Chapter 29
The night Azriel never in his wildest of dreams believed possible arrived—for the second time.
Noxidium. Not once did he truly allow himself to hope so fiercely.
To even think that he deserved something as wonderful as what was about to happen.
After abducting her, destroying her life, and then lying about who he was…
Azriel was certain there would come a night that Ariadne would leave him for good.
Now he somehow found himself, not as the monster who carried her away from her old life, but in his vampire form, standing beneath the onyx boughs of the Keonis Tree beside the one woman he quite literally could not live without.
The moon hung fat and low over the horizon, its silvery light cutting through the branches to illuminate the collective mass of dhemons that huddled close to the massive twisted and gnarled trunk, brushing their fingers through the inky leaves that remained lush even in the middle of autumn.
Dotting the ground between them, the gladiolus tristis flowers bloomed, freshly watered by the rains of Bastien as they discovered the ritual demanded, their petals opening wide and dotted with moisture to welcome the Noxidium night.
Not one of them had ever stood below the sacred tree.
For thousands of years, dhemons were prevented from reaching the grounds thanks to the genocide that occurred there—thanks to the vampires murdering their last priestess of Keon amongst its limbs, destroying any hope of ever regaining their ancient ties with their patron god.
Amidst the crowd, a handful of dhemon women, all bearing the symbol of Keon on their left cheeks, stepped forward to stand with Phulan and Luce.
They’d offered to learn the old ways and carry forth the ritual so that it would once again belong to the dhemons.
By doing so, they would become the first of a new line of priestesses that would serve the God of the Underworld.
Once they conquered the rest of Valenul, the libraries of all past Councilmen would be searched for any ancient rituals stolen from the dhemons and returned to them.
For now, each of them had one goal in mind: reconnect with Keon and gain a level of stability that they hadn’t seen in far too long.
Phulan’s voice rose up in the dhemon language, silencing the crowd. “Ilna will be leading tonight’s ritual.”
In sync with everyone else, Azriel swiveled his gaze to the dhemon woman who stood beside the mage, behind a table of ingredients needed for the tattoos.
Her vibrant eyes seared through the darkness and scanned the waiting crowd.
Of them all, only two stood out: Ariadne and Revelie.
The first clung to Azriel’s hand, leaning into his shoulder for support.
The latter, to his surprise, stood beside Jakhov.
So the Caersan seamstress and former Golden Rose was truly willing to explore this life with a dhemon she hardly knew. A dhemon who, until they met, wanted only one thing from any vampire: their blood on his sword.
“Are you certain this is what you wish?” Azriel asked Ariadne. “I don’t know what lies on the far side of this.”
Ariadne’s brows pinched as she turned her beautiful face up to him. “Are you making a joke?”
His heart skipped a beat. “No. I only thought—”
“Stop thinking.” Ariadne squeezed his hand hard and lifted onto her toes to press her lips to his. “I have never been more certain of anything…except, perhaps, choosing you.”
Choosing you.
The two simple words bounced around in his mind, echoed by his quiet plea when he’d discovered her bruised wrist and finally lost his grip on the monster within. That kiss had been what started everything. A singular kiss, accompanied by his words: Choose me.
Together, they had gained and lost so much. It pained him to know that without that one kiss—that one moment of broken control—she very well would have ended up on Loren’s arm. And Azriel? Azriel would’ve ended up on the looped end of a rope.
“I don’t think I thank you often enough for not doing that.” Razer’s voice tumbled through his thoughts, sudden and alarming.
Azriel sent back nothing but pure understanding.
If he’d succeeded that first time, there was no doubt in his mind that he would’ve taken his bondheart with him.
It’d been selfish to give Razer no warning.
As much as he and the dragon bickered like siblings, they were in this life together now, and there was no denying just how much Razer had done for him over the decades.
Moreso, how much Razer did for him even when he was a complete and utter ass.
“Hold onto those thoughts,” Razer said, snide amusement rolling through. “And perhaps there is hope for you yet.”
“I take it all back.”
“Liar.”
Choosing to be the bigger person, Azriel refocused on the ritual before him.
Ilna read from a paper that Luce had assisted in writing the night before.
Whatever she had done to call upon Keon for Ehrun and the other dhemons worked, making her input invaluable in developing the scripture required to incite the ritual.
“Keon,” Ilna called, then continued in the dhemon language with Azriel translating quietly.
Standing farther off, Jakhov frowned and, using his choppy understanding of the common tongue, attempted to translate the ritual for Revelie.
“We call on you this night as the veil between the Underworld and Myridia grows thin. Let us honor you, our patron and Father of Dhemons.”
As though conducting a symphony, Phulan raised her elegant hands and with them floated up the three ingredients for their god-given ink: leaves of the Keonis Tree, petals from the moonlight flowers, and the remaining springwater from Anwenja.
The first two twisted together in a vortex, shredding and mixing into a smooth paste that danced through the air.
It was the springwater, however, that elicited a gasp from Ariadne and had his heart stuttering in shock.
A faint white glow seemed to build from the center of the swirling water.
From the accounts he’d received about the last ritual, this was happening far faster.
Perhaps it was due to the distance between the living and the Underworld shrinking thanks to Noxidium.
Perhaps it was because a dhemon called on Keon. Perhaps it was none of those things.
Whatever caused the swift response from the god had every dhemon present murmuring in surprise. Even Phulan’s eyes lit up.
Ilna continued, “Come to us this Noxidium. Honor us with your presence. Let us kneel before you—” the dhemons moved to their knees in unison, Azriel and Ariadne with them “—and beg you shed your light on us, illuminating our path to you.”
The springwater and viscous combination of leaves and florals spun around and around each other, creating a spiral that seemed to glow and thrum.
“King of Dhemons,” Ilna called.
Azriel snapped his attention up to the dhemon woman.
“Queen of Dhemons,” she continued.
Ariadne glanced at him.
“Step forward.” Ilna watched as they returned to their feet and wove between those still on the ground, careful not to tread on the flowers.
Standing before the newly marked priestesses, Azriel faced his wife not unlike the way they stood before the High Priestess in Laeton on their wedding night.
Even in her tunic and trousers, Ariadne was as ravishing as she had been in her gown.
In fact, she positively glowed in the moonlight, her confidence and conviction even more stunning than any veil could make her.
All that was missing from this moment as they prepared to seal their fates together was the presence of their half-brother.
Madan and Whelan should be there, beside them, experiencing the same elation.
Instead, they were across the Keonis Valley and would be forced to wait a year for their chance to complete the bond.
Phulan pooled a small amount of the ingredients together, settling each into a bowl nearby and dragging Azriel away from his wandering thoughts.
Another dhemon woman with the Keon symbol inked on her cheek stood before them, a hollow needle in hand.
Azriel had seen them used many times on Kall, though he’d never gotten a tattoo on himself.
Never a better time to begin than now.
“Where do you wish to be marked?” The woman spoke in the dhemon language, her voice low and melodic.
Ariadne looked up at Azriel, a familiar curiosity shining in her perfect ocean eyes. “Not by Phulan?”
Shaking his head, he said, “It’s time to reclaim the ancient traditions. No magic.”
“As it should be,” Ariadne agreed. “I suppose I thought with how many are doing it tonight, magic would be the fastest route.”
“Perhaps.” Azriel nodded. “Phulan is doing enough by mixing the ingredients for us. Now…everyone else will be getting the symbol of Keon. Would you like the same?”
With a gentle touch of her left shoulder, just below the collarbone, where the only scar left from Ehrun remained from when Phulan removed the others back in Algorath. It wasn’t one that Azriel thought about often, and by the way her brows creased a bit, she hadn’t either.
“No.” Ariadne dropped her gaze. “No, I believe I would like something different.”
Azriel took her chin in his hands and lifted her face, forcing her to lift her attention back to him. “You are here. You are safe. You are mine.”
A small smile played on her lips. “Yvhaltrin.”
Now it was his turn to frown. “What?”
“I am Yvhaltrin—at least for now.” Ariadne’s voice grew more confident with each syllable. “I wish for the world to know it.”
“Yvhaltrinja,” Azriel rumbled, “you will forever be so to me. Where?”
Defiance sparked, hardening her expression. Without uttering a word, Ariadne straightened a little more and gestured to the left side of her neck.
The dhemon priestess paused, then asked Azriel, “Is she certain?”