Then they started forward again, stepping over corpses without looking too closely at those not clad in crimson. Though most were not from their ranks, Azriel’s heart leaped anytime he caught sight of blue skin. This was what he’d feared—happy and hopeful people dying in the name of peace.
No…
Dying inhisname.
In the past, dhemons followed him into battle, but they never died because he asked it of them. His father carried that burden. Azriel had lamented the deaths of his friends and comrades, mourned those who never returned from raids. But he never felt responsible for what happened to them. Never blamed himself.
Now every death bloodied his hands. Even one was too many, and they had just begun. Too many more were to come, and there’d be no stopping the inevitable. He’d sparked the fire of war within the clans. Should he fall or step down, the battles would continue—and they’d continue because of him.
So he charged forward, praying to Keon for fewer deaths and more surrenders. Ariadne was right: he’d told his people to accept a surrender, yet he failed to do so when the moment mattered. Instead, he let the bond take over and put an end to a young vampire’s life.
Before long, he and Ariadne turned a corner to find themselves in the thick of the battle. Clash of steel, screams of pain, and the noxious odor of too much blood had Azriel’s worldspinning on its axis. Beside him, Ariadne sucked in a sharp breath before being dragged into the fight by a soldier aiming straight for her.
Azriel launched himself at the Rusan, hauling him back from his wife and tearing into the vampire’s throat with his sharp teeth and fangs. The taste of metal, accompanied by a surprised, gurgling shriek, had even more adrenaline dumping into his system. Eyes unfocused and body humming with the shock of energy, he let the soldier’s body drop to the ground.
When he turned back, Ariadne was nowhere to be seen.
A surge of panic had Azriel’s stomach churning. She had promised.Promised. Where could she have gone?
He is a monster.
No, no, no.
This is what you deserve.
Fuck.
Azriel turned in place, a scream of horror stuck in his throat as he searched beyond the sprays of blood, massive bodies of fur, and metal shining in the sunlight. This couldn’t be happening.
Not able to find Ariadne amongst those who stood, Azriel choked back the bile that rose up his throat as he turned his attention to the ground. To the corpses and actively dying. To the blank stares, matted hair, and missing limbs.
Flesh peeled away beneath his touch, the too-soft decay exposing bone and sinew. Blue eyes, glazed over with death, gazed into the eternal darkness that awaited them all. Skin dangled from the frayed edges of a severed neck.Herdecapitated head.
“Azriel!” The cry had his heart launching into his throat, and he whipped around in time to duck a swing from a soldier. Then a dagger appeared from behind the vampire and stabbed into his face at the temple, making him sag to the ground like a discardeddoll the moment the blade was pulled free. Behind the man, Ariadne stood, eyes wide. “What are you doing?”
He blinked hard, forcing back the bond that threatened to overwhelm him with memories manipulated by a woman who hated him for all the wrong reasons. Melia’s words—her actions and illusions—would haunt him forever.
But now was not the time to be consumed by them.
“Where were you?” he breathed.
Ariadne frowned in confusion. “I never left. I was by your side the entire time.”
That…wasn’t possible. He’d looked for her. She hadn’t been there—hadn’t seen anyone beside him aside from the corpses.
Yet Ariadne had never lied to him. Not like that. Not when she knew just how critical these moments were in the midst of a battle. That no one interfered as they stared at one another was a miracle unto itself.
“I am here,” she said, hefting her sword as she stepped closer. “I am safe. I am—”
“Yours,” he finished with a nod. “Until the very end.”
“Until the very end.”
For Ariadne, Rusan vampires were nothing compared to Caersans. Training with Madan demonstrated just how much strength and speed a Caersan man had, even with only one arm. Moreso, however, was the comparison she now had when actually fighting against an incensed and volatile Caersan man.
There was not much in this world for which Ariadne would thank Loren, yet she stood beside Azriel feeling grateful for the strikes she had taken from her wretched fake husband. It hadbeen a humbling experience, and one that she would not quickly forget. Still, Ariadne could not stand against a Rusan man and know just how different it was.
With her full Caersan heritage, she was faster and even stronger than most of the Rusans they faced. Where she fell short was her overall knowledge and experience in combat. These men had been training for years—possibly decades—while she had mere months. What she had in her arsenal of offense and defense could not hold a candle to those who moved with practiced ease. She stumbled…they struck.
