Chapter 10 #3
Ariadne’s heart stuttered as Azriel pushed her into the arms of Ehrun. Stumbling over her own feet, the dhemon caught her with one before she could fall, the other swinging his ax to keep the vampire soldiers at bay. A scream stuck in her throat, and she writhed to no avail. Ehrun held firm.
Behind her, a loud thud made her freeze. Ariadne twisted just enough to find Azriel collapsed in a pool of blood, his breathing shallow and ragged.
“Razer is here,” Ehrun said in her ear, releasing his hold on her. “Go. I’ve got him.”
Ariadne did not move towards the balcony. She lunged for her husband, only to be thrown back by Ehrun with a curt command to go in the dhemon language.
“Listen to him.” Almandine’s small voice sounded so far away as though they had flown out of reach, then turned back. “He is there to help.”
Help was not part of Ehrun’s vocabulary.
Despite her initial thoughts, however, she watched as he stood over Azriel and fought the vampires back enough to give him the room required to stoop down and haul her husband’s limp body over his shoulders.
“Run, Ariadne!” Ehrun shouted when he turned to see her staring.
Jolting back into action, she turned and did as he bid. She ran to the balcony where Razer swept down low enough for her to launch onto his back. The dragon roared and swiped with his foreclaws at the vampires below before lifting into the air.
“Who will get them out?” Ariadne asked, heart hammering, when she righted herself on Razer’s back and looked at the shrinking castle behind her. “We left them!”
But Almandine sent a rush of calm reassurance through their connection. “Someone named Mhorn came to help.”
Waiting made Madan’s skin crawl. Had Brutis not been tasked with ensuring Almandine’s close proximity to Ariadne, he would have flown into Laeton alongside his brother and partner to save his half-sister.
As it were, he was forced to stand on the far side of Lake Cypher, waiting for something. Anything.
With Brutis’s location constantly shifting, Madan’s vinculum stretched and compressed at irregular intervals, and he couldn’t depend on his bondheart’s updates to keep him apprised of the events in Laeton.
So when Anthoria swooped over the camp, his heart lurched.
If they were on their way back, he should’ve heard from someone.
Then Whelan dropped unceremoniously into the camp before scrambling back to his feet, cursing at the dragon in the dhemon language. A slew of vile words like Madan had never heard before from his partner had a fresh dose of adrenaline rushing through his veins.
“Whelan—Whe—alhija!” Madan grabbed the dhemon’s hand before he could let loose the rock he gripped and yanked him back. “What’s happening?”
“She took me away!” Whelan cried, his face twisting with anguish. “He was surrounded, and he ordered me gone, and she listened to him!”
Madan’s mind went blank. “What do you mean surrounded?”
“He was injured—there were too many soldiers, and—” Whelan yelled, his voice ringing through the trees. “Gavrhil is dead—they chained down Rhun and now…fuck!”
The words registered but didn’t quite make sense to Madan.
He knew about Gavrhil already, unfortunately.
Despite Brutis being too far away for their connection to replicate the dhemon’s death as it’d done with Kall, Lhuka was certain to inform him as soon as he’d arrived with Revelie before ushering the Caersan woman into a tent with Emillie.
It was then that he heard his half-sister call from the safety of the shelter, “What do you mean someone died?”
“Is Camilla alright?” Revelie demanded. “Ariadne?”
When no one answered right away, the tent flap wavered in unison with hissed words and a short scuffle. Emillie’s voice returned with a sharp, “Is my sister alive?”
Madan sucked in a breath and squatted in place, scrubbing his face with his hands. Everything went to shit so fast…
“Someone please talk to me!” Emillie cried. “Are they safe?”
“He’s fine.” This came from Brutis, the connection wavering back into place as he flew closer again. “Razer got Ariadne out, and Mhorn has Ehrun and Azriel.”
Blowing out a breath, Madan allowed Whelan’s curses to carry on in the distance as he quietly relayed the message from Brutis. The women inside the tent let out a collective sigh of relief. Relief that Madan could not embody. Just because they were en route did not mean everyone was safe.
“They’re on their way back,” Whelan growled in the common tongue, his heavy footsteps announcing his return. “And I’m going to wring that bastard’s fucking neck for doing that. How could he do that to me after…after…”
Madan’s heart cracked at the words his mate could not muster. Kall. How could he do that after what happened to Kall? Looking up, he croaked, “That’s exactly why he did it.”
Whelan paused, face still contorted with fury. “I was fine. I wasn’t injured. I could’ve helped him.”
But Madan’s eyes went to the blood leaking from Whelan’s wounds.
No, they weren’t deep nor fatal. Not one of them had hit an artery or needed Phulan’s immediate attention.
Nonetheless, he absolutely was injured. If Azriel dragged him out of the fight, it’d been for a good reason.
Even if Madan hated the thought of his brother being left alone.
“Yes,” Phulan said, as though summoned by Madan’s thoughts. “You most certainly appear to be in tip-top shape.”
Rounding on her, Whelan glowered as he repeated, “I am fine.”
The mage raised her hands in defense and eyed the leaking injuries.
“If anything,” Whelan continued, “Azriel was the one being targeted. He could barely stand.”
“So quickly you went from wanting him dead by your hand,” Phulan quipped from her place by the fire, “to concerning yourself with his well-being.”
“He is my King.”
“He is your brother,” she corrected. “And he didn’t want to risk losing you.”
At that, Whelan’s mouth snapped shut, though his eyes continued to burn with vitriol. He sucked on his sharp teeth and turned inward. Whatever he said to Anthoria was kept from Madan. A good thing. He didn’t need to listen to his partner and his bondheart bicker.
Minutes scraped by, painful and slow. None of the dragons spoke as all were likely too focused on ensuring their respective charges were protected. Razer with Ariadne, Brutis with Almandine, and Mhorn with Azriel and Ehrun.
In that time, Madan could find nothing more to do than sit with his back against a stone and think about how strange the world had become.
Not even two weeks ago, he’d been traveling alongside his best friend, laughing at the dhemon’s exasperation and enjoying the meals prepared with love.
Now he waited for that same friend’s brother and murderer to return after fighting beside and likely saving Azriel.
“Give me a blade,” Ehrun had croaked when he stood, shaking with a tear-streaked and newly-tattooed face. The hate had vanished from his eyes, and the deep-seated anger at the world had his tense shoulders sagging as though a weight Madan couldn’t see had lifted after too long.
“Do you take me for an idiot?” Madan had snapped back, keeping his distance from the dhemon.
Ehrun’s lips had trembled, and he shook his head. “No. No…but I… Please let me help.”
It wasn’t until the dragon no one expected appeared, his curling silver horns glinting in the moonlight. With no way to communicate, Mhorn bent low for Ehrun. Madan handed him an ax, and the two old friends disappeared into the night.
When the first shadow swept overhead, Madan’s heart leapt.
He shoved back to his feet and watched Brutis glide back into the clearing, almost collapsing from the air as he reached the ground.
Molten eyes shuttered. From his back, the smaller opalescent hatchling tumbled to the grass, where she curled in against the grey-scaled dragon.
“They’re not far behind,” Almandine quipped through Madan’s vinculum with Brutis as her long mouth stretched in a yawn.
Sure enough, heartbeats later, another dark shape lowered in, blotting out the brilliant colors of the sunrise. Midnight blue shone with brilliance as Razer circled with far more grace than Brutis and landed, lowering himself so that his rider could dismount.
“We need Phulan,” Razer said, his words frantic and his wide, gold eyes searching. “Get Phulan.”
Madan’s breath hitched. Shrouded in a quilt to block out the sun, somehow Ariadne had managed to keep every inch of her sensitive skin covered.
She kept her head ducked and features hidden.
From the connection through their exhausted dragons, though, a flood of fear and panic burst through the dam of her own will.
“Em, give me that necklace,” Madan said, sticking his hand into the tent. The uncomfortable weight of the Noct warmed in his palm, and he turned back to his other sister, where he reached into the shadows of the quilt and pressed the stone against her skin.
“H-he’s hurt,” Ariadne stammered and dropped the blanket, her shaking fingers sliding up the chain to clasp it around her neck. What Madan expected couldn’t compare to what he saw, and it had his heart stuttering. She spoke again, but the words didn’t quite register.
Blood splattered the torn ivory wedding dress and flaked from Ariadne’s fair arms. A massive bruise covered half her face in deep purple and sickly green, swelling her eye shut. Disheveled hair fell in tangles around her shoulders, casting shadows over her healing cuts.
“Phulan!” Madan called. “We need help!”
Haen followed behind the mage, their high fae magic flaring to life at the sight of Ariadne’s injuries. “Let me take this one.”
With a scoff of indignation, Phulan waved the fae away. “I am perfectly capable—”
“Not that.” Haen took hold of her and pointed into the sky. “She just said he will need your expertise more.”
So Madan wasn’t the only one too focused on her wounds to hear or see anything going on around them. At least someone had the wherewithal to pay attention.
The next moment, Mhorn touched down beside Razer.
Ehrun dropped from the huge red dragon with Azriel draped over his arms. And if Madan’s world had slowed when he took in his sister’s injuries, it was nothing to the way the entire universe slammed to a halt at the sight of his brother.
Nearly no part of him was free of blood, be it his own or another’s.
Everyone moved around him. People yelled. Commands were given and followed. Magic whipped through the air, tickling a part of him completely out of reach thanks to the ancient vampire curse woven into his blood. Someone screamed.
Yet everything looked and sounded so far away. Madan’s lungs refused to expand. The edges of his vision darkened. His knees wobbled.
It wasn’t until Whelan’s hands clasped his shoulders, holding him steady, that Madan’s world swam back into view. So much blood and pain. They had lost a strong soldier in Gavrhil and had come far too close to losing both Ariadne and Azriel in one night.
How had Madan been so wrong about everything?
He had not taken into account how quickly Loren could get the weapons needed to dispatch a dragon.
He had not considered to what extent that vile excuse for a King would do to torment his sister.
He had not believed Azriel would be anything less than successful.
Now Madan stared, ears ringing and eyes burning, as Phulan bent over his brother, pouring her healing magic into the worst of his injuries.
Not far behind, Ariadne tried to push Haen’s hand away from her half-healed face as she cried something to the mage on her knees.
By the looks of it, no one listened. Gods, Madan couldn’t even make out the words.
Still farther back, half-hidden in the shadows, Ehrun watched it all in silence.
A scream rang out, and the dhemon’s unreadable mask broke.
His lips parted, and his brows pinched as his eyes widened in horror.
He’d heard that scream before, just as Madan had.
The same scream Ehrun had caused when he broke Azriel’s leg—and when he put his ax through the Crowe.
Azriel screamed again as Phulan took hold of his mangled arm and turned it to examine the limb from all angles. The shoulder alone still held half a bolt as large in diameter as a bronze coin. Before anyone could say anything, the mage ripped it free, and with it came another shriek.
Had this been how Azriel felt when Madan had his arm removed? Separated from his body, unable to climb his way back in, and numb from the inability to help?
There weren’t many times in Madan’s life when he could say he’d felt something so horrible. Only Whelan’s touch kept him from floating away entirely.
“He needs blood!” Ariadne’s words finally made their way through the fog of his mind. “Let me help him.”
Haen, to their credit, attempted to hold her back. “You aren’t healed yet—”
“Fuck these bruises!” Ariadne snapped, shoving the high fae away, a fire in her eyes like Madan had never seen before. Frenzied. Panicked. “He has bled too much already!”
“Let her go,” Edira advised, and Haen stepped aside, their mouth a thin line.
Ariadne rushed forward, her face now a mottled green and yellow.
The edges faded even as Madan watched—a tribute to the pure Caersan blood she had most likely consumed mere hours before.
It made his stomach churn at the thought of having Loren to thank for anything, yet there he was, grateful for the wretch’s lineage.
Before Phulan could speak, Ariadne cradled Azriel’s head in her lap before tearing into her own bruised wrist and pressing it to her husband’s lips.
His eyelids fluttered, but he parted his lips enough to sink his teeth into the gash nonetheless.
The next moment had Azriel reaching up with his mobile arm to hold her in place.
Only then did Madan sag with relief against Whelan, who held him up with sturdy reassurance. They would mourn Gavrhil’s sacrifice as was proper, but for now, they would celebrate their victory despite retreat.