Page 7

Chapter 6

E millie’s stomach rumbled in time with the uncontrollable shivers that racked her body from the cold. Rain soaked through her wool cloak and matted her hair to her face. She brushed her cheek along her shoulder, hoping to peel the damp strands out of her eyes. With her hands bound behind her back, she had no other manner with which to accomplish the task.

A fire crackled some distance away where the half-dozen fae mercenaries sat, talking and laughing in their language. The intoxicating scent of cooking meat made her mouth water, yet not one of them had offered her so much as a taste. Why waste food on her? Vampires did not die of starvation so long as they had access to blood regularly. They merely grew weaker and weaker. A living yet desiccated shadow of themselves.

She shifted in the mud, searching for a more comfortable position despite the thick rope binding her ankles. With her waning strength, they had not seen the need to enchant the braided strands to hold her. It only proved just how low she had fallen. Even her innate vampiric abilities were not enough to save her from the inevitable.

That, however, did not stop her from trying.

If anything, their arrogance blinded them from her other, more effective, attributes: manipulation and planning.

Sliding her fingers through the soft ground, Emillie fumbled for a hold on different rocks around the base of the tree against which she leaned. Too round. Too soft. Too crumbly. She winced, leaning to the side to reach the next option.

Emillie grunted as she landed in a heap, the mud squelching against her face. Conversation around the fire died. The man with golden-red hair, whom she had gathered to be called Caeles, stalked over to her, and though she tried to push herself up on her own, her hands slid through the mud again.

“Now, now, Miss Harlow,” Caeles crooned as he took hold of her shoulders and hoisted her back to a seated position against the tree. “King Gard would be most displeased for you to arrive in such a state.”

He brushed the sopping grime from her face as though that would be enough to satisfy a twisted monarch such as Loren.

“I need to relieve myself.” She kept her voice low and meek as though ashamed of the very notion of requiring such basic care.

Caeles made a face and stepped back. He motioned to a dark-haired fae. “Nollun.”

They exchanged a few words. Nollun grumbled something in their language but stood and took Caeles’s place before her. Without saying a word, he swept a hand over the ties at her ankles. The fae magic caressed her skin and loosened the knot enough for her to stand, then walk.

Emillie stumbled, adjusting her gait to the length allowed by her bonds. “I need my hands.”

Another indecipherable grumble, and Nollun removed the rope from her wrists. She sighed in relief, rubbing the place the rough braids had dug into her skin, leaving strands behind as she healed around the shallow wounds. Short fibers dotted a line beneath her pale skin.

After finding a suitable shrub to squat behind, Emillie watched Nollun through the branches. She lifted her skirt and held the rope around her ankles askew in order to not accidentally soak it with urine. As she relieved herself, she searched the ground for something sharp enough to cut through the rope.

“Hurry up,” Nollun grunted, yet when she peeked between the leaves again, he had not moved closer.

Emillie grabbed the sharpest stone she could find and began sawing. “Just another moment, please.”

A third round of grumbling told her just how much he disliked this particular part of the job. Perhaps Nollun was the newest addition to the group of mercenaries and still earning his keep. Or, perhaps, he merely drew the short straw to look after her.

Piece by piece frayed away. Emillie gritted her teeth. Too slow. Too slow .

“Let’s go.” Nollun sounded annoyed now.

Glancing at him again, she found his attention on her shrub. His dark eyes scrutinized the plant for any glimpse of her. In response, her heart picked up its pace. They would be moving on soon—taking advantage of the night after they had spent the day hiding her from the sun. If she did not get free soon…

She could not dwell on it. Instead, she put more force behind the stone in her hand, the edges digging painfully into her palm.

A branch snapped, and Emillie looked up in alarm. Nollun stood over her, that sharp gaze narrowing at the sight of the rock in her hand. Her breath caught. The rope snapped.

“You little shit—”

But Emillie was already on her feet, sprinting through the underbrush as fast as her vampire legs could carry her. Nollun shouted, and a chorus of voices responded before the forest erupted with the thunderous sound of fae men crashing through the underbrush.

Branches whipped her face and snagged her dress and cloak. She stumbled over roots and soft, uneven ground. Stones skittered away, knocked by her toes. With no true idea of where she was running or which direction she was headed in, Emillie could only press forward. Slowing for even a second would give the fae the time they needed to catch up to her.

Trees blurred together, and before long, her lungs burned. She had never pushed her body beyond the limits of a brisk walk—never found the need to build any stamina or endurance. Her innate vampiric speed and strength had always seemed to be more than enough for any Caersan woman.

Now she understood her mistake. She had grown too comfortable over the last century and a half, living in a luxury for which she had not worked. Pampered. Spoiled. Never seeing beyond what sat right before her.

Gods, Kyra had been right to leave her. She had hidden the Rusan woman away in her vain attempt to uphold her appearance as the wife of a Lord Governor.

Look where that got her now.

Emillie’s toe caught on something jutting from the soft soil, and she fell hard to her knees. With a curse, she pushed Kyra from her mind. Banished any thought of red hair or those smooth, perfect curves.

“Fuck…” she hissed through her teeth and scrambled back to her feet.

Another shout from the fae—closer this time—sent a jolt of panic searing through her chest. She did not so much as brush her hands on her dirty skirts before starting off again.

The burn did not ebb. Each step only proved to aggravate her lungs more and, in turn, built her frustration. Soon, every breath felt like fire in her throat. The heat of it rose more and more until it burst from her eyes in streams of hot tears.

“Please,” she gasped, throwing the shoddy prayer into the ether as she stumbled past another bush. “Keon…help me. Do not make me go back…”

She could not face Loren again. She could not return to that prison of a manor where she had watched her father die. She could not return to the town that had taken so much from her—her family, her husband, her lover.

The fae’s footsteps and shouts faded. Whether drowned out by the pounding in her ears or her own sobs, Emillie did not know. She did not care. For the next few strides, all she allowed herself was a glimpse of hope. Perhaps Keon had not forsaken Myridia entirely and wished to grant her prayer.

Whatever it was, she did not expect the moment she ran smack into the side of something large and covered in soft fur.

Emillie fell back into the mud, her pounding heart slamming to a sudden halt as a massive dark brown wolf turned its piercing gold eyes to her. A scream caught in her tight throat so that the beast’s deep growl filled the space between them. It turned to her, sharp teeth bared and shining in the low light of the night.

A fae woman with long black hair and light brown skin appeared beside the wolf, laying a hand on its shoulder as she said, “Easy, Luce.” Then she turned her attention to Emillie, brows pinching together as she took in the blue webbing along her jaw. “Who are you?”

Gaping at the wolf—Luce—and the woman, Emillie pushed back to her feet. “Help—”

“Grab her!” Caeles called from the trees.

Heart lurching, she took off again. The rest of the group traveling with Luce and the fae woman startled as she sprinted past. Not one of them moved. Not one of them interfered. Not as she ran…

And not when strong arms wrapped around her, lurching her from her feet with a scream. She kicked and writhed against the hold, throat burning. No one uttered a word as he dragged her off the highway.

She did not hear what Caeles said to the startled group, only what Nollun hissed in her ear as he slapped a hand over her mouth, deafening her shrieks: “You slippery little bitch. You’ll pay for this…”

The wolf snarled, vivid eyes turning from Caeles to her. He had lied. Emillie knew it without needing to hear anything else—he had told them some kind of falsehood to garner their sympathy and paint her as a criminal. No doubt the entire company of fae wished nothing but the worst for her by the time her view of them cut off.

Luce never stopped staring and never moved a muscle. Her one chance to escape had slipped away. She had failed.

Madan had never before been inside the war chambers of Auhla . The Crowe, Ehrun, Azriel, and many others had graced the hall for many years to discuss the next steps to take in their fight against the vampires, yet he had never received an invitation. Though Azriel once asked for him to join, Ehrun had vehemently fought against it. As the Crowe’s most effective commander, the previous King had denied his son’s request.

Stepping across the threshold felt wrong. Bringing Lord Veron Knoll and Lord Oren Theobald into the room with him was positively scandalous. He liked to believe the Crowe wasn’t in the Underworld scowling at him for such things, though he did enjoy the thought of Ehrun finding three Caersan vampires inside those walls. He’d be pissed.

And that just made Madan grin like a child with a bag full of sweets.

The room itself was large and brightly lit by a chandelier made of antlers hanging overhead. Windows, covered by heavy blue drapes for privacy, lined the wall opposite the door. Woven tapestries hung at either end of the long room depicting Keon shrouded in the dark of the Underworld on one side and Anwen gilded with the golden light of Empyrean on the other—always searching for one another, yet never together.

Azriel sat at the head of the table carved with an impression of the Keonis Valley, his red eyes vibrant and holding his head high as though his horns were a crown. After being labeled Vhaltrin , they very well could be. The hollows of his cheeks were less defined than when they’d first arrived at the keep, but the shadows cast on his features hardened him more. As though the deep furrow of his brows didn’t speak volumes on their own.

Taking his seat to Azriel’s left, Whelan sat beside him while Kall filled the space to Azriel’s right. Phulan settled into the chair beside Kall, her elegant features seeming at odds with the mood of the room. The high fae from Algorath, Liulund, sat beside the mage as the representative for the ex-prisoners. When Madan had asked why Sasja wouldn’t be joining them, Azriel explained she’d requested to be left out of planning in the off-chance her oath to Ehrun proved more powerful than the one she’d given to him. Knoll and Theobald took their places farther down the table. If they felt uncomfortable with being seated away from Azriel, they showed no sign of it. At the far end, facing Azriel, a dhemon woman named Thorin sat, hands resting on the table and curly hair loose around her shoulder. As the only clan leader fluent in the common tongue, she’d been assigned the position by the others.

“Where is Ariadne?” Madan asked, noting the odd number of chairs.

Kall chuffed and said in the dhemon tongue, “I told you she should be here.”

But Azriel shot them both a glare. “Do you think I didn’t ask her?”

“I was merely curious.” Madan held up his hands and sat back. “I’m surprised she denied the invitation.”

It was Phulan who raised her brow and said, “After what happened last night? I think she made a wise decision.”

Something foreign to Madan passed through Azriel’s gaze. He stared at his brother for a long moment, unable to pinpoint why the look sent an uneasy feeling curling through his gut. When he couldn’t quite grasp it, he glanced up at Whelan. His mate’s subtle nod told him that he’d seen it, too.

Whatever it had been came and went too quickly. Azriel’s fingers curled into fists on top of the table as he lifted his voice to address the representatives of the room, “We are here to discuss the war ahead. Two enemies are before us, and we need to decide how to address this…dilemma.”

Madan nodded, taking his brother’s following silence as his cue to speak. “Loren Gard has taken control of Valenul, naming himself King while maintaining his grip on the military. He’s proven time and again he will stop at nothing to get what he desires: total power over the Keonis Valley. This is not unlike the position of the Princeps before him; however, it is my understanding that he continues to seek the one person he believes will grant him the undeniable right to rule: Ariadne.”

Despite the two of them covering the topic prior to the meeting, Azriel tensed. From the corner of Madan’s eye, he saw his brother’s jaw tighten, nostrils flaring. Still, he said nothing.

But Thorin leaned forward, confusion etched into her navy blue face. Her eyes were shades lighter than the other dhemons’ in the room and sparkled in the candlelight. “He want Yvhaltrin . Woman makes him King?”

Veron Knoll sat a little straighter and addressed the clan leader. “Ariadne’s father was the Princeps for centuries, as his father was before him. The position is passed down through the family, and with no male heir, his elder daughter’s hand was highly sought after. Most Caersans of the Society will not view anyone without Harlow blood as their true leader. By marrying Ariadne, he would solidify his claim to rule.”

“And how is he considered King already if they aren’t married?” Liulund’s sharp blue eyes seared into Knoll, his dark brown skin almost rippling with his shadow magic.

“The military,” Veron answered simply. “He held the title of General as long as Markus Harlow was Princeps. His soldiers view him as a saint amongst vampires. So long as he controls the army, he can rule by force.”

“Force no enough?” Thorin asked, her genuine curiosity seeping into her tone.

“Not when his rule can be legitimized by marrying the Princeps’s daughter,” Oren Theobald cut in. “The Lords may kneel, but they can and will make a mockery of him. Loren will quickly become desperate.”

“And it’s exactly that desperation that I fear most,” Madan added, noting Azriel’s rising tension. “He won’t stop until he gets what he wants.”

“How can you be so certain?” Liulund pressed, a crease forming between his brows. “Is her younger sister not in Valenul already?”

Madan’s pulse quickened. Each beat of his heart brought with it the phantom pain of his missing hand, throbbing with the poison of liquid sunshine. He could hear Loren’s voice as he snapped his leg, the words punctuated by his screams.

“When Loren sets his mind to something,” Azriel said, saving him from explaining, “he’ll never let it go. My brother nearly died by that bastard’s hand because he’d been so desperate to prove my true lineage. He wants my wife for himself to spite me. That she provides him with a legitimate throne is merely a happy coincidence.”

Azriel’s voice had grown so low from the pent-up fury, it was a wonder anyone could make out his words. Madan shot him a grateful glance, but Azriel didn’t look at him. His ruby eyes were transfixed on the spot near the center of the table, just below the lake’s cutout, labeled Laeton .

A silence descended for a long moment as everyone at the table took in the information. Thorin brushed her hair back from her face with an elegant flick of her wrist before saying, “This Loren a problem. But you say two problems.”

All eyes returned to Azriel, who sucked in a steeling breath before nodding once. “Ehrun.”

The single name was enough for most at the table to nod their agreement. Even Liulund’s dark brows shot up in understanding, the shadows around him writhing. This time, however, it was the Caersans’ turn to look confused.

“This is a name with which we are not wholly familiar,” Lord Knoll said, brushing an umber hand over his shaved head as a sign of unease. “It was our understanding that he replaced the Crowe in a way.”

“Ehrun has been a threat to everyone in the Valley for some time,” Whelan explained. “He’s been driven into madness after his mate and child were killed.”

Across the table, Kall grew tense. His mouth turned down in a frown, and like Azriel before him, he chose a spot on the engraved map to stare. When he spoke, his voice remained quiet, “He blame Princeps and take Ariadne. Vengeance.”

Again, Madan’s elder half-sister became the center of attention. It was she alone who sat between their two worst enemies like a beacon. Both wanted her for very different reasons. One to claim a kingdom. One to destroy it.

Realization dawned on the Lords’ faces. Knoll and Theobald exchanged looks before the latter said, “The Princeps was very tight-lipped about what occurred last winter. We were not aware his daughter had been abducted. Why, though, would Ehrun wish to bring harm to her when it was not she who caused it?”

“I don’t expect you to understand a bond,” Azriel said, his breathing shallow. “I certainly don’t expect you to understand how it controls one’s mind or how it twists one’s thoughts into believing something will help once it’s broken. I must impress upon you how dangerous a broken bond is for a dhemon.”

Whelan laid his hand over Madan’s amputated arm. The weight of it relieved the pressure building in his chest, but when he looked up at his partner, there fear danced in his eyes. He knew what would become of him if anything were to befall Madan. Only their connection through their respective vinculums had kept Whelan from succumbing to that same madness holding Ehrun in its clutches.

The same madness that still haunted Azriel.

“And you do?” Knoll asked, his brows furrowing.

Everyone aside from the two Caersans at the far end tensed. All eyes swiveled to Azriel. Madan followed suit, looking to his brother for any sign to step in. He needn’t speak of what he endured in Algorath if it was too difficult.

But Azriel straightened a bit and leaned onto his elbows. “I bonded to Ariadne. It isn’t something any fae can control. It’s an obsessive love from which there is no escape. No cure. No way to alleviate it. If a bond isn’t reciprocated for some reason, like mine to my wife, there is no connection beyond that obsession. Due to my arrest and separation from her, my bond broke. I lost much of my memory from day to day, to which Liulund can attest, and when I thought she’d died, things only got worse.”

Indeed, the high fae snorted and made a face that clearly stated he remembered exactly what it was like to be locked in a prison with the half-dhemon. He said nothing, however, and merely motioned for the Caersan Lords to continue listening.

“Ehrun’s mate reciprocated the bond during her life,” Azriel explained. “They were connected in ways even I can’t comprehend. When she and their newborn daughter were killed during a vampire raid, Ehrun became a very different man. In his mind, he’s getting even with Markus by taking Ariadne from him. Ehrun is, after all, responsible for Jezebel Harlow’s death.”

“But Markus is dead.” Theobald cocked his head. “Would that not satisfy his bloodlust?”

Azriel’s responding laugh sent chills down Madan’s spine. His eyes darkened. “There is nothing in this world that will satisfy him. He could raze these mountains and everyone in them in search of some relief, and he would find none.”

Liulund rapped his knuckles on the table. “Why does this happen to dhemons when it doesn’t happen to any other fae?”

“Their connection to Keon and, therefore, the Underworld was severed millennia ago by vampires,” Phulan said with a sad smile. “Without it, they cannot maintain their bond to their deceased mates. Other fae? Their connections remain intact, and so they do not suffer from this horrible fate.”

The fae’s eyes narrowed a bit, face taut with thought. “ Is there a way to reconnect dhemons to Keon, like Ariadne said last night?”

Madan stilled. Beside him, Azriel gaped at Liulund, wholly unprepared for the question. It was Madan who recovered first and asked, “How do your people stay connected to Silve?”

The Goddess of Nature and the one who ruled over the L’Oden Forest had always been the high fae and lycan deity. Like Keon, she had created them from her image and sent them into the world to watch over the forests of the west.

“We have a ritual,” Liulund said with a shrug as though it were as normal as drinking tea. “Priests across L’Oden lead the rituals at Vertium when it’s most potent, though it’s possible any time of the year. Once someone partakes in it, they are connected for life. Most are brought to a priest as infants.”

Another bout of silence overtook the room. Madan scraped his mind for the possibilities, then turned to his brother and whispered, “Azriel, we need to figure out the ritual.”

He shook his head. “We will investigate this, but as it stands, we need to decide how to proceed with Ehrun and Loren alike.”

Madan’s heart dropped, knowing full well that Azriel was avoiding hope. He turned his gaze instead to Whelan. Unlike his brother, his mate’s eyes shimmered with wonder and excitement. If Madan could connect to Keon, perhaps he could reciprocate the bond with Whelan—and Ariadne could do the same for Azriel.

“Ehrun dangerous,” Thorin said after her long stint of silence. She glanced sidelong at the Caersan Lords as though daring them to disagree. “He in way.”

Phulan nodded her agreement. “Ehrun maintains an aerial cavalry, unlike Loren. He could ambush us at any moment, and dividing our forces would be foolish. We just don’t have enough support yet. Removing him should be our first priority.”

Murmurs and nods accompanied her statement. Though looking unconvinced, Knoll leaned forward and said, “It sounds as though locating and eliminating Ehrun is our objective. How do you plan to make that happen?”

Azriel leveled his hard gaze on the Lord, ignoring Kall’s building tension. “By reaching out to more clans for support…and using whatever knowledge is locked away in the dungeon.”

A hollow pit opened in Madan’s gut. He turned to his brother in shock. “You can’t.”

It was in that moment that Madan understood just how broken his brother had become, for Azriel set his jaw, that foreign glint returning to his ruby eyes. He leaned closer, lowered his voice, and said, “I will do whatever it takes to keep her safe.”

That uneasy feeling curled through Madan again. Recognition clicked into place. He’d seen that same glint before…in the Crowe’s eyes.

And in Ehrun’s.