“Em, give me that necklace,” Madan said, sticking his hand into the tent. The uncomfortable weight of the Noct warmed in his palm, and he turned back to his other sister, where he reached into the shadows of the quilt and pressed the stone against her skin.
“H-he’s hurt,” Ariadne stammered and dropped the blanket, her shaking fingers sliding up the chain to clasp it around her neck. What Madan expected couldn’t compare to what he saw, and it had his heart stuttering. She spoke again, but the words didn’t quite register.
Blood splattered the torn ivory wedding dress and flaked from Ariadne’s fair arms. A massive bruise covered half her face in deep purple and sickly green, swelling her eye shut. Disheveled hair fell in tangles around her shoulders, casting shadows over her healing cuts.
“Phulan!” Madan called. “We need help!”
Haen followed behind the mage, their high fae magic flaring to life at the sight of Ariadne’s injuries. “Let me take this one.”
With a scoff of indignation, Phulan waved the fae away. “I am perfectly capable—”
“Not that.” Haen took hold of her and pointed into the sky. “She just saidhewill need your expertise more.”
So Madan wasn’t the only one too focused on her wounds to hear or see anything going on around them. At least someone had the wherewithal to pay attention.
The next moment, Mhorn touched down beside Razer. Ehrun dropped from the huge red dragon with Azriel draped over his arms. And if Madan’s world had slowed when he took in his sister’s injuries, it was nothing to the way the entire universe slammed to a halt at the sight of his brother. Nearly no part of him was free of blood, be it his own or another’s.
Everyone moved around him. People yelled. Commands were given and followed. Magic whipped through the air, tickling a part of him completely out of reach thanks to the ancient vampire curse woven into his blood. Someone screamed.
Yet everything looked and sounded so far away. Madan’s lungs refused to expand. The edges of his vision darkened. His knees wobbled.
It wasn’t until Whelan’s hands clasped his shoulders, holding him steady, that Madan’s world swam back into view. So much blood and pain. They had lost a strong soldier in Gavrhil and had come far too close to losing both Ariadne and Azriel in one night.
How had Madan been so wrong abouteverything? He had not taken into account how quickly Loren could get the weapons needed to dispatch a dragon. He had not considered to what extent that vile excuse for a King would do to torment his sister. He had not believed Azriel would be anything less than successful.
Now Madan stared, ears ringing and eyes burning, as Phulan bent over his brother, pouring her healing magic into the worst of his injuries. Not far behind, Ariadne tried to push Haen’s hand away from her half-healed face as she cried something to the mage on her knees. By the looks of it, no one listened. Gods, Madan couldn’t even make out the words.
Still farther back, half-hidden in the shadows, Ehrun watched it all in silence. A scream rang out, and the dhemon’s unreadable mask broke. His lips parted, and his brows pinched as his eyes widened in horror. He’d heard that scream before, just as Madan had. The same scream Ehrun had caused when he broke Azriel’s leg—and when he put his ax through the Crowe.
Azriel screamed again as Phulan took hold of his mangled arm and turned it to examine the limb from all angles. The shoulder alone still held half a bolt as large in diameter as a bronze coin. Before anyone could say anything, the mage ripped it free, and with it came another shriek.
Had this been how Azriel felt when Madan had his arm removed? Separated from his body, unable to climb his way back in, and numb from the inability to help?
There weren’t many times in Madan’s life when he could say he’d felt something so horrible. Only Whelan’s touch kept him from floating away entirely.
“He needs blood!” Ariadne’s words finally made their way through the fog of his mind. “Let me help him.”
Haen, to their credit, attempted to hold her back. “You aren’t healed yet—”
“Fuck these bruises!” Ariadne snapped, shoving the high fae away, a fire in her eyes like Madan had never seen before. Frenzied. Panicked. “He has bled too much already!”
“Let her go,” Edira advised, and Haen stepped aside, their mouth a thin line.
Ariadne rushed forward, her face now a mottled green and yellow. The edges faded even as Madan watched—a tribute to the pure Caersan blood she had most likely consumed mere hours before. It made his stomach churn at the thought of having Loren to thank for anything, yet there he was, grateful for the wretch’s lineage.
Before Phulan could speak, Ariadne cradled Azriel’s head in her lap before tearing into her own bruised wrist and pressing it to her husband’s lips. His eyelids fluttered, but he parted his lips enough to sink his teeth into the gash nonetheless. The next moment had Azriel reaching up with his mobile arm to hold her in place.
Only then did Madan sag with relief against Whelan, who held him up with sturdy reassurance. They would mourn Gavrhil’s sacrifice as was proper, but for now, they would celebrate their victory despite retreat.
Chapter 11
The first thing Azriel noted as consciousness returned was the soft bed. The wisp of cool air across his face mixed with the warmth thrumming from somewhere nearby. It smelled of alpines and rain, petrichor and a hint of far-off sulfur. Peeling heavy lids back, Azriel’s eyes refused to focus on his dim surroundings. Only a flicker of blue illumination, followed by a loud pop of a log on fire, told him he lay somewhere not outside.
“It’s about time you woke, boy.”
He knew that voice. How long had it been since last he spoke to Phulan? They’d left the mage back inAuhla. Why had they left her again?
Phulan spoke again, this time directing the words elsewhere. “Go inform theYvhaltrin. Quickly, now!”
