Chapter 27 #2
All the same, the idea of having that option ripped away left a hollowness in Azriel’s chest. He frowned, chewing on his words before speaking. “Does she know?”
Phulan scoffed. “Of course she knows. I wouldn’t deem to tell you anything that involves her body before her. Who do you think I am, boy?”
“How did she respond?”
Another roll of her eyes. “Now that I know you won’t attempt to burn down this tent, patients and all…go ask her yourself.”
With that, Phulan stepped aside, her defensive magic returning to a low simmer.
Azriel moved forward and paused, hand outstretched to grip the tent flap.
He stared at his own tan hand as he rolled the new information around in his mind once more.
This was not the update to which he’d expected to return.
It numbed his mind and forced him to consider the facts of his future.
He would never be a father.
Perhaps that was for the best. It wasn’t as though he had the greatest father figures in his life.
Markus tried to kill him and the Crowe, though loving to him and Madan alike, was often absent.
He’d practically raised himself and Madan in Auhla and never thought twice about it.
The dhemons in residence hadn’t treated them the best for obvious reasons—at least not until his transition, when he first showed his dhemon lineage.
But Ariadne had loved her mother dearly. She’d loved her father, too, despite his heavy hand and cruelties. Had she expected to one day make up for the time lost with her own mother? Had that possibility now vanished?
“Azriel?” Phulan’s voice sounded far away.
He bowed his head and shook it to clear his mind. “Fuck…”
“Focus on what you do have.” Phulan’s hand was light on his outstretched arm. “Your wife is alive, but now she needs her husband.”
Noting the absence of the words and well, Azriel grunted in affirmation before finally pulling back the entrance to the tent and ducking through the opening.
All around him, patients with varying degrees of injuries lay on the rows of cots.
Some sat up, talking with others or sipping steaming broth.
Others slept, their faces drawn in pain.
Still more were actively being tended to, their wounds being stitched and bandaged by those who’d volunteered to assist Phulan—brave souls, all of them, to work under that mage’s reign.
Closer to the back of the tent, Ariadne sat up in her cot with a steaming mug in hand. Emillie and Luce sat with her, the lycan appearing bruised and scraped, but otherwise in good health. At least the two of them would not be as haunted by this battle.
“Vhaltrinja!” The familiar voice had Azriel turning to find Jakhov with Revelie sitting on the edge of his cot. The dhemon continued in their language, “The battle is won, then?”
“No thanks to you,” Azriel said in kind, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk. He nodded to the bandage around the dhemon’s thigh. “How’s the leg?”
Jakhov scowled. “Fine. These vampires worry too much—I could’ve come back.”
“Good luck getting through that one,” Azriel said, looking pointedly at Revelie. “She’s as bad as Phulan.”
A bark of a laugh echoed behind him, then Phulan said in the dhemon language, “Watch your tongue, boy, or I’ll cut it from your mouth.”
“See?” Azriel raised his brows.
Jakhov grunted, turning his attention back to the vampire beside him.
The dhemon’s sinister expression softened instantly as he looked upon the woman with a reverence Azriel could easily identify.
It was, without a doubt, a bond that tied the cruel dhemon to a vampire—the very person he’d once sworn to hate.
Rather than comment on the clear connection between the two—for Revelie’s eyes shone with curiosity and a gentle eagerness—Azriel continued through the rows to reach the one who had long since stolen his heart.
Looking around from her conversation with her sister, Ariadne’s eyes lit up.
It was, perhaps, the first time she’d seen him in his vampire form since returning from Laeton, and while he likely appeared haggard with his wounds and splatters of dried blood, a more obvious limp to his long-since-broken leg, and too-large clothes, she took him in as though he were the most perfect face she’d ever seen.
He didn’t deserve it, but he continued to her nonetheless as she set the mug down beside her and reached out her hand to him.
“You came back to me,” Ariadne whispered.
Azriel took her hand in his and kissed her fingertips. “Until the very end, my love.”
Taking the exchange as her cue to leave, Emillie squeezed her sister’s other hand, then turned to Luce. They stood together and made their way out of the tent, the lycan limping more than even he had. Her injuries were merely invisible to his eye, then.
What was not invisible, however, was the tension that shadowed Ariadne’s oceanic eyes. They flickered over his face, taking in every flaking streak of blood, every scrape, and every taut muscle in his jaw.
“Did Phulan tell you?” Ariadne glanced over his shoulder to where the mage no doubt stood over another patient.
Without releasing her hand, Azriel settled onto the cot’s edge. He kissed her fingers again before saying, “She did.”
Ariadne looked away. “Are you upset with me?”
Azriel froze, staring at her for a long moment. He gaped, then cocked his head to return to her line of sight. “I thought you were going to die, Ariadne. I thought I was going to lose you.”
“But we might never—”
“I don’t care.” He released his hold on her and took her face in his hands instead. “You are alive. I would never be upset with you about this. You did not do anything—the bastard who put salt on his sword is to blame, and he’s dead.”
Silver lined Ariadne’s eyes as she studied him. “What about children?”
Pressing his forehead to hers, Azriel inhaled deeply. “You are enough. You have always been enough. So long as you are by my side, I will still live a full and happy life. But you… How are you?”
She sucked in a shuddering breath before admitting, “I do not yet know.”
Azriel pulled back again to brush his lips across hers. “Don’t hide from me.”
But Ariadne just shook her head, shifting her gaze up to meet his. “Truly. I am not certain how I feel about it yet, but I will not hide it from you when I am.”
It was all Azriel could ask, but as she leaned into him, her body sagging in his arms, he had the aching feeling that even if she had not yet admitted her feelings to herself, she knew just how much this news weighed on her.
Madan watched from his seat on Brutis as Ehrun’s army gathered in the southernmost reaches of Valenul.
The men and women they collected to fight under Azriel’s banner were efficient and, overall, far less callous than he expected after their less-than-enthusiastic welcome in the mountains.
There were also far more than they’d first counted.
The several dozen that had surrounded them upon their arrival were joined by thrice as many as they made their way to set up camp just out of reach of Loren’s soldiers.
“We’ll be noticed,” Whelan said from Oria’s back. “What’s the plan if Loren sends the army after us?”
Still not accustomed to hearing Ehrun’s voice in his head anymore, Madan jumped as the dhemon responded through Sehrox from his position amidst the dhemons setting up camp, “They’ll fight without question.”
With a grimace, Madan turned to the late Crowe’s general. “They’ll be wildly outnumbered.”
“We can’t risk losing them before Azriel arrives,” Whelan agreed.
To their surprise, Sehrox spoke next. The dragon had taken to ignoring them since they helped him out of the mountains.
Despite Ehrun’s balanced mind after the ritual, the great beast remained almost as reckless as he’d always been.
“You’ve all hidden us for too long. Let us dragons take care of them. ”
Oria huffed at that. “The vampires know about us now.”
“I’ve seen their ballistae.” Brutis shared the images to drive home his point. “We could be killed.”
“Then I will fight while you run,” Sehrox snapped. “And perhaps you’ll get what you always wanted.”
Madan glared right back at the bronze dragon. “We don’t want you dead.”
A mirthless laugh echoed in Madan’s mind as the dragon chuffed aloud. “That’s precisely why you left me in the mountains to be butchered by vampires.”
“Sehrox…” Ehrun turned to cast his bondheart an exasperated look that almost made Madan laugh. It was the exact expression Kall had used too many times when they trained together—one he’d used entirely too often when working with Ariadne in recent days.
“They want us both dead,” Sehrox snarled, “and you know it.”
Ehrun raised his brows. “And you blame them?”
Smoke curled from bronze nostrils, but to Sehrox’s credit, he did not try to deny their motives for hurting them. Instead, he stretched his tattered wings and let the pain from each pump that took him into the air flow through the vinculum for all to feel.
The phantom pain from wings Madan had never possessed was some of the worst he’d ever felt. Occasionally, his arm caused problems that he never cared to share, yet it’d never been quite so intense as what he endured at the will of the vengeful dragon.
“So the real plan?” Whelan pressed. “There are no rules of war in Myridia. They won’t wait for us to have our entire army.”
Madan grit his teeth through the sudden surge of tingling and burning that spread through his amputated arm, triggered by Sehrox’s very real pain.
He gripped the end of his arm and squeezed.
What a terrible time for the old injury to come back to haunt him.
The last thing he needed was to be reminded of what Loren had done to him in that damn guard house.
“Alhija,” Whelan said aloud, his tone sharp and serious. “What is it?”
It was Brutis who shared the rippling pain that shot up Madan’s arm. “He needs a moment.”