9. Chapter Nine
CHAPTER NINE
MORTE
T he warmth of Az's body wraps around me, and he feels like home. My face nestles into the curve of his muscles, and for a moment, the confusion, the heartache—all of it—fades. His arms stay around me, strong and secure, holding me against the mess of our situation. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat under my ear lulls me into a fragile peace, one I’ve barely allowed myself to feel since all of this began.
Last night, in the dark, when the world disappeared, there was just us. For a while, there was no betrayal, no King Valtorious, no magic-siphoning plot threatening to destroy us all. There was only him.
Az.
My Az.
My fingers curl into the thin fabric of his shirt as I breathe him in. The scent of the warm vanilla and earth lingers on his skin, but beneath it, I catch the faintest hint of something familiar, something that stirs memories of when we first met. The rise and fall beneath my cheek carries a steady rhythm, a quiet balm to the grief unraveling my soul. My body presses closer, seeking out the comfort I’ve been starved of.
He’s here. And despite everything, some part of me believes he still loves me. That last night wasn’t a mistake, and there’s an explanation for his betrayal.
Az stirs beneath me, and a hint of something buried in my subconscious sparks to life, demanding attention. My heartbeat quickens, a rush of urgency sweeping through me as the fragments sharpen, and the dream crashes back into focus. I see my mates, feel Aggonid’s touch, hear his words. The anguish in their eyes when I tried to warn them, tried to tell them what the king planned—how he would siphon their magic and force a bond on me. But I hadn’t said it. The dream ended before I could.
I shift in Az's arms, my body stiffening as the memory locks into place. My lips part, a whisper escaping before I can stop it. “No.” My fists clench against his chest, frustration clawing at the edges of my thoughts. I had them. They were right there. And I failed to tell them.
Creeping tendrils of panic begin to slip in as I wake to a reality where things might not be the same with Az. My mind replays the moments, the conflicting words, the way he mouthed that he loved me when his father wasn't watching, yet coldly pulled me back when I tried to escape. But then we made love last night, as if the enormous void between us didn’t exist.
Me, on one side of the chasm, begging to be loved. And him, on the other with his father.
Pale tendrils of light filters through the tent, spilling long shadows across the fabric, but I ignore it, willing myself to stay in this bubble for just a little longer. I want to believe that when he wakes, when we face the day, things will be different. That last night was a bridge back to what we once had.
I shift slightly, pressing a kiss to his collarbone, brushing my lips over the small sliver of skin exposed at his neckline. For a moment, his arms tighten around me, pulling me even closer, and something in me loosens, a whisper of hope taking root.
Then, reality slams into me.
A harsh, grating voice shatters the fragile peace between us. "Azazel."
King Valtorious .
Az stiffens, his muscles locking up beneath me as his eyes fly open. They land on me. Apathy.
Indifference.
The warmth I’d just been wrapped in disappears, replaced by a rigid tension that coils through his body like a snake ready to strike. My heart trips over itself, panic stirring.
No. No, no, no. Don’t pull away from me. Not again.
Ollin’s boots scrape against the ground as he stands on the far side of the tent, his hulking form blasting through the space like a bomb. The air between Az and me cools, the comfort draining from it as quickly as it came. He shifts, and his hands fall away from me, dropping to his sides like dead weight.
“Get up, boy,” Valtorious snarls. "You’re not here to coddle her. Time to move."
Az sits up before I can stop him, before I can even blink. His body pulls away from mine, and cold fills the space where his warmth had been moments ago. His back turns to me, straightening as he pushes himself up, and my fingers curl into the fabric of the sleeping bag, holding onto the last shred of the intimacy we’d shared last night.
“You forget your place, boy,” the king barks again, his voice dripping with disdain.
Az doesn’t speak. He doesn’t even look at me. I try to reach out, my hand trembling as it hovers near his shoulder, but I stop myself just short of touching him. A pit forms in my stomach as dread coils tighter and tighter around me.
What happened to the man who whispered that he loved me when no one could hear? Where did he go?
“Az?” I manage, my voice barely a whisper. But it’s too late.
He pulls away completely, standing and facing his father with an expression I barely recognize—one that’s cold and detached, not the man who held me close moments ago. His posture shifts, the tension in his shoulders hardening as though something inside him has shut off. My heart pounds, each beat like a hammer against its cage, desperate to understand the change.
And then, his attention snaps to me—just for a second. A brief, cold look, as if I’m nothing more than a burden. The same man who kissed me, touched me, who healed me last night, now looks at me like I’m nothing.
My breath catches, an ache so fierce swells within me, threatening to tear me apart. What’s happening? Was it all a lie just to get me to sleep with him?
Does he not feel the soul-rending ache? The grief and sorrow that lives in my chest at his rejection?
“Don’t just lay there, unless you’re ready for round two—but with me this time?” Valtorious sneers, his voice cutting through my thoughts.
I don't move. My eyes stay fixed on Az, silently begging him to do something—anything—to show me that last night was real. That it wasn’t all just some cruel game. But he says nothing. His jaw clenches, and his focus remains fixed ahead, avoiding mine.
And that’s when it hits me.
Whatever I thought last night was—whatever hope I clung to—slips through my fingers like sand.
Az won’t protect me.
A tear slips down my cheek, but I wipe it away before anyone can see.
“You have ten seconds to put this on.” Ollin tosses me a bundle of clothes.
I level him with the hate of a thousand armies and snatch the clothes from the air. My fingers clamp around the coarse fabric. They’re plain, no comfort to be found, but at least they’re warm. Thick, woolen trousers and a heavy long-sleeved undershirt, the kind soldiers wear beneath armor, designed for endurance over comfort. I dress quickly, my movements stiff and mechanical, each layer settling over me like a shield, not for protection, but for hiding what remains of my broken spirit.
Turning back to face them, I’m no longer the vulnerable phoenix wrapped in a sleeping bag. My posture straightens, my chin lifts, and my eyes blaze with a fire that can only be born of fury.
King Valtorious watches me with an amused expression, mistaking my silence for submission as I slip my feet into boots that are much too big. With a lazy flick of his wrist, he gestures toward the doorway, his fingers weaving through the air as he unravels the spell locking us in.
Magic hums through the space—alive again.
“Hurry up and eat. We leave in twenty,” the king snaps.
Az avoids looking at me as he steps past, his expression carefully neutral.
I follow him out of the tent, my steps falling into line with the quiet murmur of activity surrounding us. So many more soldiers have sifted in while we slept. The forest, once thick and silent, now hums with life—if you could call it that. Rows of tents stretch in every direction, their sagging canvas dull beneath the overcast sky. At least two or three hundred, if not more, packed into the clearing like cattle pens. Soldiers shuffle about, their faces drawn, eyes hollow from long days of servitude under Valtorious’s rule. Their uniforms—thick woolen tunics and trousers, like the ones I wear now—are worn and patchwork, the standard issue for conscripted men forced to serve a king who pays them in little more than survival.
The scent of roasted meat drifts through the camp, likely from the morning rations given to the soldiers, who are at least fed well enough to fight. It’s the servants who suffer. I spot them through the forest of tents: thin frames, bent backs, and faces that barely belong to the living.
I catch a glimpse of one human boy no older than twelve, hauling a bucket of water nearly too heavy for him to carry, his arms trembling from the strain. His legs are docked, just like the rest of them.
Near a small stream, I freeze, my breath catching as the scene before me steals the ground from beneath my feet. Several fae servants stand waist-deep in the water, their movements slow, mechanical, as though every ripple around them carries the weight of agony. At first, it’s their gaunt forms and hollow eyes that hold me, but then I see it—their backs.
Thick, ragged stumps where wings should have unfurled in splendor. The skin around them is raw, marred with jagged scars and crusted blood, as though the wounds were never allowed to heal. My steps falter, the bile rising in my throat thick and burning as the truth slams into me like a sword. Their wings were stolen. Plucked like a farmer harvesting a crop.
The sickening realization blooms in my mind—feathers. Feathers used to resurrect the dead. To give life back to fae. The king is harvesting them. He’s draining their very essence, ripping away not just their wings but the power that makes them who they are. My stomach churns violently as I imagine the brutal process, the blades slicing through flesh and bone, the screams that must have filled the air.
I choke on a sob, barely able to tear my eyes away from the gruesome sight. Soldiers stand nearby, some of their faces twisted with disdain, others, boredom, watching over the bathing fae like prison guards overseeing livestock. The servants’ shoulders hunch beneath their humiliation, their bodies shaking in the icy water as they scrub at dirt that will never fully come clean.
Who will cleanse their souls of the damage wrought by a tyrant?
A boy steps out of the stream, shivering as droplets streak down his frail frame, revealing puckered scars that mar his back where his wings should have been. He stumbles under the weight of a wooden pail, his breath fogging in the cold air, and one of the soldiers shoves him forward, his barked orders sharp enough to make me flinch. The boy doesn’t cry, doesn’t protest. He moves like a shadow, a ghost of what he once was, and my knees nearly buckle at the sight.
I can’t unsee it. The realization creeps in like poison, settling deep into my bones. This is what King Valtorious has done. This is his legacy. Not just enslaving them but ripping their wings, their magic, their very souls from their bodies. The feathers he’s hoarded, the life he’s stolen, all for his unholy thirst for power and control.
I stagger back, clutching the spot above my heart as a wave of nausea surges through me. My phoenix stirs weakly within me, not with fire, but with a cold, seething fury. This is more than slavery. This is mutilation. Desecration.
And it will end .
I clench my fists, the rough weave of the standard issue soldier's clothes biting into my palms. These people, enslaved and broken, didn’t deserve this. None of them did. My pulse quickens, my goal honing with each labored step I take.
Escape. Reunite with my mates. Burn this empire of cruelty to ash. Then spend eternity making them pay in my domain.
I straighten, forcing my face into an expression as neutral as Azazel’s. There’s no room for my grief, no time to wallow. I need to survive long enough to end this. To end his father’s reign. I will unmake Ollin Valtorious, and this time, I’ll ensure there’s no path for him to return.
The camp stretches endlessly before me, tents sagging beneath the dull sky. Soldiers and slaves move in a grim ballet of servitude, their existence revolving around the king's whims. My attention scans the horizon, the oppressive forest framing the clearing. Somewhere beyond wherever the fuck we are, my mates are waiting. Wilder. Caius. Emeric. Aggonid. If I can find a way to break free, they’ll find me.
But first, I have to survive.
We weave through the press of bodies, and I can feel Az’s presence just ahead of me, close but unreachable. The soldiers march past us in tight formations, their steps sluggish and burdened by the weight of armor and the knowledge that they are little more than tools in Valtorious’s endless war machine. There’s no camaraderie here, no sense of purpose beyond the king’s commands. Each male knows he is replaceable. Disposable.
The murmurs of conversation rise and fall around us, but the presence of too many eyes keeps Az silent.
We find the cook’s station with a sparse breakfast laid out on a rough-hewn table. Despite the simplicity of the meal—some bread, a bit of cheese, cured meats, and a few apples—it’s a feast compared to what the servants must subsist on.
Az reaches for an apple and pockets it, his movements measured, avoiding any sudden gesture that might draw attention. Then, he grabs a few slices of meat before he gestures for me to come up to the table. I follow suit, taking a small piece of bread and cheese, keeping my head down.
We join a group of soldiers gathered around a low fire, sitting on logs and rocks. They barely acknowledge us, their eyes hollow with exhaustion and resignation. We sit on the edge, not quite part of the circle, eating silently.
Azazel’s leg presses against the length of mine, a fleeting touch, there and gone, and a small part of me rages inside at the fragile hope from last night now lying in ruins.
I keep my stare locked on the fire as it crackles and pops, sending a spray of embers into the air, their glow fading as quickly as his tenderness had. My nails dig into my palms as I resist the urge to look at him, to demand answers I know he won’t give me.
Last night, I was a fool, grasping at the tattered remnants of a love I thought could survive anything. I convinced myself there was more to this, that the Azazel I knew—the one who whispered promises against my skin, who laughed in the darkness of the underworld with me—was still in there. That he could never truly betray me.
But now? Now, with the daylight exposing every ragged edge of his indifference, I see the truth. The tenderness from last night was nothing but an illusion, a trace of something long extinguished. My fingers curl tighter, knuckles whitening as anger surges through me, threatening to boil over.
I don’t know whether to scream at him, to claw at the front he’s put on, or to bury my face in my hands and mourn the part of me that still wants to believe in him. But I do none of those things. Instead, I sit, spine rigid, staring at the flames as if their restless dance might hold some answer I can’t seem to find in him.
And as his presence lingers, silent and cold beside me, I tell myself the only truth that matters. I was wrong. About him, about us. Whatever hope I had for him to be the man I loved, to be my mate—my Az—is gone, reduced to ash like the embers eddying into the sky.
I glance at his profile: the strong jawline, the furrowed brow, eyes that once held stars but now hold a measure of something else. Guilt?
Good .
I hope it eats him alive. That he feels even a shred of the pain he’s given me.
“Glad to see my finest work in action,” someone calls, the voice smooth, too smooth, and filled with a quiet malice that turns my stomach. It’s the kind of sound that grates against everything good. Uninvited. Unwanted.
I shift slightly, just enough to glance over my shoulder. A figure steps forward from the firelight, tall and wiry, his movements too smooth, almost serpentine. The way he stands, the way his eyes assess everything around him with cold detachment—it’s unsettling. He’s not like the soldiers, not built with brute strength or raw power. No, this man is something far more dangerous. His very presence sends a strange, icy surge through me.
I thought Ollin Valtorious was bad. He’s nothing compared to the pure malevolence pouring off this fae.
He’s immaculate—his dark robes fitted perfectly, his pale skin almost unnaturally smooth, flawless. His thin lips curve into a smile that’s more predatory than welcoming, but there’s no warmth behind it. His eyes scan Az with an unsettling calm, as though he’s cataloging every inch of him, studying him like a specimen.
There’s no obvious brutality to him, no scars or marks that tell of battles fought or wounds earned. But that’s what makes him more dangerous—the way he moves with precise control, like every gesture is calculated, intentional. There’s something clinical in the way he watches, like he’s more used to dissecting than fighting.
Not a soldier. So, who is he?
He flexes his long, thin fingers, and I catch the evil in his eyes—a quiet, sinister delight, as though he’s already imagining what he could do if given the chance.
The moment his voice registers, Az freezes. His fork hovers in midair. That hint of guilt I thought I saw before? Gone. His face tightens, muscles straining as though every nerve in his body has suddenly locked into place.
Az doesn’t speak, but the tension radiating off him sends a chill up my spine. He keeps his eyes fixed on the fire, as if looking at the man might unravel something inside him.
The fae chuckles, a low, ugly sound that drips with the pleasure of seeing Az cornered. “Not even a hello?” he mocks, his tone thick with disdain. “After all the time we spent together?”
Az’s breathing changes, shallow, and he sets his plate down with pointed care, his knuckles whitening against the metal.
The fae stalks around the fire, while the other soldiers scatter, suddenly finding better things to do than be in his vicinity. He lowers himself to the log next to me, an air of ownership emanating from him as he occupies the space.
“Hello, Pet,” he purrs, taking my hand in his and pressing his lips to the back in a grotesque parody of a kiss. His eyes never leave Azazel’s profile, challenging, provoking. As though he knows the discomfort he breeds.
Azazel turns his head, his focus landing on the male. Something like fury passes between them in a fleeting moment. Then Az’s eyes harden before glazing over with indifference.
“Roth.” The word barely spills out of his mouth. As though he were insignificant.
Roth's lips curl into a smirk, a thin line of satisfaction creasing his face. He doesn’t release my hand, and his thumb presses just a bit too hard against my skin, as if he’s testing how much force it would take to break it. His eyes snap towards me, a measure of amusement hidden deep in those cold, dead things he calls eyes.
“Oh, you remember my name, do you?” Roth chuckles, his eyes studying Az. “I wasn’t sure if you’d forgotten all about our little ... sessions.” He lingers on the word, letting it hang in the air between us like a poison.
Azazel remains still, too still. His jaw tightens, the only hint of the battle raging beneath his stoic veneer. His fingers flex once on the plate, the only movement betraying the control he’s barely keeping in check.
Roth leans back, finally releasing my hand, though the pressure lingers, a ghost of his touch still crawling on my skin. He stretches his arms, letting the sleeves of his robe fall to his elbows, a predator comfortable in his own skin.
“Good to see you’ve bulked up, though,” Roth continues, clearly enjoying himself. “I take some credit for that, of course. Can’t have a bastard too weak for the king’s cause. We worked so hard on you, didn’t we? You should thank me.”
Az’s lips part, but he says nothing, his eyes boring into Roth as if trying to burn through him with sheer willpower. But Roth just keeps pushing.
“You must be wondering what’s next,” Roth muses, turning his focus back to me. His eyes rove over me, lingering far too long in places that make my skin crawl. “I have a new pet to play with, after all.”
Az’s reaction is immediate, his entire body tensing like a drawn bowstring. His head snaps toward Roth, rage in every taut line. “New pet?”
Roth’s grin widens, obviously pleased by the reaction. “Oh yes. I’ve been given the privilege of fine-tuning the process with her,” he says, his eyes flicking toward me with a beam of something sinister. “I need to ensure everything works just right before the king gets his hands on her. Can’t risk anything going wrong, can we?”
“Fine tuning,” Az deadpans, a bored expression on his face as he shovels a bite of meat into his mouth.
Roth leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes glinting with spite. “Have you forgotten already? We did have so much fun, and I have so many new tricks up my sleeve.”
Az chews slowly, then swallows, his eyes landing on Roth with a flat, unimpressed stare. He takes another bite before speaking, voice dripping with cold indifference.
“New tricks, huh?” he says, wiping his mouth with a measured slowness. “I must’ve missed the old ones. All I remember is wondering when you’d finally stop wasting my time.”
Roth’s smile falters, something darkening his eyes as Az continues, leaning in just slightly, his words quiet but barbed .
“Tell me, Roth, are you still that pathetic, or did you finally learn how to hurt someone properly?”
Hurt?
This fae hurt Az?
My attention slowly swings to Roth as he stands.
He offers me his hand. “Come, Pet.”
I glance at Az, searching for any semblance of the shadow of the fae who once promised to protect me.
Say something.
The Azazel I know would never let anyone touch me.
I turn back to Roth, sneering at him, but before I can reject his offer, Az’s hand shoots out, grabbing Roth’s wrist with an iron grip. I know this because I hear the snap. Hope flutters inside me, my phoenix stirring at my mate’s public display of possession.
Roth doesn’t even wince.
“You don’t get to fucking touch her,” Azazel growls.
I crane my neck to look at him, watching as shadows curl around his huge frame. His wings fan out, their giant, onyx feathers tipped in sharp talons, glowing with what looks like a dull kind of ivory.
The fae smiles as he extricates his wrist. “Touchy today, aren’t we?” Healing magic glows from where he presses his palm to his arm. “Perhaps the king’ll let me fuck her when I’m through with her. Then you can watch and see how a real fae commands.”
The words slam into me, their implication sinking in like jagged hooks. I resist the urge to tackle this asshole.
Shadows spill from Az’s form, the air thickening with tension as smoke unfurls lazily from his nostrils. “Over my dead body.”
Something settles deep inside me. Locked in a dark corner of my mind sits my phoenix, who rises to bloodied feet, crowing with a hoarse, defiant cry. For so long, she and I have been inseparable, one and the same. But with our magic suppressed, it’s as though she’s become a part of my subconscious, a presence that steadies me when I’m broken, holding me upright when the world tries to tear me down. Though more beast than anything, that primal part of me is all about survival .
If I can’t claw my way out of this, she will drag me out.
“Perhaps we will. And she’ll be screaming my name, not yours.”
The words barely leave his lips when a new voice disrupts the tension.
“Problem here?” King Valtorious’s tone carries that cool, controlled authority as he steps next to the fire, his eyes flitting between Az and Roth, amusement curling faintly at the corners of his mouth.
Az stiffens, the shadows writhing around him retreating as Ollin’s presence smothers the hostility between the two. Roth leans back, his smug grin remaining, though something in him tightens under the king’s scrutiny.
Valtorious’s stare lingers on Az, a thin smile tugging at his lips. “I trust there’s no trouble between my most ... loyal subjects.” He turns to study me for a moment. “And that you aren’t too attached to Morte. We’ll have to rectify that otherwise.”
“No problem here, sir.” Roth’s tone is easy and compliant, the complete opposite of how he was earlier. “Just a misunderstanding among comrades.” He steps back, maintaining a respectful distance from the king, his head dipping slightly in a show of deference.
The king inclines his head, though the blaze in his eyes suggests he doesn’t entirely buy the show of camaraderie. His focus turns to Az, who remains silent, the tension in his posture undeniable. Then his eyes narrow slightly. “Azazel,” he begins, his voice smooth as silk yet edged with frost that could cut through steel, “I trust you remember where your loyalties must lie.”
Az swallows hard, the muscles in his jaw tightening as his eyes lift to meet the king’s. “Always with you, Father.”
My mate’s reply lands like a blade between my ribs, its impact slow but measured, leaving behind an ache I can’t suppress. My breath hitches, a vise tightening around me as my mind tries to reject his words. How could he say this after last night? After what he did and said to Roth? The one who held me with reverence, who swore no power in existence could ever sever what we are?
I stare at him, silently begging for something—a spark of hesitation, a crack in the mask—to prove that this is all an act. But his face remains a fortress, each angle of his expression carved from stone. My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out reason. I want to scream, to demand answers, but the words desert me. If he’s still the man I loved, why does he look so far away?
Valtorious’s smile widens just a touch, but there’s nothing warm about it. “Good.” He turns towards a few servants waiting for instructions a few feet away. “Pack up. We leave in five.”
“Where are we going?” I ask, desperate for some kind of answer as I rub at my sore wrists. Az healed these last night, but they’re already bothering me again.
The king grins at me. His answer sends fear through my limbs, the kind that carves out hollows of dread. “Your new home.”