone die, then I choose the former. I won’t let the Keonis Valley be ruled by a tyrant or leave the Keonis Mountains in the hands of a butcher. We use the dragons for all of it, or we cease this altogether.”

“ Finally ,” Razer’s voice edged its way through the vinculums. “ We want to help .”

Though the two bickered incessantly most days, Azriel and his bondheart were a united front—twins of the same mind in more ways than one.

How had Azriel changed his attitude so quickly? It was almost like he had a lever inside him that switched between infinite empathy and ruthless determination. Madan had witnessed it before when he’d gone after Ehrun the previous year. He’d seen that same ice when he challenged Loren to a duel. Gods, he’d seen it each time they’d raided a vampire village and heard the first shriek of terror. His brother’s soft heart was not to be mistaken for weakness, just as Madan’s analytical mind didn’t mean he wasn’t a worthy opponent physically. When it mattered most, they were both capable of terrors beyond comprehension.

“Then we must keep them a secret,” Madan said slowly, “until we’re done with Ehrun. We can’t risk exposing them too soon.”

Azriel’s nod of confirmation was all he needed.

Satisfied with having refocused his brother from his dark spiral—something that would no doubt come back to haunt him —Madan looked around them and frowned. “Did you steal all my books?”