Page 16 of The Golden Rose Of Valenul

With a huff of wry amusement, Azriel shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe check in on them with Whelan?”

“Thank you for this.”

“I’m going to check in with the grounds guards,” Azriel said, hoisting the sword onto his back and fastening the latches. He shrugged his shoulders to adjust its weight, then added, “Go confirm your absence with the Princeps.”

Madan nodded and followed him into the hall. Back past the doors, to the steps leading from the manor’s lowest floor, he paused again. “Az—”

“Stop.” Azriel didn’t look at him, choosing instead to focus on a point at the top of the steps. “You’re right. I’ve been an asshole and have already pushed the line with that fucking flower. It won’t happen again.”

“If I’m not here—”

“I’m fine, Mad.” He rotated his shoulders, discomfort creeping in. “Please trust me.”

“More than anyone.”

“Good. Go see Whelan.”

With that, Azriel launched himself up the steps three at a time and shoved through the door at the top. He slipped down the routes most often used by the servants, avoiding the main corridors. Each step further into the manor constricted his breath a little more. Amongst other scents, Ariadne’s lingered in every nook and cranny.

Helping Madan pull Ariadne from the dhemon keep had cost them both more than they were willing to admit to themselves. Madan’s imprisonment by the monsters. Azriel’s torture. Their knowledge of the keep’s location aided their rescue-gone-awry. A pity there hadn’t been time to tell more soldiers where to bring help. Perhaps they would’ve rescued Ariadne sooner if they had.

Time had been of the essence. Stopping to tell anyone what to do or where to go could have led to dire consequences. They couldn’t risk it.

So once they’d gotten Ariadne out, Madan had left Azriel to find his own way to Algorath, and he’d become Lord Harlow’s most prized personal guard.

It should’ve been Azriel.

The Harlow Estate, relieved of its bloodstains, was a real beauty. Loren admired the construction from its foundations, laid by skilled masons, to its soaring ceilings propped by carpenters. A manor—gods, a castle—built for a king.

For that is what the Princeps was in the Society and the position Loren worked towards obtaining with every breath he took. As the General, he answered only to Markus Harlow. The rest of the Provincial Council held equal status, but despite his father holding one of those seats as a governor, Loren desired more. A side-step to a desk would never do. Only a step up into the seat with the most political power would suffice.

Therefore, Loren appraised the manor with the eye of its future master. With no sons to take it over, it would pass to one of his daughters’ husbands, and Ariadne, the first-born, would likely be the one who inherited it.

So he played the game required of him to obtain the two things he desired most: the Golden Rose’s hand in marriage and a solidified position to become the next Princeps. That included asking after Ariadne’s well-being and making pleasantries with her father.

“Walk with me,” Markus said as their conversation found its natural conclusion. “Captain Jensen should be arriving at any moment.”

Loren inclined his head in agreement and stepped aside to let Markus lead the way from his study to the foyer. “I am disappointed the Captain was not on duty last night.”

“He seemed to enjoy himself at the ball.”

“Yes,” Loren agreed, remembering his friend dancing to his heart’s content and filling his gut with wine. “Yet had he been in charge, the ambush would have never made it to the manor.”

Markus nodded, expression grave. “He would have done well.”

“I will be doubling our security for future events.” The reassurance eased the tension in the Princeps’ shoulders, so Loren pressed on, “This Season shall not be thwarted by ruthless beasts.”

Markus stopped as they reached the foyer where Captain Nikolai Jensen stood. He did not greet the officer right away but turned to Loren and held out his hand. “Your perseverance in the face of such crises is what gets me to sleep each morning. You are a Caersan of honor.”

Chest swelling, Loren grasped the outstretched arm. “My Lord, I will do everything in my power to ensure the Society’s safety.”

“Very good.”

They turned in unison to Nikolai, who watched with visible interest. His dark hair, shorn short, flopped just to his brow, and his brown eyes glinted with anticipation. At their sudden attention, he placed a hand over his heart and bowed. “Princeps. General.”

“Thank you for joining me, Captain,” Markus said and stepped forward to clasp arms with the Caersan. “Both of my daughters should be finished breaking their fasts.”

“Captain.” Loren squeezed his friend’s forearm in greeting next before standing back and asking, “What brings you back to the Harlows so soon? Did the younger Miss Harlow catch your interest last night?”

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