Chapter 15 #2
Madan watched in carefully concealed shock as Bril’s cheeks flared with embarrassment. He tugged his trousers down, exposing himself, and tossed them out of the room.
H’axinhum inhaled deeply and blew the air out with enthusiasm. “Much better.” Then she turned back to Zamhul, her pink eyes narrowing. “You’re lucky the Prince didn’t cut out your tongue. He may be a vampire, but he’s the gifted son of late King Azazel the Crowe and will be treated with respect.”
Gifted son. In all his centuries, Madan had never heard a dhemon refer to him as such.
In many other cultures, they would use a term like adopted, but amongst the dhemons, they considered additional children to be a gift.
Had the Crowe seen him as a gift? Or a constant reminder that his mate had lain with another man, bore his child, and then was murdered by him?
On second thought, perhaps he didn’t want to know the answer.
“Yes, ma’am.” Zamhul inclined his horns in concession.
But H’axinhum shoved the horns away, forcing him to turn the unspoken apology to Madan. Zamhul’s lips thinned as he actively prevented himself from speaking and instead bent his head a little lower.
“Now.” H’axinhum clapped her hands together. “I have an early morning to get these little beasts into shape. Leave me so I may get my beauty rest.”
As a group, they turned. Madan collected the location of the other dhemon they sought before exiting behind the young dhemon boys.
Bril scrambled to find his trousers, but the woman’s voice floated out from behind the curtain as she said, “Walk back to your tent half naked, boy, and let this be a reminder not to speak out of turn.”
They watched the two scurry off, taking their piss aroma with them, before turning to the building two lots down from H’axinhum. Whelan repeated the motion of slapping his hand thrice on the doorframe, this time calling for a dhemon named Kholp. A mere gruff grunt responded, permitting their entry.
The far side of the curtain was a vastly different sight than H’axinhum’s room.
Kholp’s bed was a pile of furs on the ground—not uncomfortable, but nowhere near the regality of the massive bed in the other building.
Kholp stood up from a foldable backless chair on the far side of a table and stepped around to greet them.
He was not as tall as Whelan, though considerably larger.
In fact, his appearance mirrored what Madan had expected to see from H’axinhum: thick, corded muscles with shoulders and a barrel chest that made him wonder how he could grapple anyone.
If there was one thing he’d learned in all his years of training with dhemons, though, it was that those who excelled in hand-to-hand combat were far more flexible and agile than most would assume.
“Thorin chose me, then?” Kholp asked in the dhemon tongue, his voice as low and gravelly as Azriel’s.
Whelan lifted his chin. “Yes, sir. Combat Master.”
“You begin at dawn,” Madan added as he straightened from his bow.
“Very well.” Kholp waved his hand at the door. “Out, then. Good eve.”
Short and to the point. Madan and Whelan pivoted and left as quickly as they’d arrived, turning their sights on the high fae and lycan sector of the encampment.
By the time they’d checked in with the chosen leaders for those who hailed from L’Oden, however, news had already reached them.
That or Edira and Luce made it very obvious who they had chosen—a high fae named Boti and the lycan assassin, Dahlia, whom he recalled from Emillie’s travel party.
Returning to the keep, Madan leaned into Whelan. “Well, that was eventful. I’m exhausted.”
A mischievous grin spread across his partner’s face. “Don’t say that.”
“I need sleep, alhija.”
“I know exactly what you need,” Whelan growled, scooping Madan close to nuzzle his neck and spreading warmth through his veins. Then the dhemon inhaled deeply. “And exactly what you want. Now come with me.”
Azriel watched as Ariadne made her way out of the great hall alongside Lhuka for training. While the dhemon insisted on stepping down from his previous role, he acquiesced to taking on one that Azriel found to be far greater in terms of prestige. He filled the vacancy left by Kall to train Ariadne.
A brave man, to be certain, after Azriel cautioned him about what had happened prior to Kall’s passing. Lhuka promised to keep their training to minimal contact whenever Azriel was present. Wise, too, then.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, he gave them several minutes to safely disappear prior to also standing and making his way out of the great hall. Rather than exiting the keep in their wake, he turned to stalk down a corridor to where he found the library he’d put together for Ariadne weeks ago.
Inside sat the man he had invited for a meeting.
Azriel’s heart skipped at the sight of Ehrun, who looked odd amongst the soft furniture and scattering of books on their shelves.
The dhemon appeared ill at ease—so unlike how he had once lounged about Auhla as the Crowe’s right-hand man and cruelest general.
Where he used to kick out his legs, lean back, and survey the room with the cockiness and power allotted to an individual of his position, he now sat forward, elbows on knees and head bowed.
Azriel froze in the doorway. Never—not even prior to Rhana and Thavii’s deaths or in the immediate wake of their loss—had he ever witnessed him so despairing. For the first time since returning to the keep, Azriel saw himself reflected in the monster before him.
But Ehrun wasn’t a monster. Not anymore. Perhaps he’d never truly been. He was a man lost in his grief. So much so, he’d disconnected with who he was at his core, destroying the soul that had once kept him whole.
“Thank you for meeting me.” Azriel spoke in the dhemon tongue as he stepped closer and took the seat across from the dhemon, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. This man had tried to kill him multiple times. He’d hurt Ariadne and allowed others to continue her torture whenever he wasn’t present.
Ehrun swiveled his gaze up. “It’s certainly necessary for us to plan our way forward.”
When he wasn’t growling threats, his voice sounded entirely too much like Kall’s.
The image of his best friend lying prone with vacant eyes swam forward, and he grit his teeth, forcing himself to take a deep breath.
If he didn’t put a leash on the monster inside himself, very different memories would resurface.
Memories that would have him putting a blade through Ehrun’s skull.
“I have some questions for you,” Azriel mustered, ignoring the clawing at the back of his mind.
“Anything.” Ehrun sat up, though his shoulders curled in not unlike the way Ariadne’s did whenever she felt uncomfortable.
Azriel glanced away and sorted through his thoughts in a desperate struggle to remember the details of what he wanted to discuss.
“I’m sorry.”
Stomach churning, Azriel whipped his attention back to Ehrun. “What?”
Ehrun’s eyes shimmered as he met Azriel’s gaze.
A muscle in his jaw flexed, and he curled his huge hands into fists.
“I’m so sorry, Azriel…for everything. There’s no excuse for what I did all those years—no excuse for how I treated you and Madan.
How I treated Whelan.” He paused, throat bobbing, and brought one hand up to rub his eyes.
Sucking in a shuddering breath, he cursed. “Kall. Fuck…”
This was certainly not what Azriel planned. He needed to discuss war tactics and how Ehrun could now assist them by bringing his army into the fold. Above all, Azriel wanted to avoid the mention of his friend—particularly by the man who’d killed him.
Yet there they were, broaching the subject whether he wanted it or not, and for the first time since meeting the dhemon, Azriel felt himself rise above.
He’d never forgive Ehrun for what he’d done.
He’d never forget the pain he’d caused. Still, he understood him.
But he could see a future in which they worked together to create a world in which no dhemon ever had to fear losing themself in the darkness of a broken bond.
So he said the one thing he knew to be true. “I understand.”
Brows pinched, Ehrun cocked his head, now just as confused as Azriel had been moments before. “You never did what I did.”
“You’re right. I didn’t.” Glaring at his hands, he continued, “But I’m certain I would’ve if I went through what you did.”
This is your doing. This is your fault. This is what you deserve.
Soft skin peeling away under his fingers had him curling his hands into fists before taking another deep breath. “My bond broke during my time in Algorath.”
Ehrun cursed under his breath, but he said nothing.
“A mage created an illusion of Ariadne’s severed head.” Azriel forced himself not to blink, afraid of seeing her dead in his hands again. “I’ve never recovered.”
“Even though she’s still alive?” Ehrun’s frown deepened. “I would’ve thought seeing her would make it better.”
With a grimace, Azriel let out an airy chuckle. “I thought so, too.”
“I don’t wish that feeling on anyone,” Ehrun said.
Never had Azriel imagined himself sitting across from Ehrun, discussing their shared experiences. Despite his hate for the dhemon for all he’d done to Ariadne, his father, and Kall, he couldn’t muster the rage he typically felt in his presence. Had he truly learned to pity Ehrun?
Or had the ritual returned Ehrun’s soul?
“Let me help,” the dhemon finally said after another stretch of silence. “We need the Keonis Tree, and to keep that, Valenul cannot control the east.”
Azriel surveyed him, a familiar oily feeling sliding through his gut. “And how do you plan to help us?”
“By fighting with you.”
“One man won’t change the course of a war.”
Ehrun nodded once. “Correct. But I have men and women who’ve followed me all this time, some of whom have bondhearts.”
“They hate me.” Azriel sat back to contemplate what Ehrun was insinuating. He believed those he’d gathered over the last year would suddenly bow to Azriel after spending all that time calling Ehrun King. “Why would they bend the knee to me?”
“Listen to me.” Ehrun’s voice suddenly took on that familiar growl that had haunted Azriel for far too long.
“Those people are suffering just as I did. As you are. They want it to end, even if they’re too blinded by their anger to see the benefits of it right now.
But they’ll listen to me, and if I command it, their oaths to me will have them at your feet. ”
The last thing Azriel wanted was any dhemon to be forced by a blood oath to follow him.
Yet, given they were likely as lost in the haze of broken bonds and family to see any other path, that could very well be the only way he gained those soldiers.
Soldiers trained by Ehrun in the prime of his own pain.
Azriel studied him a moment, then sucked in a deep, steadying breath. “Alright. Bring me an army.”
Something akin to hope lit in Ehrun’s red eyes. He straightened, his brows pulled up in the center. “Thank you, my King.”
“Under two conditions.”
“Anything.” Ehrun nodded without hesitation.
Swallowing back his own bile at the thought of it, he looked away for a long moment before turning back to the dhemon before him. “You must wear the fae collar the entire time to control whatever your new powers are and keep you…manageable.”
Ehrun’s mouth thinned, but again he inclined his head. “Of course. And the second?”
“Madan and Whelan are to accompany you.” Azriel leaned forward again, resting his elbows on his knees. “They are in charge, and if even one of those dhemons questions your orders to aid our cause in our way, my brothers will kill them.”
“You must understand—”
“I understand that they will be hesitant to listen to a leader with a collar on.” Azriel lifted his gaze, remembering the weight of wearing the same metal around his own neck.
“I’ve endured the same. But until we know the extent of dhemon magic, it’s merely a precaution to keep Madan and Whelan safe. ”
After considering his options, Ehrun stood, and Azriel followed suit, tilting his chin up to watch the larger dhemon from down his nose as Ariadne was so good at doing—a power move no matter the size.
Ehrun stuck out his hand. A heartbeat passed, then Azriel grasped his forearm tight and said, “Three days. Prep now, and I’ll see to it my brothers are ready to escort you. ”