Chapter 23 #2
They turned together to watch Ehrun, who Madan would never forgive, yet could not help but feel sorry for.
He couldn’t even begin to comprehend the level of pain, sorrow, and regret the dhemon held for all of his transgressions over the years in which he lost himself to his broken bond.
All the memories that had been lost to him, allowing him to continue on his reign of terror, returned the moment that ink settled into his skin and connected him to the Underworld.
Every horrible crime he’d committed had likely slammed into focus, breaking him all over again for entirely new reasons.
Whatever Ehrun said—for his lips moved to form quiet words—was lost on the wind.
The meaning remained, however. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he brought his forehead to the burnt stone, each drop wetting the scorch marks.
His fingers gripped the rocks as though holding onto the only solid reminder of his mistakes could ground him.
After a while, Ehrun sat back and pushed to stand again when a stone shifted under the dhemon’s touch. A fine, gray powder trickled out from a gap now uncovered.
Ashes.
Madan’s heart leapt into his throat. He gripped Whelan’s hand hard, holding back the sudden flood of emotions. On one hand, they should leave those ashes alone—let their friends be at peace at last. On the other…
Ehrun scooped the ashes into his hand, letting out a loud sob.
From his pocket, he pulled out a small satchel and emptied the contents on the rocks: a necklace and a gemstone.
He opened the bag and let the ashes pour from his fist into its depths before gently plucking the necklace and gem from the ground and plopping them back on top.
“What was that?” Madan asked as Ehrun made his way back to them, wiping his eyes on the back of his hand.
At first, the dhemon didn’t reply, and when he did, his voice was hoarse. “The necklace was Rhana’s. The gem was Thavii’s. Now I have something of Kall's to carry with me.” A beat of silence, then Ehrun added, “I failed all of them in different ways. I won’t fail any of them again.”
Madan nodded his understanding. “We should get going.”
“Thank you.” Ehrun slid his silver-rimmed eyes to him. “Thank you for being the brother I couldn’t be.”
With that, they took off again. Not long after, as they drifted farther north, Ehrun’s vinculum snapped into place.
It was almost as though Kall had heard his brother’s words—heard his prayers or apologies—and guided them to what they needed.
Following Ehrun’s directions, they found Sehrox not far from the dhemon keep ruins where the fateful incident had occurred.
They landed near the bronze dragon, who glared at them and let out a rumble of discontent at the sight of the collar around Ehrun’s neck. He bared his long teeth at them as he asked, “What have you done to him?”
But Ehrun stood between his bondheart and them, holding up his hands.
For the first time ever, Madan felt the true Ehrun in a way he never had before.
Since the dhemon and dragon bonded after Rhana’s death, their connection through their respective vinculums felt like nothing other than rage and pain.
Now he felt who Ehrun was at his core, and the similarities between him and Kall only grew.
Even his mental voice had the same cadence.
“They saved me, Rox. And now we’re going to help them win this damn war. ”
At first, the dragon growled, shifting his weight with a limp as he faced them fully.
But there was an understanding in his eyes that Madan had never seen before.
Perhaps having the connection to Keon aided in Sehrox’s temperament, too.
After all, they were no longer a mirror of madness for one another.
Sehrox had never known a time when Ehrun’s bond wasn’t broken.
“They tried to kill you,” the dragon insisted.
Brutis huffed in return. “No. We tried to kill you.”
Sehrox lifted his head high, imposing his great height to glare down at Brutis. “And by extension—”
“They had every right.” Ehrun stepped closer. “And still do. We have done enough damage together. Let us fix it.”
Something akin to confusion had Sehrox closing his eyes and shaking his head. The same memories and feelings that plagued Ehrun in his early days since the ritual now clawed their way through the dhemon’s bondheart.
“We still fight,” Ehrun said. “But now we fight with them.” He paused and touched the pouch hidden in his pocket. “We fight for them.”
Who that second them was, Madan was not certain, nor did he press the issue. All that mattered was that they gained this ally just as they had all the others and used them to bring down the tyrant in Valenul.
Ehrun laid a hand on the dragon’s leg. “Help me fix what we broke.”
Another beat of silence from them in which Oria lowered her great head beside Whelan and said just to them, “And if he doesn’t agree?” She sent a visual of her and Brutis tearing into the bronze dragon.
Madan shook his head. “That will kill Ehrun. We still need him to keep his people on our side.”
Not for the first time since they left Auhla, Madan watched as Ehrun faced off against a reluctant ally.
This time, however, was different. The anger he had for the dhemon had lowered to a simmer rather than the boiling rage he felt before.
Where he thought Ehrun had been saying nothing more than what he believed Madan and Whelan wanted to hear, he now understood that he’d spoken from the heart.
He truly believed in what he was doing—for Azriel, for Ariadne, and for everyone who waited for him in the Underworld.
“You’re letting him in,” Whelan cautioned, though the words came with a soft thrum of understanding.
Swallowing hard, Madan glanced at his partner. “If I hate him for what he did…then there’s no reason for me to not hate Azriel for his mistakes, too. And I’m not ready for that.”
Silence stretched between them, then Whelan closed the physical distance by reaching out his hand. “I’ve been hard on Azriel. I’m sorry for making that more difficult on you.”
“No, I understand why.” Madan accepted his hand and squeezed. “But I know he would never do that in his right mind—just as we can confidently say Ehrun never would’ve done any of this had Rhana survived.”
Whelan nodded. “I know. But I can’t stop seeing him hurting you…”
Kissing Whelan’s fingers, Madan smiled up at him. “Then I pray to Keon that we can both do that ritual soon and no longer need to worry about it.”
They broke apart as Ehrun rounded on them, arms wide. “All is well.”
Sehrox huffed behind him. “I’m still skeptical, but if I get the chance to eat a few vampires…I’ll be satisfied.”
For the first time in Emillie’s life, she hated her keen hearing.
Nearly a century and a half of life had her using her Caersan ears for positive endeavors: to gather knowledge, learn more about the Society and its ways, listen to news from across Valenul, or avoid certain encounters. It never let her down.
Until now.
The sounds of war buried into her bones, made worse anytime yet another soldier was brought into the medic tent at the edge of Monsumbra.
An overwhelming number of dhemons, unable to heal as fast as vampires, were carried in by others and left on the cots for Phulan’s healing.
Those with more minor injuries thanked the mage before quickly evacuating the bed and returning to the fray.
Those with more lethal wounds, however, were not so eager to leave.
The latter were those whom Emillie, Revelie, and Margot, along with a handful of dhemons who could not fight, focused on.
Their tasks included removing foreign contaminants, holding down other patients to prevent them from flailing too much, and slathering on Algorathian salve before wrapping them in bandages.
Phulan’s focus remained on not exhausting her magic before they won Monsumbra.
Therefore, she would drop a small dose of magical healing into the wound once it was cleaned before moving on to the next patient and repeating the process.
Emillie had not expected it to be as tiresome as it was.
In fact, when she agreed to work in the medic tent alongside Phulan, the mage had questioned her thoroughly about her ability to remain alert and attentive for hours on end.
After going on the run all alone following Alek’s death, she had been confident that she could stay awake and fully aware for extended lengths.
After she lost count of how many patients she had attended to, Emillie understood precisely what Phulan had meant. Though there were almost a dozen of them working to keep their fighters alive, the constant pump of adrenaline wore on her—on all of them, even the very practiced mage.
With most of their patients being dhemons, Emillie was able to separate herself from what was happening around them.
For those who were beyond healing, one of them would pause and hold their hands in their final moments, allowing the others to continue the constant flow of movement and see to their injured patients.
How many hands had she held? Emillie stopped counting after the third. It weighed on her too much to know she could not help them. It hurt even more that she did not even know their names, could not speak their language, and often missed whatever their last requests or final words were.
It was not a task for the weak, and Emillie slowly understood Phulan’s words after Ariadne’s departure and Luce’s promise to return.
The brave men and women who walked into that city, knowing full well that they may never walk out, bore a strength that she did not carry.
Emillie carried the capacity to stand back, allow others to do the fighting, and be ready to treat those who could not continue on otherwise.