“Are you certain this is what you wish?” Azriel asked Ariadne. “I don’t know what lies on the far side of this.”
Ariadne’s brows pinched as she turned her beautiful face up to him. “Are you making a joke?”
His heart skipped a beat. “No. I only thought—”
“Stop thinking.” Ariadne squeezed his hand hard and lifted onto her toes to press her lips to his. “I have never been more certain of anything…except, perhaps, choosing you.”
Choosing you.
The two simple words bounced around in his mind, echoed by his quiet plea when he’d discovered her bruised wrist and finally lost his grip on the monster within. That kiss had been what started everything. A singular kiss, accompanied by his words:Choose me.
Together, they had gained and lost so much. It pained him to know that without that one kiss—that one moment of broken control—she very well would have ended up on Loren’s arm. And Azriel? Azriel would’ve ended up on the looped end of a rope.
“I don’t think I thank you often enough fornotdoing that.” Razer’s voice tumbled through his thoughts, sudden and alarming.
Azriel sent back nothing but pure understanding. If he’d succeeded that first time, there was no doubt in his mind that he would’ve taken his bondheart with him. It’d been selfish to give Razer no warning. As much as he and the dragon bickered like siblings, they were in this life together now, and there was no denying just how much Razer had done for him over the decades. Moreso, how much Razer did for him even when he was a complete and utter ass.
“Hold onto those thoughts,” Razer said, snide amusement rolling through. “And perhaps there is hope for you yet.”
“I take it all back.”
“Liar.”
Choosing to be the bigger person, Azriel refocused on the ritual before him. Ilna read from a paper that Luce had assisted in writing the night before. Whatever she had done to call upon Keon for Ehrun and the other dhemons worked, making her input invaluable in developing the scripture required to incite the ritual.
“Keon,” Ilna called, then continued in the dhemon language with Azriel translating quietly. Standing farther off, Jakhov frowned and, using his choppy understanding of the common tongue, attempted to translate the ritual for Revelie. “We call on you this night as the veil between the Underworld and Myridia grows thin. Let us honor you, our patron and Father of Dhemons.”
As though conducting a symphony, Phulan raised her elegant hands and with them floated up the three ingredients for their god-given ink: leaves of the Keonis Tree, petals from the moonlight flowers, and the remaining springwater from Anwenja. The first two twisted together in a vortex, shredding and mixing into a smooth paste that danced through the air. It was the springwater, however, that elicited a gasp from Ariadne and had his heart stuttering in shock.
A faint white glow seemed to build from the center of the swirling water. From the accounts he’d received about the last ritual, this was happening far faster. Perhaps it was due to the distance between the living and the Underworld shrinking thanks to Noxidium. Perhaps it was because a dhemon called on Keon. Perhaps it was none of those things.
Whatever caused the swift response from the god had every dhemon present murmuring in surprise. Even Phulan’s eyes lit up.
Ilna continued, “Come to us this Noxidium. Honor us with your presence. Let us kneel before you—” the dhemons moved to their knees in unison, Azriel and Ariadne with them “—and beg you shed your light on us, illuminating our path to you.”
The springwater and viscous combination of leaves and florals spun around and around each other, creating a spiral that seemed to glow and thrum.
“King of Dhemons,” Ilna called.
Azriel snapped his attention up to the dhemon woman.
“Queen of Dhemons,” she continued.
Ariadne glanced at him.
“Step forward.” Ilna watched as they returned to their feet and wove between those still on the ground, careful not to tread on the flowers.
Standing before the newly marked priestesses, Azriel faced his wife not unlike the way they stood before the High Priestess in Laeton on their wedding night. Even in her tunic and trousers, Ariadne was as ravishing as she had been in her gown. In fact, she positively glowed in the moonlight, her confidence and conviction even more stunning than any veil could make her.
All that was missing from this moment as they prepared to seal their fates together was the presence of their half-brother. Madan and Whelan should be there, beside them, experiencing the same elation. Instead, they were across the Keonis Valley and would be forced to wait a year for their chance to complete the bond.
Phulan pooled a small amount of the ingredients together, settling each into a bowl nearby and dragging Azriel away from his wandering thoughts. Another dhemon woman with the Keon symbol inked on her cheek stood before them, a hollow needle in hand. Azriel had seen them used many times on Kall, though he’d never gotten a tattoo on himself.
Never a better time to begin than now.
“Where do you wish to be marked?” The woman spoke in the dhemon language, her voice low and melodic.
Ariadne looked up at Azriel, a familiar curiosity shining in her perfect ocean eyes. “Not by Phulan?”
