Chapter 32 #2
Another deep kiss, their tongues and lips moving languidly as they soaked up every second together.
Whether others watched or not, Emillie did not care.
Let them see how much she loved their Queen.
Let them witness her passion for all they fought to accomplish: equality and the end of everything for which Caersans of Valenul stood.
When Luce pulled away, her clothes had already vanished back into the void controlled by her fae magic.
Before either of them could exchange another word, she shifted back into her wolf form and turned to make her way up to the front of the lycans, where she would wait for the signal to rush into battle.
Fear strangled Emillie as she watched the massive brown wolf weave between her people, snapping at those who were not paying attention.
Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to remember that Luce had made it out of Monsumbra with nary a scratch.
This final battle would end in only one of two ways: their victory… or the annihilation of them all.
Either way, she and Luce would find their ending together.
Madan lifted his arms to adjust the armor on his shoulders and chest. Since losing his arm, the plates and small buckler now covering what remained of his left arm did not quite fit as well as they could.
The muscles had grown weaker without his constant use of them, shrinking over time and causing the straps that held his armor in place to loosen.
It didn’t bode well for them to stay put in the midst of a battle of this scale.
A battle the size of which he had never before been in.
The last Madan fought quite so much had been on the grounds of the Caldwell Estate in Monsumbra.
Everything had ended when Brutis set it all aflame, and they hadn’t endured without their own casualties.
Too many dhemons had fallen that night, and he had the aching suspicion that that would be about how this ended as well.
The dragons were not set to enter the fray until called upon.
Bringing them in too soon could risk many of their own numbers becoming victims of the flying cavalry’s less-than-precise attacks.
Dragonfire would consume anything it touched, halting only at the behest of the trained fae or mages.
Claws and tails and teeth often crushed, impaled, and broke everyone in its path, be it friend or foe.
It had been simple enough for Brutis back on the Caldwell grounds when most of those on foot were their adversaries.
Now it would be too much of a risk.
Not only could the dragons harm their own numbers, but massive ballistae stood on the walls of the Hub in the distance, ready to shoot down their bondhearts.
Loren had prepared, as Madan knew he would.
Their only way to utilize the dragons at this rate would be to draw the vampires out as far as possible, break their own lines, and cut around the sides to leave their enemies exposed, and hope for the least possible friendly fire.
It was a tactic Madan shared with their war council, though he’d advised heavily against it. This battle would be like a game of chess. They needed to let Loren believe he had the upper hand for as long as possible before striking.
Unfortunately, that meant rushing in headfirst and waiting for Valenul’s King to expose himself.
If they could get one of Ehrun’s daggers tipped with liquid sunshine close enough, they had a chance to put an end to the bastard.
Madan suspected, however, that most of their soldiers equipped with the laced blades would use them in last-ditch efforts to not die at the hands of a Caersan.
At least…at the hands of a Caersan enemy.
The strangest turn of events had been when Ariadne informed him of her latest accomplishment as Dhemon Queen.
Not only had she radicalized Lord Governor Felix Dodd in the name of his daughter, imprisoned in a gilded cage by King Loren Gard, but with his help, they had convinced roughly half of the Caersan soldiers they’d dragged from Monsumbra to also fight for her.
More specifically, they fought for the chance to marry Camilla Dodd and raise their own status from a low-born Caersan to the heir of an entire legacy.
As such, the Caersan vampires were stripped of their crimson uniforms and given the hand-sewn, too-large garments of dhemons to wear beneath armor, which they were also forced to piece together.
They would not risk those men turning back on them in the midst of battle.
If they looked like one of the Valenul soldiers, after all, it would be far too simple for them to go back on their words.
The scarce number of Caersans were divided amongst the three main sections of their army set to march forth into battle: east, west, and south.
Space them out amongst the dhemons and fae, and they would be more likely to uphold their promises.
At least that had been Madan’s reasoning for it, and when no one disagreed, the orders were given.
Now Madan stood beside his brother at the front of the southern battalion, staring down Valenul’s forces as they gathered in the north through the falling snow.
Despite the ritual now connecting Azriel and Ariadne as they were meant to be, the Dhemon King dripped with tension.
Since their arrival after the Battle of Monsumbra, Madan had been impressed by the ease with which Azriel suddenly carried himself.
Now it was as though his brother was back in Laeton, struggling to chain his bond before it strangled him.
“Why did you not want her with us?” Madan asked when Azriel adjusted the straps on his wrists for what felt like the thousandth time.
Azriel’s jaw flexed, his gaze distant despite his fingers’ dexterous movements. When he spoke, his voice was a low growl, and his words were nearly eaten up by the sound of soldiers talking around them. “I can’t focus when she’s nearby.”
Madan frowned. “You fought with her in Monsumbra, did you not?”
Red eyes flashed like hot coals as Azriel glared at him. “And she nearly died.”
“What would have happened if you were not there?” Madan pressed.
“Do you really think it’s wise to make him question his motives when there’s no more chance of changing the plans?” Brutis asked from his position far behind the army.
Razer’s consciousness slid by like a serpent. “I beg of you. Don’t make him overthink this again.”
“She will be fine,” came the small voice of Almandine. “I won’t let anything happen to her.”
Of all the dragons that could join the fray early, the youngest would be the most beneficial.
Their relatively small sizes allowed them to cut through smaller spaces and attack with more accuracy.
Still, the plan was not to let them in too early.
Not until they could see how many Caersans would be equipped with pikes and spears, ready to bring down the bondhearts.
“Let’s get this over with,” Azriel snapped before standing a little straighter and stepping out from the front lines.
He stood before them alone for a long moment, his head turning to take in the army they were to face.
Then he turned to address the army at his back, a grim determination hardening his expression.
Those in the west were likely being spoken to by their leaders, Ehrun and Luce, while Whelan and Ariadne stood before the soldiers to the east. What were they telling their soldiers?
Madan couldn’t fathom. All he knew was that Azriel was not fond of speaking publicly, even though he had an uncanny knack for it.
“Let it be known,” Azriel said in the dhemon language, his voice muted by the snow and yet as strong as when he’d first addressed the clan leaders from the Crowe’s throne, “that tonight we fight to free the sacred lands of the Keonis Valley from tyranny and return it to those who wish to ensure its prosperity.”
Boots stomped in the snow, the same beat from the great hall of Auhla, joined by the cries of united dhemons. Weapons beat on shields, and howls from lycans joined the call, cutting through the air like instruments of war.
“Fight, my brothers and sisters,” Azriel continued as he turned back to face the Valenul troops. “And at dawn, we shall celebrate our victory in our homelands!”
A long, low horn sounded from the Hub—the signal for the Caersan soldiers to move forward.
Madan could not have planned the timing of it better himself.
He grinned and began the march forward with the dhemons, stepping in beside his brother as they picked up speed to meet the Valenul army.
They thundered across the plains on foot and horseback.
To the east and west, the battalions moved in unison with them, the back half of each veering north to prevent their enemies from sweeping around to their flank.
The initial clash of the armies was violent, chaotic, and sudden.
Shields crashed into armor. Swords swung down to cleave heads and limbs alike.
Cries of fury and pain and terror crushed together in Madan’s ears in a cacophony of sounds the likes of which he had never heard before.
So much motion, shoving, and pulling, it was difficult to keep track of who was where.
Only the distinct crimson stood out amongst the otherwise dark clothing and flurries of white snow.
“The pampered guard fights like one of us,” Kholp called from beside him as they were slammed together by the sudden crush of bodies. “Who would have guessed!”
Madan did his best to laugh as he pushed back alongside the Combat Master. “Just shy of five hundred years under the Crowe will do that to you!”