Page 28

Chapter 27

I t took two days and being forced to wait out a thunderstorm to find the entrance to the first cave Madan had mapped out back at Auhla . By the time they found the rocky outcropping leading to the system of caverns, it was too late and too dark to explore further inwards. Rather than attempt the impossible, they pulled out their camping supplies and settled in for the night.

First light, however, had Madan sitting at the entrance to the cave. For the first few minutes, he watched the sun rise and wondered where Emillie could possibly be. The concern that pumped through him, he realized with distaste, was more for Ariadne than his younger half-sister. She had always been so capable of taking care of herself that, despite himself, he could not quite bring himself to worry.

At least, that was what he told himself. The only other reasonable explanation was that he just hadn’t grown as close to Emillie as he had Ariadne, and he refused to allow himself to accept that he had placed one sibling above another. Not when he’d spent so many years touting himself as the one who cared most about family.

Dragons were his second thought. Dragons and their exposure to the world outside their own. They’d done so well at keeping them hidden, ensuring their secret for decades by butchering entire villages who caught sight of them. Now, in one frivolous afternoon, they’d been exposed.

To distract himself from the worries now building on top of one another, Madan turned to the puzzles in which he so often lost himself. He smoothed out the stack of letters Azriel had taken from Alek Nightingale’s study desk on his lap and began reading. As he had far more experience as a Lord Governor and in interpreting hidden messages than Azriel, he’d snatched the documents right out of his brother’s hand the moment they’d been presented.

As if Azriel had the mental capacity to deal with anything those papers said anyway. Between the bond ravaging his mind, the guilt still eating him from the inside every time he looked at Kall’s bruised face, his self-deprecation at exposing the dragons too soon, and Ariadne’s distance from them all, his brother had enough to deal with.

Despite his high hopes, It didn’t take long for Madan to feel well out of his depth. The limited skills he had in deciphering the letters between Garth Caldwell and Veron Knoll didn’t transfer to whatever the Lower Council of Waer Province used with their Lord Governor. From the small selection of pages Azriel had grabbed at random—more forethought, granted, than his brother normally had—he could figure out absolutely nothing.

Until Madan found a small paper written in the runic dhemon language.

His heart stuttered.

Of everything he could have possibly found in the stack of papers, a brief message from one of Alek’s supposed enemies had him stunned. He read and reread the missive as though he could glean something new with each pass of his eyes.

“What are you reading?”

Whelan’s voice shocked Madan out of his trance, and he turned his attention to his mate. The dhemon rubbed sleep from his eyes as he settled in beside him. Madan adjusted the papers so he could read over his shoulder, shifting to settle his body against his mate’s.

Met O. Condemned safe in west. Arena update requested.

Condemned? Arena?

“Vague,” Whelan yawned.

Madan nodded in agreement, shifting closer so their arms touched as he set the page aside, shuffling through the papers again and shaking them out in the hopes that he’d missed another similarly small slip. Nothing fell out.

On the back of a letter signed by Lord Daracot, however, was the start of another message—again in runes written with the same flourishes as Alek’s. Again, Madan stared at it. Again, his heart seized. Again, the message made no sense—more the ramblings of a madman than anything else.

At least…everything Madan knew about Alek told him that it made no sense.

“Why isn’t this written in common?” Whelan asked, echoing Madan’s own thoughts. After all, the ever-proper Lord Governor and the center of Waer Province’s most salacious rumors had no business knowing the dhemon language and certainly no reason to correspond with a dhemon.

Then again, someone might have thought the same of him prior to him being revealed as a traitor.

Moonlight flowers needed. Southwest border.

ViViVi

Laeton for the Season

Remember her brown hair, blue eyes, red lips, big smile, freckles, tall, strong

ViViViVi

Harlows — new guard, half-fae

Dhemon?

“This…Alek,” Whelan said, holding up another paper with the Lord Governor’s name on it. “He knew Azriel was a dhemon?”

Madan grimaced. “I had no idea.”

How? How could Alek have possibly known? Not even Markus had suspected, and he’d raised them both. He’d seen Azriel’s potential future in the Crowe. Five centuries had been enough to forget what they’d looked like, then.

But Alek was forgetting. Brown hair and blue eyes. Why he would need to remember such details puzzled Madan. The Lord Governor could have simply commissioned a portrait to remember the person’s appearance.

Yet the description had Madan looking up from the paper to stare at his sister at the same time as Whelan. She fit it almost exactly. The only person whose appearance matched better was, perhaps, Emillie.

“Why would he be writing about them?” Whelan’s questions remained on point without the need to utilize their bondhearts’ telepathy. His red eyes scanned Ariadne’s face from afar, brows lowering in wonder.

Madan shook his head. “I don’t think this is about them.”

“So, then, what, or who, was Vi?”

Madan knocked the back of his head against the cave stone several times. His brain just wasn’t working. None of the pieces were connected, and the puzzle was a mess before him. All he knew for certain was that Alek Nightingale was fluent in the dhemon language, corresponded with someone who knew about his plans for the Arena, and was obsessed with someone named Vi.

Freezing, Madan frowned at the paper again. The name had been written seven times, each more frantic than the last, as though his hand had begun shaking. Tiny drops of ink littered the page around the words.

Again, he pulled his gaze from the paper, but this time to look at his brother. The brother that not only obsessed over Ariadne but was forgetting each time they were apart. The brother that had been approached by Alek immediately upon his ascension to Lord Governor. The brother whose soul was in such constant agony, he acted in unpredictable and violent ways.

“Oh, gods …” Madan sat in silence again as some semblance of an image came together before him. If he was correct, then everything he knew about the Lord Governor of Waer Province would be rewritten in a new light—with new eyes and understanding.

“What is it?” Whelan watched in shock as Madan turned over every page after that, hoping to see something else written in the dhemon language. Anything that could confirm his new suspicions, just as Alek was likely getting as close as possible to Azriel in the hopes of confirming his suspicions.

As he searched, he shared everything he knew about Alek Nightingale with Whelan through memories, images, and rumors. With their connection being the fastest way to relay any information, he was able to watch in real-time as his partner came to a similar conclusion.

Whelan’s eyes widened. He glanced back through the cave to where their three companions slept. Then his usually calm demeanor melted into a grimace. “I couldn’t tell you what that’s like in all honesty. You should ask Azriel about it.”

Yet by the time the rest of the group woke for the day, Madan had tucked away the papers. They packed up camp at the front of the caves and lit torches to carry with them into the depths of the caverns. If they were lucky, the tunnels would lead them to the tomb.

As they made their way through the darkness, Whelan’s mind pressed against Madan’s with ever-increasing insistence. The last thing his sister needed was to feel any more guilty than she already did. By the way she’d distanced herself—in spirit, if not physically—she needed time to process what had happened to Revelie and to not blame herself for their sister’s disappearance.

So when he shook off his mate’s incessant prodding for what felt like the hundredth time, the meddling dhemon took things into his own hands and repeated his words from earlier: “You should ask Azriel about it.”

“Ask Azriel about what?”

Cursing, Madan jumped and turned to look at his brother, who stood far closer now than moments before. He then glanced at Ariadne, whose eyes reflected the firelight as she tilted her chin to look up at him.

“ I was just about to say something ,” he hissed through the vinculum at Whelan.

The smirk that curled Whelan’s lips, however, told him just how much the dhemon believed his lie. In truth, Madan was avoiding the question to save them all the trouble of reopening fresh wounds.

After gathering his thoughts, Madan asked, “Did you ever forget what Ariadne looked like?”

Ariadne slid her hand into Azriel’s without speaking. As far away as she’d felt over the last few days, she’d never left her husband’s side. Never pulled away from his touches or denied him any affection. He never pushed, of course, but she made sure to stay close. Whether that was from understanding his need for her proximity or to reassure him of her presence, Madan wasn’t certain. Nor did he ask.

“Never.” Azriel shook his head. “It’s the one thing I could never forget.”

Beside him, Whelan nodded. “My thoughts exactly, but I wasn’t certain.”

“Forget all else, though?” Kall asked in his broken common tongue. “Brother forget me.”

Silence met the statement. Kall never spoke of his relation to Ehrun. Never acknowledged it unless pressed. Something dark slithered through his red eyes, and he rolled his lips in for a moment, feeling the scars that ruined his handsome face.

Madan remembered the day it’d happened. It wasn’t long after Ehrun’s family had been killed. Kall had tried to help his brother remember the past by telling him a story of their childhood, but Ehrun hadn’t taken kindly to it. The three violent slashes had happened so fast, Kall had had no chance of deflecting them.

But it’d been decades since then. Kall learned to embrace the deformity over time, and most days, he leaned into the fearsome appearance.

“Yes,” Azriel confirmed after hesitating. “It’s easy to forget everything else.”

They continued down the tunnel, shuffling sideways through narrow openings and climbing down small cliffs. As they did, Madan explained, “We were going through the letters from the Nightingale Estate.”

“Did you find anything useful?” Ariadne asked.

“Most of it was standard,” Madan admitted, taking Whelan’s hand to leap over a crevice before turning to offer the same to his sister. “But there was a letter in the dhemon language—I’m not certain who sent it. Then another written by Alek himself in the runes.”

Ariadne frowned. “Why in the world would he know the dhemon language? Even my father did not know it.”

A great question, though Madan had begun searching past the obvious. “When Loren…took me…I hadn’t been alone.”

The sudden change in topic seemed to make all of them pull up short. Kall raised a brow, and Whelan stiffened at the mere mention of the man who’d effectively taken off Madan’s arm. Nonetheless, it all connected. At least it did in Madan’s mind.

“There was a half-fae in there.” He paused at a fork in the cave, looked down at his map, and nodded to the left. Not far down, the right would have been caved in. “And he gave us both liquid sunshine. He cut it into my hand…and fed it to the half-fae.”

Whelan murmured a string of curses under his breath, looking sick to his stomach at the very notion of it.

Madan pressed on. “I don’t think he expected the other to die, but he only did so after he’d tried to transform. I think the transformation was his body trying to protect itself.”

At that, Azriel grunted in affirmation. That had been what happened to him, then.

“But you didn’t die,” Madan pointed out, choosing another path at an intersection. “You transformed, but the liquid sunshine didn’t kill you outright like it did with the other half-fae.”

“What are you going on about?” Azriel finally asked, clearly agitated by the memories. “What the fuck does this have to do with Alek?”

A solid wall of rock stopped Madan in his tracks. So much for that direction. He signaled them all to double back, crossing the tunnel off on his map with a note of an abrupt end. They made their way towards the intersection again.

“All half-fae are different,” Madan said simply, distracted as he moved down the other path at the crossroads.

“And you think Alek is half-fae?” Ariadne asked. “Why?”

He glanced at Whelan, who nodded encouragingly.

“I think Alek was half dhemon.” Madan took note of the extended silence from his statement. Though no one stopped completely, the footsteps behind him faltered.

“Why?” Kall finally asked. “He no vampii ?”

Madan shook his head. “He’s definitely vampire. But every half-fae reacts differently to their bloodline. Azriel’s dhemon half has always been very strong—”

His brother huffed in response. “Lucky me.”

Though he didn’t see it, the sound of a light slap told Madan that Ariadne had smacked his brother somewhere. The thought of it made him smirk. Good for her.

“What if Alek’s didn’t control him so much?” Madan suggested.

“Lucky him ,” Azriel grumbled, met by Ariadne’s sigh.

Another grin, and he glanced back to see his half-sister rolling her eyes. Madan continued, sobering with his next words, “I think Alek bonded.”

That made Azriel stop in his tracks. “To who?”

That, however, was not something Madan was prepared to answer. But he pulled out the page of Alek’s frantic writing and turned to hold it out. Azriel took it with a frown, reading the runes aloud in common. Behind him, Kall inched forward to look over his shoulder.

“I think Vi is the answer.” Madan pointed at the repeated runes. “And I think they were separated.”

Ariadne looked up from the page. “This sounds like…me.”

“And Emillie,” Madan added. “But I think that’s what Vi looked like.”

“ Looked ?” Azriel’s face paled. “As in past tense?”

Madan grimaced. “If I’ve learned anything from you, Brother, it’s that he wouldn’t have let Vi go anywhere without him if he could help it.”

No one spoke for a long time after that. They continued forward in silence, everyone lost in their own thoughts. It didn’t take long before they discovered that the next tunnel proved fruitless as well. They retreated to the first intersection and paused.

“Do you think Alek wanted to marry me or Emillie,” Ariadne said quietly, “because we reminded him of Vi? He had been very different before his transition into adulthood.”

Her words made Madan’s heart sink. He looked to Azriel, then Whelan. Both were likely far more impacted by bonds than Alek was—assuming, of course, that he was correct in his conclusion—and therefore, the looks on their faces meant they couldn’t even comprehend the idea of any kind of replacement . But after everything Madan learned from Loren’s torture and Azriel’s imprisonment, he held firm to his theory.

“I think,” Madan said carefully as they turned back toward the entrance to the cave where they would be forced to spend another night, “Alek was so desperate for Vi that he…looked for them anywhere.”

He leaned closer to Whelan at that, his heart cracking at whatever Alek had endured during his short life. They may never tease out who Vi was or confirm whether or not Alek had been half-dhemon. What Madan did know, however, was that his separation from that person forced the late Lord Governor down a path he hadn’t meant to take.

Loren stepped out of his carriage and looked up at what had once been the Caldwell Manor. Servants of the house lined the steps leading to the front door, all bowing in reverence. Though most were Rusans, some bore the faint lines on their necks depicting more recent Caersan heritage in their familial lines. Most likely bastards of some Lord’s son during his time sewing seeds before marriage.

A redheaded butler stepped forward, eyes diverted as he swept low and said, “Petre at your service. We’re honored to serve you, Your Majesty.”

Pausing just long enough to take in the butler, Loren continued up the steps. “Misses Ives and Dodd are prepared to receive me?”

“Of course, Your Majesty.” Petre scurried along behind him. “They are in the drawing room. Shall I show you the way?”

“How else do you expect me to know where it is?” Loren snapped, though he would have been just fine figuring it out on his own. The way the butler withered in his periphery, however, was too thrilling a sight to pass up.

“Yes, of course!” Petre opened the front doors and bowed him into the foyer.

Loren did not pause to observe the entry and followed Petre up the stairs lined with portraits of the Caldwell family. Garth Caldwell glared out from some, but most were of two women with dark hair and vivid green eyes. He scowled at them—reminders of a family who would do best to be forgotten.

But it was when he came across the image of the younger Caersan woman, pregnant in this painting, holding the hand of a small boy with the same pale green eyes that Loren stopped completely. He took in the round features. They could not hide the tilt of the eyes or the same solemn look that Loren had grown to know…and grown to hate above all else.

“Petre.” He lifted a lip in a sneer.

The butler doubled back, wringing his hands and glancing between him and the painting. “Yes, Your Majesty?”

Loren narrowed his eyes. “I want this removed.”

“At once, Your Majesty.” Petre motioned for someone at the bottom of the stairs, and a woman with deep ebony skin and black hair pulled into thin twists started up towards them.

“Burn it.” Loren glared at the small boy.

For a moment, Petre said nothing. He merely gaped as though being asked to destroy such a portrait was against his moral code. As it were, Loren did not care. His own moral code demanded it be turned to ash.

“Your Majesty,” Petre stuttered, “that is the grandson of the late—”

“I know exactly who it is.” Loren turned his ire on the butler. “He is an enemy to the kingdom and should not be immortalized through something as frivolous as a painting. I want it burning on the front drive by the time I leave tonight.”

Petre bit back a yelp and nodded. “Of course, Your Majesty. I never meant to—”

“Get out of my face.” Loren waved him away. “She will show me to the drawing room. You put a flame to it.”

Going silent, Petre bowed low, eyes fixed on the floor.

The Rusan woman stepped around him and curtsied. “I am Bella, Your Majesty. Please follow me.”

Never send an impudent man in the place of an acquiescing woman. Not only was Bella far more pleasing to look at, but she did not talk back to him as though he were not, in fact, her King. If Loren were in a foul mood, he would have had Petre removed from the grounds if not from service entirely. Permanently. Fortunately for the Rusan man, Loren had come for a far more pleasant visit.

The deep blue drawing room, adorned with gold, was oddly comforting. The arrangement of furniture allowed for an array of sitting options, and music poured forth from the pianoforte beside the windows. Loren stood in the doorway for a long moment, studying the two women there. Revelie sat on a couch, embroidering with quick, dextrous fingers and swaying to the tune produced by Camilla as her hands danced across the keys.

“Stunning,” he said as the latter let the final note linger.

Both Caersan women gave a start as they turned to him. In unison, they leapt to their feet and curtsied, keeping their eyes focused somewhere near his boots. That they did not share a glance made him wary of their motives. Neither of them was one to allow him such freedoms as not earning some sort of rebuke for frightening them.

“At ease, ladies.” Loren stepped into the room and paused at the table nearest the center, where tea and finger foods awaited them. “Come sit with me.”

Fixing their skirts, the two did as they were bid without so much as a sigh. Odd, but not unwelcome. Perhaps they were learning to hold their tongues after all. Revelie, for one, would not cross him again anytime soon. Camilla, however, had likely been spoken to by her father and warned against it. Her reserved nature at the Noctium ball only made him more curious about her current state of affairs and that of her family.

“You both look lovely tonight.” He smiled at them as Bella poured their tea and offered him a slice of lemon cake, which he accepted.

“Thank you,” Revelie said quietly, keeping her left hand under the table as though to hide it from his view.

Camilla, however, lifted her head slightly. “We always look lovely, Your Majesty.”

Loren could not help the smirk at her sudden spark. “That you do, Miss Dodd.”

“May I ask,” she continued, pausing to sip her tea, “why we have been secluded in this manor?”

He turned his attention to Revelie. “Has she not yet told you?”

To his amusement, the Caersan seamstress did not look him in the eye as she said, “She is well aware of my transgressions, Your Majesty. She will not repeat them.”

“And you?” He cocked his head to survey her. “Will you repeat them?”

Her dark eyes lifted slowly. In them, he could finally see the fiery hate that she bore for him, yet her words were careful and soft, “Of course not…Your Majesty.”

“You did not need to cut off her finger,” Camilla said as she stabbed into her own cake, fork tines clacking on the plate in emphasis. “It was an unnecessary show of force, Your Majesty .”

Oh, there it was. That was what he was hoping to hear. Now that her father was well on his way to Eastwood Province, Loren had the young and spiteful siren to himself. He would enjoy every moment of his time bending her to his will.

“I need not justify my actions to a woman,” he said, almost giddy at the way her brown eyes flashed in defiance. “Perhaps you can explain to me why you believe teaching her a lesson was unnecessary?”

Camilla sucked on her teeth a moment. “As you said, Your Majesty, we are but women. Could there not have been an alternative to such a lesson?”

“What would you suggest, Miss Dodd?” Loren asked. He would very much like to teach her a lesson—one in how to keep her mouth shut if she did not want something put in it. Such a lesson, however, would find its way back to Ariadne, and he did not believe she would take kindly to such things. At least not with her friends. His cock was reserved for her.

“Words.” The singular syllable punctuated Camilla’s meaning.

Loren opened his mouth to respond when the door to the drawing room burst open again, nearly hitting Bella as she jumped in alarm. He turned to the soldier who dared to intrude upon his time with the two fine women of his Court and scowled. The young man was one he recognized.

“Quinton Tress.” Loren did not deem to stand as the soldier bowed low, his shoulders heaving as he caught his breath. “Why have you interrupted me, boy?”

The young man sucked in a breath and stood straight to look him in the eye. Brave. “She’s been seen.”

A victorious roar took up its place in Loren’s head. He stood in unison with Revelie and Camilla, the two women’s eyes wide with awe. Perhaps fear. No matter—they would not be alone for much longer, it would seem.

“Where?” Loren stepped around the table, heart picking up its pace. Finally. Finally he had her in his sights.

Quinton’s only word shook as he said, “Armington.”

“Are you certain it was her?” Loren would not leave Laeton for anything less. But if it was Ariadne, then he would not hesitate to track her down and bring her back with him.

The young Rusan nodded. “Soldiers spotted two figures entering the Nightingale Estate and sent for reinforcements. Miss Ariadne Harlow and a dhemon half-breed were nearly apprehended in their escape.”

“And where did she go after that?” There were too many places for her to hide after leaving the capital city of Waer Province. He needed to know how to head them off.

Now Quinton’s face paled a shade. He glanced at Revelie and Camilla before swallowing hard. “There is another thing you should know.”

Loren raised his brows. “Out with it, boy.”

“The reason they got away…” Again, Quinton’s eyes flickered to the women as though he were contemplating whether or not they should hear such things. When Loren did not move to give them privacy, the soldier continued, “Reports of a large beast, Your Majesty. Described like the dragons of old tales. Massive, scaled and reptilian with wings. A soldier was killed by it, and then they flew away on it.”

Of all the things a young, ambitious soldier like Quinton Tress could have told his King, something quite so audacious was not what Loren expected. For a long moment, he stared at the Rusan, expecting the man to retract his statements in jest. Yet it did not happen. In fact, the soldier before him looked terrified as he reached into his pocket and held out a folded paper.

“My wife sketched a picture of the beast to send with the missive.”

Loren unfurled the page with a flourish. Beside him, Camilla and Revelie leaned in. Their collective inhale mimicked the skip of his heart as he stared at the crude drawing.

“How large?” Loren’s mind raced now. Calculations. Weapons. Every story he had ever heard that included such ridiculously fantastical creatures.

“It is my understanding,” Quinton said, “that the beast could eat a man whole.”

How long had the dhemons been hiding these brutes? All at once, he understood why their raids had become so successful in the past several decades. With monsters such as these at their beck and call, no village and no soldier stood a chance.

Until now.

Now Loren could plan. He could craft artillery, retrain his soldiers, and modify the ballistae at his disposal in preparation for an attack of this level. If Azriel fucking Tenebra wanted to fight, he would be more than ready.

“Is there reason to believe she is still near Armington?” Loren asked, finally dragging his gaze from the sketch in his hand.

Quinton gave him a curt nod. “Yes, Your Majesty. According to my wife, she was desperate to find her sister. It is my understanding that she is still searching and will therefore remain in the west until the mission is done.”

Oh, it was a sweet victory. If he could find Ariadne and Azriel, Loren would have the absolute joy of not only regaining what was rightfully his but also put an end to that miserable half-breed bastard once and for all. There would be no arrest. No trial. Not when Loren was the judge, jury, and executioner.

Whatever the beast was that presumed to stand in his way would merely have to die as well.

He did not look back at the two women as he swept from the drawing room. “Excellent work, Tress. You and your wife will be rewarded upon my fiancée’s safe return.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“Run ahead,” Loren commanded, “and have my men ready. We leave immediately. Then send a missive to the Hub. Have them begin preparing larger ballistae. Whatever this beast is, I want it dead.”