Another wet, ragged inhale, and Loren coughed, blood spraying from his lips. He sank back to his knees, clutching at his throat, as he looked up at her.
But Azriel stepped between them, then squatted down to bring his gaze level with the Vampire King and cut off Ariadne’s view of him entirely. “You do not get to look at her anymore.”
Again, Loren attempted to speak, only this time the words bubbled up with blood and dripped to the floor in steady drops. Movement had Ariadne tilting her head to get an idea of what was happening, only to find Loren with his back on the ground.
Azriel rested his elbows on his knees as he crouched over the defeated King. “I want my face to be the last thing you see.”
Wheezing churned Ariadne’s stomach. For as fast as the liquid sunshine was working, it most certainly was taking too long. The battle throughout the Hub continued to rage, the screams of the dying and roars of the dragons still echoing outside.
“Rest assured,” Azriel whispered, leaning closer as though to pass a final secret on to a dying friend, “Ariadne will be well taken care of—nightandday. I will see to her every want and need, and in a few years, no one will even remember you existed or that this farce of a monarchy ever ruled.”
The words sounded almost practiced. When Azriel had thought of them, Ariadne did not know. He never spoke of Loren unless pressed, and even then, it was never with such calm self-assurance. In fact, the sentences did not even sound like him. They sounded like…
“We should go,” Madan said, stooping beside Ehrun to wrap his amputated arm under the dhemon and help him to his feet.
Ehrun clutched his stomach, blood still pouring from the deep wound as he shook his head at Madan and sat up to lean against the wall behind him. For the first time since he had joined their ranks, Ariadne felt a pang of concern. He hunched over, face screwed up in a pain she could not feel through the vinculum that was still silent. If he made it back to Phulan, he could live…but she was uncertain whether or not he would make it that far.
“On your feet, Ehrun,” Madan ordered, his arm straining under the weight of the dhemon.
But Ehrun shook his head again, his red eyes unfocused as he tilted his head back, his horns clacking against the wall. “Go. Finish this.”
Ariadne swallowed hard. Why was it so difficult to leave him behind? After all of her hateful claims, the idea of letting Ehrun die there alone did not sit well with her. Perhaps it was what he had said to Loren. The words continued to bounce around in her mind. He had not looked at Loren when he had spoken them. In fact, he never took his eyes off her.
Every word had been from his heart to hers and a quiet plea for her to hear them.
Well, she had, and Ariadne was not fond of the idea of liking the man who killed Darien and Kall, tortured her, and left her for others to abuse in whatever way they wished. Nonetheless, there was a part of her that understood who he was at his core, and the man she met in the entry ofAuhlaafter her abduction was not Ehrun.
She had only truly met him upon her return from Laeton, after he had undergone the ritual.
“We can get you to Phulan,” she said, offering her hand.
But Ehrun closed his eyes and shook his head. “Thank you, Ariadne. Get the others to her.”
Was he truly refusing to be helped? Ariadne dropped her hand to her side and gaped at her brother for a long moment. To her utter shock, Madan shrugged, his expression grim. Then he turned to where Azriel was hauling Loren’s limp body off the ground and tossing it over his shoulder without ceremony. The gaudy gold dragonscale armor clinked with every movement.
Then Madan held out his hand to Ariadne. “Let us do as he said. Finish this.”
Ariadne’s heart sank, and she took his hand before looking back at Camilla. Swallowing hard, she could not hold back the fresh wave of emotions. Too much was happening all at once. How would she explain this to Lord Dodd? She gave Madan a squeeze, then pulled away and whispered, “I will not leave her here.”
“Of course not.” Madan sheathed his sword and stooped down to first pull the dagger from Camilla’s chest, releasing the pent-up blood in a slow, draining puddle. He tossed it aside and scooped his arms under her small, slack form. When he stood, it was with more ease than Ariadne appreciated. Camilla had always been petite, but she had never appeared frail to her until that moment.
The three of them paused then, Madan and Azriel burdened with the dead, and looked at each other before turning their attention back to Ehrun. The dhemon had ceased moving, though his chest continued to rise and fall in shallow breaths. Deep crimson leaked between his dark blue fingers.
When Ariadne opened her mouth to speak to him again, Azriel shook his head. He stepped in closer and whispered, “If this is what he wants…let him be at peace.”
There was something strange about the words. Ehrun? At peace? She had demanded Azriel not to kill him for one reason alone: to make the rest of his life miserable. Did she still want that for him? Or had he done everything in his power to make up for his years of horror?
Those were questions she would have to grapple with in the coming nights, for now was not the time to consider the answers.
Now was the time to save as many people in both armies as possible.
Without another word, Ariadne nodded and started for the stairs, Madan and Azriel following in her wake.
There was something odd and circular about the way they descended to the ground floor of the tower. How many times had she walked down stairs just like these while living such a different life? Mere months ago, she had entered her first ball as the Golden Rose, been introduced to Azriel as her new personal guard, and had her entire life altered. Now she held a stolen sword, wore armor made by dhemons and warded by mages, and held herself with more regality than she could have ever mustered as the daughter of the Princeps.
Ariadne may have been presented at the start of the Season as the Golden Rose, but she reentered Valenul as the Dhemon Queen.
Those fighting on the lower steps of the stairs paused at the sight of them—at the sight of Loren in his gold armor hanging from Azriel’s shoulder. An alarmed call rose from the Valenul soldiers as they recognized his silver hair.
