The connection with Ariadne, however, was nothing he could find in his consciousness and strike, like with Razer. It was a deeper, more subconscious plait of the very fabric of their souls wound together through space and time. Where he and Razer were separate, two beings held together by a cord, Azriel couldfind no separation between himself and Ariadne. They were and would forever more be of one spirit.
Such an intricate fusion was at once difficult to locate and impossible to lose.
A violet dragon landed a stone’s throw from Azriel, and for the first time since the bondhearts had joined the battle, his heart stuttered. The lithe, shining dragon tore into the crimson soldiers with a vicious roar before taking a single spear to the side and launching back into the sky.
“Fasj?” Azriel didn’t dare to watch her continue her attack, but reached out nonetheless.
The only response he received from the dragon he’d believed to have died the night Ehrun attacked outside Anwenja was a brief acknowledgement. Then, before he could press for further information, she cut off all contact with Razer.
“How did she survive?” Azriel asked his bondheart.
Razer’s answer was accompanied by screams he knew to be soldiers set aflame. “Arthin cut the vinculum before it could take Fasj with him.”
Cracking his knuckles across a vampire’s face, Azriel followed up with another question, “Why did she choose to come help?”
For that, Razer didn’t have an answer. He sent back his own confusion before refocusing on his task of tearing through as many Valenul soldiers as he could get his claws and teeth on.
Azriel didn’t press further. They needed every ounce of help others were willing to give him, so he would not question Fasj’s motives. What she gained from her aid in this battle was for her alone, just like everyone else.
Everyone except, perhaps, Ariadne. His wife fought not for herself, but for her friends and family. Even Azriel’s incentives were for his own gain: the end of the war meant he could live the rest of his life in peace with her. It’s all he ever wanted.
And he would be damned if anyone was going to take it from him.
Chapter 35
Fuck.
Fuck.
Madan had known when he separated from Whelan that it would be disastrous. Something in his gut hadtoldhim that they needed to stay together. That he should be with his partner—hismate—so that nothing could happen to him. Anytime one of them was not by the others’ side, something went wrong.
Cast out of his own house by his brother? Aegrisolis and an amputated arm.
Separated in the woods of the western Keonis Mountains? Kall died.
Trying to leave the dhemon who hated them? Ear cut off.
Nothing ever went the way they planned if they were kept from one another, and after this gods forsaken battle, Madan would never leave Whelan’s side again. He would complete the ritual as soon as possible, even if it meant waiting an entire fucking year to do it on Noxidium, and finally reciprocate the bond that’shaunted them for centuries. They would be officially mated beneath the Keonis Tree.
“Fuck!” Madan drew out the word as his heart cracked open wide, the phantom pain in his back hollowing him out as he tried to see through, not only the flurries of snow, but his own hot tears. No one heard him. There was entirely too much noise going on already for anyone to hear or even care about the torment he now bore.
What would happen to Whelan? He was not dead, that much Madan knew, and he thanked Keon for that fact over and over again. Clearly, some miracle had happened that kept him from being ripped from this world after suffering such a horrific blow. Whoever had stepped in to protect his mate…gods, he owed them everything.Everything.
There was only one thing that kept Madan from giving up—from throwing down his sword, calling for Brutis, and flying to his partner’s side. It wasn’t that he knew wholeheartedly that Phulan would do everything in her power to keep Whelan alive. It wasn’t that his brother needed him there, fighting alongside him and ensuring he wasn’t losing his own head in the turmoil of the battle.
No. It was Whelan himself.
Perfect Whelan with his endless jokes and a smile that could tame a serpent. His mate would not want him to leave the fray. Given any drop of consciousness, he’d demand that Madan return immediately and put an end to this fucking war. He’d claim to never forgive Madan if he let others fight and die for what they believed in while he sat and worried over him.
So Madan stayed. He did what he’d been trained for centuries to do: kill vampires who he’d once believed would never accept him as one of their own despite his lineage. Rather than allow himself tofeel, he buried the aches and pain and dug into what he needed most in that moment.
Hate.
And, gods, hehatedthe Caersans opposing them. He hated each and every one of them for what they wished to take from him. For they wanted nothing more than to cut down every dhemon on that field. They wanted to put an end to an entire race of fae as though they were not born from a god, just like those who hailed from L’Oden or the Vol Isles or the Southern Sea. They wanted to takeeverythingfrom him.
Perhaps it was because of how long he traveled with a dhemon he hated. Perhaps it was because he’d learned to understand the pain borne by dhemons who suffered from broken bonds thanks to his brother. Perhaps it was his own heart breaking.
Whatever it was, he understood Ehrun at that moment. As Madan continued to kill while Whelan struggled to live, he knew with distinct clarity just how Ehrun’s mind could have twisted into such a loathsome, vile, and wicked thing. It made sense, for the mere idea of losing Whelan was enough to make Madan want to put an end to all of Valenul. And he didn’t even have a bond to blame it on.
