All they needed was Camilla, and Ariadne would be damned if they did not see to their friend’s rescue.
Emillie slept through the night thanks to their march through the mountains. Her sleep rhythm had been destroyed since departing fromAuhla, and she would not be the reason their siege on Monsumbra failed. Phulan had instructed her with precisely what was needed from her, Revelie, and Margot prior to her falling asleep in Luce’s arms: assistance with healing.
Though her exhaustion had her falling into a deep slumber almost instantaneously, Emillie’s dreams were tormented by all that occurred in Algorath. She and Revelie had recounted the events to Ariadne, and part of her had hoped that in doingso, her conscience would clear. After all, Ariadne had done something quite similar when she attacked Desmo Melia Tagh and her guards.
Nonetheless, it was as though her brain needed yet another round of sleep to process it.
As such, Emillie lived through the highlights yet again. Luce and Jakhov leaving Phulan’s home to put as much distance between them and those to whom they had bonded. The softness of the mage’s touch as she pierced through Emillie’s skin with a hollow needle at the crook of her arm. The sight of her blood pumping freely from her body as Phulan siphoned it into vials.
It had not hurt, of course. Phulan had been calm and gentle during the procedure, and it was nothing in comparison to the feeling of another vampire’s fangs. Likewise, Revelie admitted to having enjoyed the freedoms that came with being a seamstress on the outskirts of the Society; her exploits with men, Caersan and Rusan alike, had prepared her just as much for the sting of the needle and extraction of blood.
Those had been the easy parts, however. Emillie had thought of nothing of it at the time, and even in the dream, it was perfectly normal.
Everything changed when they made their way through the city towards the largest hold for prisoners set for the Pits in all of Algorath. Jakhov, Lhuka, and Luce disappeared out of the main gates of the mage city to collect the dragons needed to free the prisoners. It had been Paerish who led the charge on foot with a band of mages who regularly worked underground to fight against the city’s prison laws.
Though Phulan insisted she and Revelie join in case they needed more blood, they had another role—larger than Emillie had anticipated. They were, in no sugar-coated terms, thebait.
“If we keep the guards busy out front,” Phulan said, “it will be too late for reinforcements by the time the walls have been breached.”
What the mage failed to mention was that they would need to do more than just distract the guards. Once the call for aid rose, Phulan did not hesitate to put a permanent end to those to whom they spoke. Emillie had never seen a woman so quietly and matter-of-factly lodge a dagger in a man’s throat.
Of course, that had caused a ruckus for the three of them to deal with, and before she knew it, Emillie was forced to rip open her own wrist, force-feed her magic-nulling blood to a guard, then step aside to let Phulan starve him of oxygen with her own magic.
The screams. That had been what echoed in Emillie’s ears as she was dragged onto Lhuka’s dragon with Luce. Revelie was hauled up by Jakhov, who spent the entire flight back screaming in the dhemon language about the blood that covered her.
By the time Emillie woke again, she felt even less rested than prior to when her head hit the pillow in her tent—if that was even possible. Despite moving like a slug, she got herself dressed and out before the sun rose to meet that same guard-killing mage at a large tent she had erected at the edge of the camp for treating injuries.
Revelie and Margot already sat near the back of the tent, where no light would be able to reach them come dawn. They sorted supplies that Phulan had taken from Algorath—salves, bandages, needles, thread, and even a saw. The sight of the jagged blade had Emillie’s stomach churning. War was horrific, yet she still prayed to Keon that they would have no need for such a tool.
Settling in beside the other vampires, Emillie pulled a basket of supplies to her and began her own sorting. The lack of greeting or talking of any sort underscored just how tense theyboth felt. If it was anything similar to the queasiness that gripped her, she understood.
The silence continued until the front of the tent opened again and Phulan entered with Ariadne on her heels. The mage was dressed as she always was in her bright clothing, though her white-streaked hair was pulled back in a tight braid.
The sight of Ariadne, however, had Emillie dropping the spool of thin thread back into the basket and launching to her feet. Gone was the Golden Rose of Valenul. Gone was the ghost that drifted around the Harlow Estate for nearly a year. Gone was the woman who stumbled over her own feet on the dance floor.
In place of all those people that Ariadne had once been now stood a Caersan woman brimming with somber confidence. She wore her hair braided and pinned into a crown around her head, no make-up to be seen, and the chain necklace holding the Noct disappeared beneath her shirt. It was the leather armor she wore that had Emillie pulling up short. Dhemon runes were etched into the rough shell that covered her torso, shoulders, arms, and the fronts of her legs, all the way down to the knee-high boots. A sword hung from her hip, and peeking out from beneath her chest plate were the handles of two daggers. Another knife stuck up from her boot, and yet one more was strapped to her thigh.
Ariadne Harlow-Tenebra stood before her—bonded wife of the Crowe, Dhemon Queen, and Keon’s Chosen.
With the dhemonic runes decorating her armor, there was no other title for it: shewasKeon’s Chosen. The one who would bring harmony back to his Valley through force, if nothing else.
“Youarefighting then,” Emillie said, her throat burning more than she cared to admit even to herself. She knew this would happen, and yet seeing her sister prepared to step onto the battlefield as their father once had was almost too much to bear. The last thing she needed was to find herself attempting to keep the last shred of her previous life alive.
Ariadne smiled, though there was no joy in her eyes. “I will not be a Queen who sits on a throne and orders others to die for me.”
“The soldiers you face will have been training for years.”
Fingers running over the etched runes in her armor, Ariadne nodded. She turned her arm over and studied one in particular. It stood out from the others; not a mage rune, but dhemonic. The patch of leather was worn soft from running her fingers over it repeatedly. “I’m ready to face them. I will not let him down.”
Him? Azriel?
It took a long moment for Emillie’s mind to catch up. Certainly, she fought for her husband—his life, his sanity, and his freedom—but there was one other for whom Ariadne would draw her blade. The one who taught her to wield one in Azriel’s absence.
Kall.
“Is that his name there?” Emillie asked quietly, looking at the place her sister touched.
A shadow passed over Ariadne’s face, but she nodded. “Yes. He will not let me fail today. I can feel it.”
