“I am so sorry,” Ariadne whispered as she wept over her friend. “I should never have left you. You did not deserve any of it. I am so, so sorry…”
But even her grief was no match for the cry of horror that broke through the quiet of the early morning as Felix Dodd rounded the nearest tent and bore witness to what had become of his daughter. What pieces of Madan’s heart that remained in place shattered when Ariadne stepped aside, weeping her apologies to Camilla’s father. He pulled his daughter from Madan’s arms and held her like a child as he sank to his knees in the snow with a loud, keening moan.
At first, Ariadne didn’t move. She watched, her face drawn in pain, the great Lord Dodd curl his body around Camilla’s. Her hesitant step forward underscored her internal struggle, yet she still whispered, “I am so sorry, my Lord, I did not mean—”
Ariadne’s words were cut off as Felix grabbed her hand and yanked her to the ground with more force than Madan anticipated. He lunged forward in unison with Azriel, prepared to protect his sister from the distressed vampire, before realizing that Lord Dodd had not done so to yell or scold her for failing to protect his daughter. Instead, he dragged Ariadne into his embrace with Camilla and wept against her shoulder.
“Do not,” he rasped. “You are not at fault. It is me. I trusted him—it is my own burden to bear.”
“No one could have known,” Ariadne whispered, her own voice just as hoarse and quiet.
At that, Madan backed up again to give them space. Standing beside Azriel, he crossed his arms and turned his gaze skyward. He tilted his head towards his brother and whispered, “This is the part I hate most.”
Azriel grunted in affirmation and settled into a similar stance. Feet wide, he kicked the toe of his boot into the snow. After a long moment, he said, voice low and gravelly, “I thought we’d made it in time.”
“Agreed.” Madan swallowed hard and hissed through his teeth as a tear escaped. He could not afford to cry anymore. Not when he hadn’t even seen Whelan yet. “I don’t even want to imagine what would’ve happened had we been any later.”
Discovering that Ariadne had somehow made it to the tower and begun a duel with Loren had been horrifying enough. His sister had trained long and hard to get to the point of feeling comfortable with a sword and even more so with challenging a man, but she knew as well as Madan that she couldn’t hold a candle to Loren’s abilities with a sword. Only two possibilities would’ve come from her finishing that fight with the King of Valenul: imprisonment or death.
And Ariadne would never let herself be taken prisoner again.
The saving grace had been the speed at which the aegrisolis had spread. Madan had thought for so long that he’d suffered from the injuries to his arm for multiple days. He’d been convinced that the rotting from liquid sunshine would be akin to true sunshine—slow and methodical. Seeing it on the battlefield and cut into Loren, however, made him realize just how little time he’d truly had. Were it not for the quick thinking of Izara that night, he would have died not long after.
The thought sent a chill down his spine.
Beside him, Azriel cursed under his breath, bringing Madan’s attention back to the grief before him. He hung his head, horns swinging dangerously close to Madan’s face. “Don’t. The only reason I made it through that fucking battle with my head on straight was because I could feel that she was still alive.”
At least Azriel had had that. Without Oria, Madan would have nothing to tell him of Whelan’s well-being. He dropped his arms and turned to Azriel. “Are you alright alone with her?”
Azriel’s throat bobbed, and his brows pinched in concern. He nodded and jerked his head towards Brutis. “Go see him. I don’t know how you’re still standing here.”
“Thank you,Rholki.”
Without looking back, Madan ran to Brutis and all but threw himself onto the dragon’s back. No words were needed. Their mutual feelings were enough for his bondheart to understand what he needed, and he was certain that Brutis needed to see Anthoria just as much. The two were nearly as close as he and Whelan, and with his partner in limbo at Phulan’s tent, they were both on edge.
Returning to the edge of the battlefield where bodies were now covered by snow, Madan’s stomach churned. Death tinged the air despite the vast majority of the deceased being blanketed in white. Mounds rose at uneven intervals, some larger thanothers, and still more with arrows and blades still protruding from the forming drifts.
They would sort through the dead now that the battle had ended. Take note of who they found in both armies and do their best to inform the next of kin so they did not need to wonder any longer than necessary. Felix Dodd had merely been the first of a long line of similar encounters. Parents, wives, children, and other loved ones would collapse from the grief, and Madan would have to watch them come to terms with never seeing their sons or daughters, brothers or sisters, friends or lovers ever again.
Madan had not lied when he spoke to Azriel. Of all that came with war and battle, the worst of it was yet to come.
By the time Brutis landed beside Anthoria, Madan was already launching himself from the dragon’s back. The great gray and green bondhearts closed in on each other, wrapping their necks together and cutting off all connections to Madan and Whelan to have their private moment together.
It didn’t hurt Madan’s feelings. They needed it as much as he did. So when he entered the medic tent and found Whelan without trying, he barreled past the other injured soldiers. He barely made it to Whelan’s side before his knees gave out, landing him at the edge of the bed where the dhemon lay, eyes closed and torso bandaged.
Taking Whelan’s face in his hand, Madan released his hold on his own emotions. Tears tumbled down his cheeks freely as he pressed his forehead to his mate’s, taking comfort in the puff of air from Whelan’s nose.
“I’m alive.” The words were whispered, barely audible even to Madan’s vampiric hearing. “I’m alive.”
Madan sat back a fraction, still holding Whelan’s face as those perfect ruby eyes cracked open slowly. A small smile curled thecorners of the dhemon’s luscious lips, and he turned his face to kiss the palm of Madan’s hand.
“I have never been so scared,” Madan admitted. “I thought…for a moment…”
Whelan hummed, blinking slowly. “I wasn’t sure, either, if I’m honest. But Phulan is—”
“Phulan is what?” As though summoned by name, the mage appeared on the far side of Whelan’s bed, where she wiped blood off her hands before slamming them on her hips to glower at the dhemon. One could always trust Phulan to not allow anyone to wallow in their own self-pity. “Out with it, you. You’ll be fine enough.”
Despite himself, Madan chuckled and sat up to look at the mage who had saved his partner’s life. Then the second half of what she said registered fully in his mind, and his stomach dropped again. Looking between the two, he frowned. “What do you mean,fine enough?”
