Page 162 of The Golden Rose Of Valenul

With this knowledge, he would finally have everything he deserved. Azriel would be arrested. He would have Ariadne as his wife. Markus, so impressed by Loren’s investigative work and how he saved the Golden Rose of Valenul from complete ruin, would name him successor as the next Princeps.

He chuckled to himself and turned the stallion back down the highway. A dozen guards died to protect his secrets. Now he would ensure their lives had not been in vain.

Chapter 35

Ariadne flew through the front door of the Caldwell manor with Azriel on her heels and Madan in his arms. Petre reeled to a halt at their sudden appearance, eyes widening at the state of the younger Caldwell brother and the blood covering them all. Behind him, Bella clapped a hand over her mouth, tracking Azriel as he took the stairs two at a time.

“The coachmen are dead,” Ariadne told Petre before he could ask. “Send the fastest servant into Laeton to find a mage healer.”

The butler floundered and stared at the trail of blood on his foyer floor. “Y-yes, my Lady, I—”

She grabbed his arm and squeezed tight. “Immediately.”

He nodded once and hurried down the hall, calling for a servant named Roque. Bella stepped aside to let him through as though numb to everything around her. She stared at where Azriel had disappeared.

“What can we do?” Bella asked in a small voice after a moment to recover from the shock. Her dark eyes swept over the shaking hands and blood-crusted face before her.

Ariadne gaped at her for a long, silent minute. Her heart had not stopped racing since Azriel left the carriage back on the Old Highway. It felt as though she would never recover from the onslaught of events. One breath after another, there was no moment to slow down.

“Bandages. Water. Any salve you have and…” Ariadne swallowed hard, twisting her hands into the blood-stained skirt, “and a saw.”

Bella’s face paled. “Excuse me?”

“I do not know,” Ariadne admitted and looked up the stairs. “But I do not think a mage can fix…”

All at once, the pain and fear and sorrow slammed into Ariadne. The dam broke like a punch to the chest, and she folded in on herself, unable to hide it all behind the mask she had worn the entire night. She heaved a quiet wail and closed her eyes to block it all out.

But seeing Ehrun again almost destroyed what scraps of stability she had left. Hearing his voice sent her straight back to that cell. Feeling his hands on her in a familiar mix of rough and gentle as he gripped her neck and stroked her cheek—it had been too much.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” he had whispered to her as she watched Azriel restrained by one of the dhemons who had visited her cell. “My men have missed their entertainment.”

That had been the moment she knew with absolute certainty she would rather die than go back. If she had to put the sword through her own heart, she would.

But she did not have to. She got away. Again. Because of Azriel. Because of Madan. Because of a dhemon she did not even know who almost died to protect her.

Now her brother—gods, her brother—was dying in his room upstairs, and her husband would never recover if he did. Not after everything Azriel had gone through to keep him safe.

“My Lady,” Bella said and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I will fetch the supplies. Go to them.”

Ariadne nodded, drew in a long breath, and straightened. Now was not the time to break. Not when she needed to help Madan—not when she needed to keep her husband from shattering.

Up the staircase she went, ruined dress fisted in one hand. She swept past the portrait of the Caldwell woman and her two sons—the two sons now in charge of the household. Mariana. The Caersan woman who loved a dhemon.

If only Ariadne could speak with her. How had she found herself with the Crowe? How had she seen past the histories and loved him despite the war? The hate? The betrayals? The pain he had brought to her family and to Valenul through his raids.

She shook the questions from her mind. Focus. She needed to focus.

Madan’s door stood ajar. The only light in the suite streamed in from the moon, highlighting the emptiness of the sitting room. Beyond the extinguished fireplace and lounging furniture, the bedroom lay in darkness. Ariadne slipped around the couches and chairs before pausing to peer past the threshold. Inside, the Caersan lay atop the bed, unmoving. Azriel knelt on the floor beside him and pressed his hands to his brother’s stomach. The blood flow had slowed but still leaked between his fingers.

Head bowed and eyes closed, Azriel whispered in a language Ariadne did not understand. The dhemon tongue. She had always heard it to be harsh and unpleasant—a rumble of consonants and jarring vowels.

As he spoke so softly to his brother, however, it took on a different sensation. It rolled off his tongue like a mournful song. A plea to the gods, or perhaps to Madan himself. Though she did not grasp the precise meaning, Ariadne understood.

They had spent nearly five centuries speaking the language in a place they considered home. It served as a sanctuary from the man they once called Father—her own father—who turned his back on them and even attempted to kill one. Had Azriel loved him like a father at the time? Madan surely had, being of his own flesh and blood.

Rather than continue her voyeurism to the sacred moment, Ariadne stepped back and waited for Bella. She hovered in the bathing room, where she washed her hands and face in a stale bowl of water. Dust floated on its surface, which she ignored, and she used a small towel to peel the blood from her skin.

As she did, she could not stop thinking of those final moments with Azriel in the carriage. The look on his face, the shaking of his voice, the force of his mouth on hers…

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