Chapter 21 #2
Whatever the cause, Ariadne knew one thing to be certain when it came to Revelie: the Caersan would take on Jakhov’s emotions whether she wanted to or not, now that she knew she was the cause of his unease.
Despite reassuring her that, no, she did not need to begin looking at the dhemon as a partner, Revelie seemed just as determined as she always did to be exactly what he needed.
“No one expects that of you,” Ariadne assured her. “Not me. Not Azriel. No one.”
Revelie, however, raised her head in that previous Golden Rose fashion and said, “Perhaps not, but I am willing to spend time with him and see if any…feelings…develop.”
“There is always the ritual,” Emillie suggested. “It could cause the bond to complete by linking you to him also.”
With a grumble, Ariadne said, “It had better or all of this is for naught, and I will speak with Keon personally about this issue.”
The two laughed at that, and for a moment, everything felt as it once had. Normality was a far reach from where Ariadne now stood, yet being there with her friends was like a glimpse of what could be. What their lives could become, given the chance for the war to end.
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 from Auhla, 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 doing so, 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, the bait.
“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 they both 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: she was Keon’s Chosen. The one who would bring harmony back to his Valley through force, if nothing else.
“You are fighting 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.”
Today. Emillie shook her head. “Why not wait for nightfall and reduce the risk of you losing the Noct?”
The question was enough of a distraction to have Ariadne looking up again with a more neutral expression. “The first line of defense will be the Rusans. They’re weaker, slower, and less likely to put up as much of a challenge. Most will surrender, and those who do not…will die.”
“You sound quite certain.”
Shrugging, Ariadne continued, “It is the strategy I have been told. We will use daylight to move into Monsumbra proper with less resistance. From there, we will be able to set up a more advantageous position by the time the sun sets.”
Emillie shuddered. “You plan to fight all day and night?”
“Our forces will progress in waves.” Ariadne looked around the tent, her expression hardening at the sight of all the small cots set up for injured soldiers. “We will all have a chance to rest.”
The front of the tent opened again, this time letting Luce in. Ariadne took Emillie’s hand, dragging her attention back from the lycan, and squeezed. Her sister leaned in and kissed her forehead before saying, “I will be alright. By this time tomorrow…we will have Monsumbra.”
Ariadne turned to leave, no doubt to give Emillie a moment to speak with Luce, but she held firm to her sister’s hand. When she looked back, Emillie smiled, knowing full well that she held no joy in her expression either, and said, “I love you.”
A heartbeat passed. Ariadne swallowed hard. “I love you, Em.”
Then her sister was gone, disappearing behind the tent flap into the growing light beyond.
In her wake, Emillie was left gasping for air.
War was not what she had signed up for in this life.
She wanted peace. She wanted her books and a comfortable lounge in a library stacked with knowledge.
She wanted hot tea, fresh cake, and friends who would sit with her and discuss all sorts of topics—scholarly, if she had any say in the matter.
Instead, she was left in a medical tent, waiting to see if her sister survived a battle after mere months of training.
And to make matters worse, the woman she loved had just appeared beside her to say her own farewells.
Emillie tried her hardest to choke back the sudden swell of emotions; she had not felt this poorly since the nights following her father’s death.
All of a sudden, the same horrible sensations gripped her belly, making her nearly double over in grief.
As much as she wanted to believe that her sister and partner would walk back into that tent after the battle, hug her, and joke about how worried she had been, she knew it was just as likely for neither of them to laugh with her again.
“Listen to me.” Luce’s voice cut through the rampant thoughts as she cupped Emillie’s face with both hands. Golden eyes seared into her. “She will come back to you. Do you understand me?”
A tear slipped free despite Emillie’s best efforts. When she spoke, her voice was hoarse. “And what about you?”
The beautiful lycan leaned her forehead against Emillie’s and breathed deep. “Death could not keep me from you, Emillie Harlow. Try as it might, I will find my way back into your arms. That is a promise.”
Before she could argue for Luce to stay, their mouths collided. Emillie kissed her hard, savoring the taste of her and holding her close. It could be the last time they embraced, yet she could not—would not let such poisonous thoughts consume her.
Then, without another word, Luce slid out of reach. They looked each other over one last time, memorizing the planes of one another’s faces. Before Emillie could speak, Luce slipped out of the tent, leaving her shaking.
Phulan appeared beside her a moment later and pressed a warm cup into her hand. “Drink. It will calm the nerves.”
Before she lifted the steaming liquid to her lips, Emillie turned to the mage and asked, “Am I weak for not being out there, fighting alongside them?”
Without missing a beat, the mage chuffed.
She shook her head as though the question was one of the silliest she had ever heard.
“It takes strength to step onto a battlefield, certainly, but there is a very different, quiet strength in watching those we love do so with nothing but a prayer on our lips for their safety.”
The words were not what Emillie expected. She gaped at the woman before her, uncertain what else to say.
“Besides,” Phulan continued, tapping the bottom of the cup gently to urge it towards Emillie’s mouth, “what’s weak about saving lives? They need us as much as we need them.”
Nodding, Emillie brought the rim of the cup to her lips and sipped.
Warmth spread through her body in an instant, ceasing the shivers and flooding her with endorphins she did not expect.
The tears stopped, her throat loosened, and for the first time since waking, Emillie felt ready to face the horrors that awaited her.