The memory of it slipped through his mind. Sometimes he wished Razer was exaggerating about these things, yet somehow he never was. Infuriating, really, for someone to be right all the time.
Ignoring the way Razer’s laugh echoed in his mind, Azriel slid from the dragon’s back and marched towards the medic tent. Bones cracked, and his body shrank a fraction in his clothing as he went, the transformation from dhemon to vampire that much more painful after staying in his horned fae form for so long. The injuries of battle didn’t help, slowing the process more than he’d become accustomed.
As though summoned by his thoughts, the healer mage stepped out of the tent and stood before him with a stony face. At first, Azriel smirked down at her. She had saved his wife, evidenced by Almandine’s near-constant pushing on Razer’s mind, and therefore his own sanity.
But when she didn’t move out of his way, a fiery irritation lit in his veins. “Phulan?”
“She is alive.” This much he already knew thanks to Almandine. Nonetheless, the mage lifted her chin a fraction, the power rolling off her in waves as a gentle reminder of who she was.
The subtle threat, however, didn’t go unnoticed. Azriel bristled in response. When he spoke, it was low, clipped, and final. “Then let me see mywife.”
“Not until I’m certain you understand that I did everything—everything—in my power to do as you asked and fix her.” Phulanstudied him, those amethyst eyes taking in the building tension in his shoulders, making his posture rigid.
There were too many possibilities that accompanied her words. Ariadne was alive, yes, but at what cost? What did Phulan do?
This is what youdeserve.
Bile rose in Azriel’s throat, and he clenched his fists hard to banish the feeling of death that had etched into his palms. Squeezing his eyes shut, he took a deep, steadying breath before opening them again to take in the mage before him. She was his friend. She was Ariadne’s friend. She would never hurt either of them on purpose…or without cause.
“What happened?” The question was a rasp in his tight throat.
“The wound was difficult to heal because of the salt.” Phulan sucked in air as she considered her words. “I pulled it out, but the way it had begun healing on its own… I tried to fix what I could reach.”
Patience. Azriel needed more patience. That wasn’t his strong suit. “And?”
“The sword went through her womb.”
A silence descended between them as he searched her face for more information. True to form, Phulan’s expression gave nothing away. She was first and foremost a healer and protected her patients.
“What does that mean?” He swallowed. “She’s alive and that’s all that matters, that’s all—”
“She may not ever carry children.” The words fell from Phulan, heavy and final. “Doing so could put her life at risk. Her womb is…not as it should be.”
Azriel stilled. In the middle of a war, he hadn’t considered children. They were the furthest thing from his mind, and he was certain Ariadne hadn’t been giving them much thought, either. At least she never mentioned anything about them to him. Nevera question about their lineage or what may become of them, being a quarter dhemon.
All the same, the idea of having that option ripped away left a hollowness in Azriel’s chest. He frowned, chewing on his words before speaking. “Does she know?”
Phulan scoffed. “Of course she knows. I wouldn’t deem to tell you anything that involvesherbody before her. Who do you think I am, boy?”
“How did she respond?”
Another roll of her eyes. “Now that I know you won’t attempt to burn down this tent, patients and all…go ask her yourself.”
With that, Phulan stepped aside, her defensive magic returning to a low simmer. Azriel moved forward and paused, hand outstretched to grip the tent flap. He stared at his own tan hand as he rolled the new information around in his mind once more. This was not the update to which he’d expected to return. It numbed his mind and forced him to consider the facts of his future.
He would never be a father.
Perhaps that was for the best. It wasn’t as though he had the greatest father figures in his life. Markus tried to kill him and the Crowe, though loving to him and Madan alike, was often absent. He’d practically raised himself and Madan inAuhlaand never thought twice about it. The dhemons in residence hadn’t treated them the best for obvious reasons—at least not until his transition, when he first showed his dhemon lineage.
But Ariadne had loved her mother dearly. She’d loved her father, too, despite his heavy hand and cruelties. Had she expected to one day make up for the time lost with her own mother? Had that possibility now vanished?
“Azriel?” Phulan’s voice sounded far away.
He bowed his head and shook it to clear his mind. “Fuck…”
“Focus on what youdohave.” Phulan’s hand was light on his outstretched arm. “Your wife is alive, but now she needs her husband.”
Noting the absence of the wordsand well, Azriel grunted in affirmation before finally pulling back the entrance to the tent and ducking through the opening. All around him, patients with varying degrees of injuries lay on the rows of cots. Some sat up, talking with others or sipping steaming broth. Others slept, their faces drawn in pain. Still more were actively being tended to, their wounds being stitched and bandaged by those who’d volunteered to assist Phulan—brave souls, all of them, to work under that mage’s reign.
