Chapter 23
After sending the western army, led by Sasja, to camp at the southern end of Central Province, Madan, Whelan, and Ehrun took flight once more.
The next task didn’t include gathering more soldiers, but the final piece of their cavalry.
They needed the one dragon that could and would decimate an army without a second thought.
They needed Sehrox.
Flying out of the dhemon encampment, they soared north to where the war against Ehrun had finally turned in their favor, yet everything had gone oh, so wrong.
Anwenja. It was there that they left the massive bronze dragon in the mountains, injured and unable to fly away.
They’d be able to pinpoint his location once Ehrun felt their vinculum snap back into place.
What they hadn’t considered, however, was that Sehrox would need to eat and therefore would likely be wandering the mountains on foot as soon as he was able. With Ehrun so far that their bondheart connection was silenced, no one would know where he’d gone.
Therefore, when they landed at the top of the ridge near the garnet tomb, the great beast was nowhere to be seen.
Madan turned in his seat on Brutis’s back and looked to Ehrun seated behind Whelan.
The adjustment from Ehrun riding Anthoria solo had come not long before reaching the ridge when Brutis began showing signs of fatigue.
“Can you feel him yet?” Madan called in the dhemon language.
Ehrun grimaced, his eyes going distant as he searched for the thread of vinculum that connected him to Sehrox. After a moment, he shook his head. “Nothing.”
“He can’t have gone far on foot,” Whelan said. “And it doesn’t matter how far we are from them, there’s no way he’d died—not if this lug is still alive.”
For the first time since completing the ritual, Ehrun cast Whelan a look of pure disdain.
Madan almost laughed, his heart throbbing at the same time.
The expression was one Kall had given them more times than he could count.
The similarities between his enemy and his best friend were frightening, and he feared building a bond with the man who took Kall’s life merely due to how easy it would be now that the true Ehrun had returned.
Madan bit back the chuckle, though Whelan’s sharp eyes took note of the poorly masked smirk and raised his brows. Before his partner could make a comment, Madan said, “You know Sehrox best. Which direction should we go?”
At that, Ehrun sighed. “Hard to say. South makes the most sense in terms of returning to camp, but it’s been long enough—he’d have already made it.”
“So…” Whelan dragged the word out. “Do we go north, then?”
“I’d say so,” Ehrun agreed. “More food in the north and fewer vampires hunting him down.”
Frowning, Madan cocked his head. “Do you think the vampires were after him?”
A dry laugh, then Ehrun scratched beneath the metal collar.
A ring of raw skin from the edges digging into his flesh encircled his neck.
As his fingers dragged over it, a bead of blood ran down his neck, and for a moment, guilt curled in Madan’s gut like hot coals.
His brother had suffered with a similar collar and still bore faint scars to mark its eternal presence in his psyche.
“Azriel might’ve killed all those soldiers that night Loren took Ariadne,” Ehrun said, “but they came back after we moved on. They found Sehrox, and he had to kill them before they could kill him.”
It made sense, yet Madan hadn’t considered that. They left an injured dragon and potential future ally to fend for himself in unfamiliar mountains, where anyone could find him.
“But he got out?” Whelan asked.
Ehrun cast him another look of exasperation that mimicked Kall’s. “Like you said: I’d be dead if he was.”
“Mhorn survived,” Madan pointed out.
“Mhorn and Azazel had that pact for years.” Ehrun frowned as though he hadn’t realized they didn’t know. “They’d promised to try to save each other in the event of either of their deaths.”
Time seemed to slow. Madan stared at Ehrun, wishing Azriel was there to hear these words.
How long had he blamed himself for his father’s death?
How long had he avoided the great red dragon, his father’s bondheart, because he couldn’t bear to be reminded of his failures?
If anyone needed to know the truth, it was him.
Sensing that this might be his only chance to gather the sensitive information, Madan asked quietly, “Why?”
At that, Ehrun scoffed. “For you. For Azriel.”
“Me?” Madan swallowed hard, his heart throbbing painfully. “No. He wouldn’t have done that for me. You’re mistaken.”
“No mistake.” Ehrun’s eyes bored into him. “Azazel always called you his son. Others hated him for it, but you were part of Mariana, and even without Azriel, he would’ve stayed for you.”
When Madan woke up that night, he hadn’t expected to have a conversation like this with Ehrun.
In fact, he hadn’t expected to hear anything like this ever.
The Crowe had always been kind to him, always ensured he was treated fairly when he was around, and anything he did for Azriel, he’d always done for Madan.
It was no secret between him and his brother that he’d hoped to discover he, too, was the Crowe’s blooded son when he finally transitioned into adulthood and that he’d been beyond disappointed when he never awoke as a dhemon.
Still, he never imagined Azazel the Crowe calling him son in private.
“He loved you, Madan.” Ehrun offered him a small smile, the tattoo on his cheek shifting with the movement. “And you were always as much a part of his hopes and dreams as Azriel.”
It was too much. Madan broke the connection by looking away.
His eyes stung and his throat burned with every breath.
He’d mourned the Crowe alongside Azriel, but never felt he could fully own his relationship with him due to his differences.
Now he wished he’d taken the time to create a deeper connection rather than hiding the face that every day looked more and more like the man who killed Mariana.
“I had no idea,” Brutis admitted. “Mhorn never said anything.”
Not a surprise—at least not when Mhorn was as secretive as the Crowe himself. They kept their thoughts and feelings close, often trying to hide the truth of things until it was too late.
“Do you need time?” Whelan asked through the vinculums.
Madan shook his head. “No. We should keep looking for Sehrox.”
Wiping his eyes on his amputated arm, Madan held tight to the scale before him as Brutis lifted from the ground. Muscles shifted beneath him, beating hard until they were back in the clouds with Anthoria and the pair of dhemons alongside them.
They continued on for some time, and Madan’s thoughts and rampant grief shifted their attention from his missed opportunities with the Crowe to the friends they’d burned not far from where they flew.
The image of Bindhe and Kall laid to rest on a mountain peak had his tears running fresh.
It was too soon to be this close to where they passed.
He knew he’d visit it eventually, but this was not when he anticipated it to happen.
“Ehrun has a question,” Whelan said and sent the memory through the bondhearts.
One moment, Madan watched Brutis’s gray neck shift with each beat of his wings; the next, he watched the world from Whelan’s point of view. Oria’s deep scales glinted in the moonlight, and a light tap had him turning his attention to the dhemon behind him.
Avoiding eye contact, Ehrun shouted past the wind, “What happened after I… What happened to Kall?”
Madan’s pain was echoed in the memory by Whelan’s as his partner replied in a far more diplomatic way than he expected, “We burned them not far from here.”
A beat of silence had Madan wondering why he was still experiencing the memory. Was that question not all?
Then Ehrun asked, “Can you take me there?”
The memory cut off, and Madan was once again staring at the scales lining Brutis’s back. His bondheart huffed at the very idea of taking Ehrun to where they put their friends to rest, and yet Madan could feel that, like him, the dragon didn’t have the heart to deny the request.
Rather than speaking, he sent a feeling of agreement back to Whelan, and they shifted their direction slightly west. Before long, they were circling peaks in search of the one where Bindhe had landed.
After flying over the outcropping where Whelan had reset Ariadne’s arm—another wonderful gift from Ehrun—they had their bearings and took off in search of the correct location.
Minutes slid past. By the way Brutis seemed to slow, Madan knew the dragon was prolonging the inevitable. None of them wanted to see what had become of their friends, yet there was an ache in Madan’s chest that demanded to know.
They landed on the barren peak in silence. Madan stared at the scorched rocks where no intelligible outline remained. No ashes floated through the breeze. Nothing remained to say there had once been a beautiful dragon, and her bondheart curled up like they’d been sleeping on this very peak.
And that only broke Madan’s heart more.
Something should have remained of them. It wasn’t fair that the two existed now only in their memories. It certainly wasn’t fair that the dhemon that had dismounted and knelt in the center of the burnt circle was the one who took them from this life.
See you in the next life.
Fuck.
Madan looked to Whelan, who slid from Oria’s back and closed the distance to him and Brutis.
Their dragons brought their heads together, a silent conversation no doubt occurring between the two of them in mourning for their lost friend.
Likewise, Madan tucked himself into his beloved’s arms and let the tears fall, the pain of it all hitting him as hard as it had the night it happened.
“I fucking miss him,” Whelan said, his chin brushing the top of Madan’s head. He sucked in a deep breath, body shuddering.
All Madan could muster was a nod in agreement.