Page 155 of The Golden Rose Of Valenul

Madan hopped slowly to his feet, gritting his teeth as he adjusted his weight off of his broken leg. He breathed hard, unable to keep himself from shaking. “Loren…is suspicious.”

She frowned, and they took a slow step forward. “Of what?”

“Me.” His voice crackled. She knew that feeling well. The soreness, which came not from words but from screams. “Azriel.”

When he said nothing further, Ariadne swallowed hard and said, “I know about him, too. He showed me.”

He stopped moving forward and turned his head so fast he had to close his eyes as he swayed. When he recovered from the vertigo, he blinked a couple of times before saying, “It isn’t what you think.”

“It is exactly what I think.” Ariadne tugged at him gently to keep him moving. “He ruined my life.”

“No,” Madan ground out as he lifted one foot for the lowest step of the stairs, then the next. “Ehrun ruined… all of our lives.”

Now Ariadne almost stopped in her tracks. She had not thought of it that way. Though she had been the most innocent in his games, she had been far from the only one affected by Ehrun. If what Azriel—and now Madan—claimed was true, they had been just as manipulated by the dhemon as she.

She did not respond. Instead, she set her focus on getting him up the stairs. Reconnaissance be damned, she would not leave her brother to continue being tortured—killed, even, if his hand and that vial were any testament. She would bring him right into the manor and demand a public explanation from Loren. Then she would happily watch him hang for his horrific deeds.

At the top of the stairs, a sliver of light shone from the crack in the door. She thanked the gods for looking after her and pushed it open.

Sitting at a table on the far side of the room, two guards launched to their feet. They looked between them with bewildered expressions, then marched forward. One drew a sword, and the other lifted a lip in a sneer.

“The General ain’t gonna be happy with you, wench,” the latter said and grabbed her arm, yanking her away from Madan.

Her brother swayed at the sudden loss of his crutch and tried to yell something, but his voice caught in his throat. He coughed and fell against the wall.

“Time to go, missy.” The guard dragged her toward the door, his fingers digging into her arm. She gasped and squeezed her eyes shut against the rush of panic.

They were not Ehrun. Her breaths came and went in short, quick bursts. She writhed against the hold until she fell to the floor, but still, the guard pulled. One moment she was in the guard house. The next, the forge’s fire blazed beside her face. Chains rattled from the ceiling. Cold shackles held her arms aloft. Huge, strong hands pinned her to the floor.

Past and present mingled, and Ariadne shook her head again and again. The guard yanked at her arm, demanding she stand. Demanding she walk back to the manor.

What manor?

The mountain breeze blew in from the front door of the dhemon keep as her kidnapper—no, Azriel—pushed her into her latest prison. She stared up at the guard with his mousy brown hair and saw instead curling black horns and cruel, red eyes.

And she learned quickly not to run.

Never run from Ehrun.

It only caused pain.

“Ariadne!” Madan’s rough voice cut through her, dragging her back to where she was and what she was doing.

She looked behind her for what felt like the thousandth time. Madan ducked away from the swing of the guard’s sword. He was too slow. Too weak. He would never win in a fight. Not now.

Ariadne pulled her arm back away from the guard with all her strength. He laughed and stopped to click his tongue at her. She felt through her skirt and unclipped the dagger on her thigh. The guard turned back, snatched her arm with a growl, and tugged again. Heart hammering in her chest at what she was about to do, she yanked up her skirt, unsheathed the dagger, and stuck the blade in his neck.

Blood sprayed everywhere.

Before she could think too long about the dull thump of the guard hitting the ground, she scrambled to her feet and sprinted back to Madan. The guard frowned just before she barreled into him as she had seen Azriel do. He flailed, off-balance, and swung the sword wildly to the side before dropping it on the floor with a clatter.

Ariadne drew up short at the cry of pain. She pivoted back to find Madan clutching his stomach with his good hand, blood gushing from the fresh wound across his belly.

“No,” she breathed. This could not be happening. Not after everything. She had finally found him—rescued him as he had once done for her—and now she had failed.

Turning back to the guard, he held up both hands as she closed the distance between them and shoved the dagger into his chest once, twice, three times before leaving it between his ribs as he collapsed beside his sword.

“Ari…” Madan choked, a dribble of blood spilling from the corner of his mouth. “I’m sorry.”

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