Before Loren could regain his bearings, Azriel stepped forward. “You’re already dead, Loren Gard. Now yield.”
“You truly believe you could kill me?” Loren hissed. “How about another duel? Just me…and you.”
Azriel chuckled and held out his arms, no weapons in sight. “I already beat you once. To do so a second time would be embarrassing for you.”
Loren lunged for him, not unlike the way Azriel had done to him the night of their duel all those months ago. But he never made it. The great dhemon brute tackled him to the floor beside Camilla’s corpse, and for the first time since the start of the battle, Loren’s stomach dropped from true fear. Dhemons had survived millennia of genocide for a reason: they were horribly difficult to kill. Particularly dhemons of that size.
But the dhemon did not kill Loren. After knocking the wind out of him, the monster eased off before grabbing the back of Loren’s neck, hauling him onto his knees, and growling in his ear, “Drop your fucking sword like my Queen demanded.”
Loren gripped it tighter.
“Look at her,” the dhemon snarled, forcing Loren’s head to tip back and look Ariadne in the eye. “Look at her and apologize for all you have done.”
“I did nothing wrong.”
The dhemon shook him hard. “You have imprisoned her. Tortured her. Murdered her friend. Now look her in the fucking eye and atone for all you have done.”
Something about the way the dhemon’s voice broke that told Loren the words were not entirely directed at him. Who was he to Ariadne?
“You are pathetic,” Loren sneered. “Why not look at her yourself and do what you beg of me?”
In the heartbeat of time that the dhemon’s fingers loosened in surprise, Loren jerked free. He spun and dragged the length of his sword along the dhemon’s abdomen. Like a waterfall breaking free of a dam, the monster’s blood poured out and mingled with that of Camilla’s, still puddling on the floor.
All around him, people moved. Azriel surged forward. Madan threw his dagger. But both came to a halt as Loren dragged Ariadne into his grip, holding her to his chest by the throat as he stared them down.
“At last, my pet,” he whispered in her ear. “We are back at the beginning. Just the four of us, now, and nowhere for you to run.”
Ariadne grunted as she writhed in his arms. She moved to lift the sword, but he gripped her wrist and twisted hard, forcing her to drop the blade. The tides had turned too many times tonight, and Loren was ready to put an end to it all.
“I do not need to run,” she whispered back. “All I have to do is wait.”
Despite himself, Loren frowned. “And for what are you waiting, my pet?”
“Is it not strange,” Ariadne said as she looked up at him, “that your cuts are not healing?”
Loren’s frown deepened, but he took the bait and, still holding her tight to him, turned his hand over. What Ariadne said was true: the cut on his hand had not healed. In fact, it still bled freely. But it was not the constant flow of crimson that had his mind going numb.
The edges of the cut were dark. Frayed. The skin peeled back, exposing the flesh beneath. To his absolute horror, he watched in real time as his hand began to rot.
He did not know when he let Ariadne go, but she stepped away from Loren as he gaped at his hand, then lifted his fingers to touch his cheek where she had struck him. Pain lanced through his face as he felt the wound and found that it had progressed so rapidly that the decay had formed a hole straight into his mouth.
“What have you done?” Loren gasped, lifting his gaze to the fierce and beautiful Caersan woman he once believed had truly loved him.
Ariadne raised her chin. “I have won your game.”
Chapter 39
Running through the tower, hunted by Loren Gard, had not been Ariadne’s idea of fun. When she awoke that evening and marched out to battle, she knew the morning would end in one of two ways: either they killed Loren…or Loren killed her. Had it not been for the liquid sunshine on her dagger and the soldiers who hesitated anytime they recognized her face, she was certain the latter would have occurred.
Yet Ariadne had not fully prepared herself for what it would be like to watch Loren decay from aegrisolis before her eyes. There was once a time when she looked at the General of Valenul and believed him to be the most handsome man she had ever met. His silver hair and sapphire eyes had entranced her in the most intoxicating ways; the smooth tone of his voice and pretty words enraptured her every thought and wove their way into her dreams of a peaceful future.
They could have been great together.
A pity—nay, a blessing in disguise—that she had uncovered the horrible truth about his sinister and vile thoughts.
Loren’s breath turned ragged after a moment. He reached to the back of his neck, below the short crop of his hair, and his eyes widened in horror. Blinking rapidly, a tear dropped from his eye as he came to the slow understanding that this was, in fact, the end of their little game.
“Ariadne, I…” Loren’s voice faltered. He gaped at her and tried to continue, but the words were broken and refused to form in any coherent manner. Was the aegrisolis truly spreading that quickly?
