Two Caersans turned to Ariadne. Sucking in a deep breath, the frozen air burned her lungs as she adjusted her grip on the sword in her hand. The slick snow had turned to icy mud from all the feet, suctioning her boots to the ground while she pivoted to face them. She slid into a stronger stance, sinking into her thighs and lifting her blade.
Their expressions shifted, as most did when they saw her—face undoubtedly streaked with mud and blood, her fangs bared and Caersan veins on display above her armor. Hardy determination slid into confusion as their eyes flickered across her features, then screwed up in understanding: she was who they thought was their Queen, and their mission was to deliver her to their King.
It provided an advantage that Ariadne simultaneously acknowledged and abused. None of them wanted to be the one to kill her and force someone to report back to Loren that hiswifewas dead. As such, they always hesitated after getting a good look at her as they decided what the best course of action would be: engage or attempt to overwhelm, then deliver her back to her prison.
Ariadne would have neither.
Though most often chose to attempt the latter, their swords drooping as they made the assumption that, since she was a Caersan woman, she had no chance of escaping them. So far, each and every one of them who made that mistake found themselves dead. Either by her blade or by being crushed beneath the boots of hundreds of dhemons after she snapped their limbs using the techniques Kall had so lovingly driven into her mind and body.
The two that now faced her glanced at one another before rushing forward. Wave after wave of adrenaline was beginningto wear on Ariadne, yet the latest rush had her mind clearing as she shifted her weight to keep them both in her line of sight. Not letting one behind her would be critical. They had to stay where she could see them or she risked possible injury—or worse, if they decided it would be easier to merely kill her outright and beg forgiveness later.
But like every other vampire she faced that night, not one of them could predict the secret weapon she had in her arsenal. Since the ritual, Ariadne had not been the same, and she would never be the same again. She now had the bond to fuel her. The bond that forced her to think of one person only: Azriel. Somewhere out there, he was fighting with the same incessant thought in the back of his mind, only now they did so with a connection between them. Though she could not climb into his thoughts without the aid of their bondhearts, she did know one thing for certain: he was alive.
And as long as Azriel lived, she had access to a power these vampires knew nothing about.
Ariadne knew the moment she tapped into the magic. First, the soldiers’ attention snapped to her eyes, which glowed white as she dipped into Azriel’s emotional manipulation. Each dhemon had something different, and while his had not seemed ideal for a battle at first, she had quickly learned that it was invaluable. Particularly as a Caersan woman.
All around her, not just the two soldiers she faced, but those fighting dhemons and fae, dropped their weapons. Their faces went slack as they looked at her, heady desire burning in their eyes. Within the radius of her power, vampires fell as those who fought beside her pushed against the sudden rush of need to see the truth. Difficult though it was for those without bondhearts now shielding their minds, they grappled with their own thoughts just long enough to seize the opportunity to put an end to their foes.
Yet the two soldiers she had in her direct line of sight were not dispatched by the fae around her. Instead, she swung her sword and cut into the neck of the first. Blood gushed from the struck artery, dousing her blade and the vampire nearest him—the vampire who frowned at her sudden violence and somehow shucked off the thrall she had placed upon him.
Ariadne heaved her sword back, the suction of the Caersan soldier’s neck making it more difficult than she had hoped. But not soon enough. She was not quick enough to free the blade and block the vampire’s attack.
Fueled by a sudden surge of anger, the Caersan man swung hard and fast at Ariadne. The blade, however, never connected with her. Instead, a massive arm wrapped around her waist and yanked her to the side, placing the great dhemon’s body between her and the attacking soldier.
Whelan’s scream of agony punched Ariadne in the gut, emptying her lungs of air as he collapsed to the mud at her feet. The world slowed, the din of battle fading from her ears as his arm slipped from her waist. His free hand dropping his greatsword to catch himself was no use, for his elbow buckled, and he slid through the slick, frozen soil.
Pain ricocheted through Ariadne’s back in unison with the blade that was now buried somewhere between Whelan’s vertebrae. A great rush in her belly told her Oria had already taken flight with Almandine close behind, both pushing through the falling snow to hone in on their location through pain alone.
“Whelan!” Madan’s mental scream had Ariadne swaying on her feet. His fear and panic rippled through her as Almandine struggled to block out the sudden surge of emotions from everyone connected through their respective vinculums. But it was Madan’s voice that continued to cut through all else. “No,no—”
Ariadne held back the urge to vomit. This could not be happening. Not now. Not ever. Her mind threatened to disconnect from the present as it had the moment Ehrun grabbed her wrist in the western mountains—as it had when that knife’s blade disappeared into Kall’s chest and put a permanent end to the man that had become one of her best friends.
The soldier heaved back his sword, pivoted to angle the blade above Whelan’s exposed neck, and swung down hard. Ariadne twisted, driving her own sword into the path of the Caersan’s to shove it away with all her strength.
Not again. She would not let herself break too soon—not as long as she could stand between her friend and certain death. The time to struggle internally was not in the middle of a battle. Not while she could still help him.
“Oria!” Ariadne cried as she stepped over Whelan to push the soldier back again. “Get him out of here!”
Screams of terror rose up from the battle, and a strange relief ran through her veins as the great green dragon’s presence became known to those who had never before seen Anthoria. Who would have thought that the distress of others would cause Ariadne a beat of solace as she killed her own people?
Back and forth she went with the soldier, wanting nothing more than to drop her sword and make her final attack far more personal. Doing so, however, meant putting herself in a position that could too easily end up like the crushing pile that happened in Monsumbra. The memory of it stayed her actions, and she continued to fight the Caersan with her sword.
Until Anthoria landed behind her with a roar.
Ariadne felt the dragon’s intentions without needing to be told. Lunging out of the way, she twisted back to watch as Oria snapped up the offending soldier in her jaws and crushed him between her massive, sharp teeth.
“We’re still alive,” the dragon reassured everyone as though even she needed the consolation just as much. Then she scooped Whelan up with a foreclaw, her eyes swiveling to Ariadne. “Be safe, Yvhaltrinja.”
Then, in a gust of wind, the dragon lifted into the sky with the broken and unconscious dhemon in tow. Ariadne did not stand to watch them leave for long. All too soon, another soldier rushed in her direction and hesitated when he recognized her face. The anguish of uncertainty and the sudden realization that she was very much now alone rushed through Ariadne, stealing from her any sense of calm. Before the soldier could decide whether or not to lift his sword against her, she shoved her own blade through his stupid, gaping mouth.
The pain that rippled through Azriel as Whelan collapsed knocked the breath from him. Freezing mid-battle was nothing short of a death sentence, yet he did so as he felt with all too much clarity the sensation of a blade burying into his back. The Caersan soldier before him took the opportunity to swing his sword up toward Azriel’s face as his eyes widened in shock.
No.
Not Whelan, too.
Before the strike could take off his head, Azriel lurched back. The blade grazed the crook of his horns, vibrating through his skull as it glanced over the annuli. He snarled in response, Razer cutting off the physical connection to Oria and Whelan to relieve them both of the other dhemon’s agony, and launched himself at the soldier. Like so many others, the vampire didn’t expect himto close the distance so suddenly and failed to defend against him as he tore into the soldier’s throat.
