On second thought, perhaps he didn’t want to know the answer.
“Yes, ma’am.” Zamhul inclined his horns in concession.
But H’axinhum shoved the horns away, forcing him to turn the unspoken apology to Madan. Zamhul’s lips thinned as he actively prevented himself from speaking and instead bent his head a little lower.
“Now.” H’axinhum clapped her hands together. “I have an early morning to get these little beasts into shape. Leave me so I may get my beauty rest.”
As a group, they turned. Madan collected the location of the other dhemon they sought before exiting behind the young dhemon boys. Bril scrambled to find his trousers, but the woman’s voice floated out from behind the curtain as she said, “Walk back to your tent half naked, boy, and let this be a reminder not to speak out of turn.”
They watched the two scurry off, taking their piss aroma with them, before turning to the building two lots down from H’axinhum. Whelan repeated the motion of slapping his handthrice on the doorframe, this time calling for a dhemon named Kholp. A mere gruff grunt responded, permitting their entry.
The far side of the curtain was a vastly different sight than H’axinhum’s room. Kholp’s bed was a pile of furs on the ground—not uncomfortable, but nowhere near the regality of the massive bed in the other building. Kholp stood up from a foldable backless chair on the far side of a table and stepped around to greet them. He was not as tall as Whelan, though considerably larger. In fact, his appearance mirrored what Madan had expected to see from H’axinhum: thick, corded muscles with shoulders and a barrel chest that made him wonder how he could grapple anyone. If there was one thing he’d learned in all his years of training with dhemons, though, it was that those who excelled in hand-to-hand combat were far more flexible and agile than most would assume.
“Thorin chose me, then?” Kholp asked in the dhemon tongue, his voice as low and gravelly as Azriel’s.
Whelan lifted his chin. “Yes, sir. Combat Master.”
“You begin at dawn,” Madan added as he straightened from his bow.
“Very well.” Kholp waved his hand at the door. “Out, then. Good eve.”
Short and to the point. Madan and Whelan pivoted and left as quickly as they’d arrived, turning their sights on the high fae and lycan sector of the encampment. By the time they’d checked in with the chosen leaders for those who hailed from L’Oden, however, news had already reached them. That or Edira and Luce made it very obvious who they had chosen—a high fae named Boti and the lycan assassin, Dahlia, whom he recalled from Emillie’s travel party.
Returning to the keep, Madan leaned into Whelan. “Well, that was eventful. I’m exhausted.”
A mischievous grin spread across his partner’s face. “Don’t say that.”
“I need sleep,alhija.”
“I knowexactlywhat you need,” Whelan growled, scooping Madan close to nuzzle his neck and spreading warmth through his veins. Then the dhemon inhaled deeply. “Andexactlywhat you want. Now come with me.”
Azriel watched as Ariadne made her way out of the great hall alongside Lhuka for training. While the dhemon insisted on stepping down from his previous role, he acquiesced to taking on one that Azriel found to be far greater in terms of prestige. He filled the vacancy left by Kall to train Ariadne.
A brave man, to be certain, after Azriel cautioned him about what had happened prior to Kall’s passing. Lhuka promised to keep their training to minimal contact whenever Azriel was present. Wise, too, then.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, he gave them several minutes to safely disappear prior to also standing and making his way out of the great hall. Rather than exiting the keep in their wake, he turned to stalk down a corridor to where he found the library he’d put together for Ariadne weeks ago.
Inside sat the man he had invited for a meeting. Azriel’s heart skipped at the sight of Ehrun, who looked odd amongst the soft furniture and scattering of books on their shelves. The dhemon appeared ill at ease—so unlike how he had once lounged aboutAuhlaas the Crowe’s right-hand man and cruelest general. Where he used to kick out his legs, lean back, and survey the room with the cockiness and power allotted to an individual ofhis position, he now sat forward, elbows on knees and head bowed.
Azriel froze in the doorway. Never—not even prior to Rhana and Thavii’s deaths or in the immediate wake of their loss—had he ever witnessed him so despairing. For the first time since returning to the keep, Azriel saw himself reflected in the monster before him.
But Ehrun wasn’t a monster. Not anymore. Perhaps he’d never truly been. He was a man lost in his grief. So much so, he’d disconnected with who he was at his core, destroying the soul that had once kept him whole.
“Thank you for meeting me.” Azriel spoke in the dhemon tongue as he stepped closer and took the seat across from the dhemon, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. This man had tried to kill him multiple times. He’d hurt Ariadne and allowed others to continue her torture whenever he wasn’t present.
Ehrun swiveled his gaze up. “It’s certainly necessary for us to plan our way forward.”
When he wasn’t growling threats, his voice sounded entirely too much like Kall’s. The image of his best friend lying prone with vacant eyes swam forward, and he grit his teeth, forcing himself to take a deep breath. If he didn’t put a leash on the monster insidehimself, very different memories would resurface. Memories that would have him putting a blade through Ehrun’s skull.
“I have some questions for you,” Azriel mustered, ignoring the clawing at the back of his mind.
“Anything.” Ehrun sat up, though his shoulders curled in not unlike the way Ariadne’s did whenever she felt uncomfortable.
Azriel glanced away and sorted through his thoughts in a desperate struggle to remember the details of what he wanted to discuss.
“I’m sorry.”
Stomach churning, Azriel whipped his attention back to Ehrun. “What?”
