Lord Veron Knoll nodded in grave understanding. “A true monarch to lay down her life for her people.”
“The same cannot be said for others in power these nights,” Theobald muttered, his usual cheer diminishing as he glared at Laeton on the map before him. “Coward.”
“Hush.” The command came from Thorin at the far end of the table and quietened the Caersan Lords in an instant. She turned back to Luce. “More story, please.”
Another pang of sorrow hit Ariadne hard in the chest. Her accent and broken common tongue sounded far too much like Kall’s. The four words replayed in her mind, but this time in her friend’s deep voice. Again and again she repeated them, afraid of the night she would no longer be able to summon his tone and cadence.
“My mother was the firstborn,” Luce explained, “and I am hers. Thus, our line of Lycan Queens continues. No one spoke of us outwardly for these past centuries, but my people have never forgotten Queen Uliet and her sacrifice.”
Azriel leaned forward at this, resting his scarred blue arms on the table’s edge as he studied her with his shining red eyes. “I’m not one to question a gift when it’s presented to me, yet I must ask: why, then, after all you and your people have endured, do you wish to fight alongside dhemons in Valenul?”
Lips curling as though she had expected the question, Luce leaned forward as well. “Because Loren Gard put me in chains for avenging my baby brother. I owe him a visit, and my people are thirsty for the blood of the man who allowed vampires to kill their Prince and imprison their Queen.”
Biting her lip, Ariadne watched with quiet concern as her husband’s demeanor shifted from reserved to vicious hunger. A wicked grin spread across his face, exposing his sharp dhemon teeth and long vampire fangs. “I’m thrilled to have you with us, Queen Luce.”
The lycan nodded once to him. “I’m thrilled to be here.”
At that, discussion turned to updates from around the keep. Thorin explained the dhemons’ progress in creating a makeshift village nearby for the men and women joining them from clans across the Keonis Mountains. With so little room withinAuhla, the new additions to the area were being built at record speed to accommodate the daily flood of soldiers and their families. Liulund reported his efforts to contact mages and prisoners within Algorath, much to Phulan’s shock.
“Did you not think to speak with me about this?” she demanded once he mentioned having a difficult time getting his messages into the mage city. “As if you don’t have an Algorathian mage literally sitting right beside you. Foolish boy.”
While the two of them bickered about who was best to find a way into Algorath, Oren Theobald sat forward and said, “I have taken it upon myself to sow a bit of discord in Eastwood.”
At that, the mage and high fae ceased their hushed argument and turned to the Caersan Lord along with the rest of the table. Ariadne, overwhelmed by it all, said nothing and watched as her half-brother grew more and more agitated, with this most recent remark sending him flying over the edge of exasperation.
Madan raised his amputated arm as though to rub his temple, glared at his stump of an arm, and switched the motion to his other hand so he could pinch the bridge of his nose while he soaked up the news. “And what, pray tell, do you think that will do for us, Oren?”
The elder of the two Lords, Veron Knoll, sat up indignantly, looking past Theobald to pierce Madan with a sharp glare. “You will do well to remember that we have far more experience dealing with the intricacies of Valenul’s politics, no matter how changed they may appear at the moment, than any other vampire at this table.”
Well, he had that correct. With Ariadne keeping her nose as far from politics as possible—as though a Caersan woman couldever show interest in such things in the Society—alongside Azriel and Madan’s short stints as Lord Governors, they had no right to assume they knew better than either Veron or Oren. The brisk reminder, however, did nothing to soothe Madan’s agitation.
“Sowing discord and speaking politics are two vastly different things,” he snapped. “What did you do?”
Sitting a little straighter, Lord Theobald said, “I ensured Colonel Foster fed information back to Laeton to make it appear as though chaos reigns in the Keonis Mountains.”
“And what is that meant to do?” Azriel asked, reaching between them and holding Ariadne’s hand.
Veron tilted his head. “To put our enemy at ease.”
“If Gavrhil were still here,” Whelan growled, “he would tell you just hownotat ease they are in Laeton.”
“Your attack on their capital,” Veron continued unperturbed, “put them on the back foot. They are off-balance. By convincing them there is still unrest amongst the dhemons, Loren Gard will not seek vengeance immediately.”
Ariadne scoffed. “I doubt that. My Lord Theobald, I must know when you had the opportunity to bring this information to Colonel Foster.”
Oren leaned forward. “I have joined missions into outlying villages in the recent weeks. You forget that by establishing myself with Colonel Foster, I now have a direct line to Loren’s ear. Allow me to continue feeding him false information mixed in with truth, and he will lose track of which way is up.”
“What inspired this in the first place?” Phulan asked, raising a brow at the vampires.
Now Oren pushed his shoulders back with an air of importance. “Alek Nightingale and I have been working together for months in an attempt to free folk across Valenul who have been wrongly imprisoned.”
At that, Ariadne, Azriel, Madan, and Whelan stilled. Their collective agitation at Oren Theobald’s undermining dispersed. The four of them exchanged looks, and it was to Ariadne’s relief that Madan gave them all a nod of confirmation before turning back to the Lord.
“This is why he pushed for the Arena.” The pieces seemed to have fallen into place for her brother, and for that, she was grateful. “You were going to funnel out prisoners.”
“We had illusionists lined up,” Oren confirmed, “to fake their deaths and get them out.”
Azriel’s mouth turned down in a frown. “And Colonel Foster was aware of this?”
