Page 18 of The Golden Rose Of Valenul

Madan’s absence brought about more troubles than Azriel would ever admit. After Markus granted Madan’s request for leave, Azriel found himself in charge of the estate guards, their schedules, breaks, and positions around the grounds. Though a timetable remained posted in the guard house at the entry to the estate, it appeared the men’s ability to read it properly depended solely on Azriel’s verbal instructions. He’d never encountered such uselessness in his five centuries of life. No wonder Madan woke up as early as he did to get everyone into place—nightly meetings were required.

Luckily, the Rusan day guards did not require as much hand-holding. Although Azriel’s half-blood heritage allowed him to go out in the day without it causing the lethal sun sickness, aegrisolis, he didn’t want to be awake at all times. Madan had clearly assigned the more independent guards during the hours he couldn’t check on them regularly.

Overall, Madan’s organization made Azriel’s life easier. It’d always been that way between them. Madan planned. Azriel executed. Without Madan’s meticulous lists and charts, Azriel would’ve died several times over. The one time he’d been forced to plan anything due to Madan being incapacitated, he’d nearly killed them both and dragged Ariadne down with them.

Azriel’s skin crawled at the memories. The burn of a whip, a desperate scramble for Madan’s shackles, and Ariadne’s inability to run. He hadn’t calculated her trauma into the escape plan, and it cost them lethal seconds in which the dhemons almost took her again. Thanks to Madan’s quick thinking, he’d adjusted and gotten her safely from the keep.

But Azriel hadn’t been so lucky. When Ehrun had rounded the corner to see only he remained, the dhemon seethed. He’d charged forward and swung his massive sword, which Azriel dodged, then parried the next strike, but his strength was no match. Ehrun’s fury had rained down on him again and again, and only one thing kept Azriel from collapsing under the blows: each moment he distracted the dhemon earned Madan and Ariadne more time to outmaneuver the rest of the beasts.

“You fool. You bonded with her, didn’t you?” Ehrun had snarled at him when he finally hit the ground. The dhemon’s foot came down on Azriel’s femur, snapping the bone like a twig. His screams had almost drowned out the next words: “She would never love a half-breed bastard like you. I’m doing you a favor, really.”

The words still echoed in Azriel’s ears as he paused while leaving the guard house on the Harlow Estate and gripped his thigh. Aches radiated from it occasionally despite the mage healer’s work. Phulan prevented the injury from twisting his leg, though recovery had been difficult.

Yet that memory and those aches were nothing in comparison to the agony of watching that monster cut down his father. His last-minute appearance gave Azriel enough time to escape, drenched in his father’s blood.

Sucking in a deep breath, he shook the image from his mind and continued back toward the manor with quick but uneven steps. Too much to do tonight to sulk over the past. His lamentations would have to wait.

Azriel slowed his gait at the front door where four horses stood, leads held by stablehands awaiting the riders. His, the large black stallion, stood amongst them with his worn saddle and fraying reins. Jasper eyed him from beneath his ebony forelock and huffed with indignation. Azriel glowered back. It’d been days since he’d been to the pasture. Apparently, that was too long for a horse being pampered in the finest stables of Laeton.

The stablehand, Thom, bowed to Azriel and passed him the reins before stepping aside. He stroked the long, glossy neck. “Are you angry with me?”

Jasper bumped him with his nose as though to say, You think?

“You prissy little shit,” he muttered, shaking his head, but made the mental note to visit to keep the beast content.

The front doors opened, and Markus swept out, flanked by his daughters. The Princeps wore a simple suit of brown trousers, a white shirt, a cream and russet houndstooth waistcoat, and a matching jacket. Emillie, hair twisted into a bun at the nape of her neck, wore a navy, long-sleeved dress, and brown lace-up boots. Half of Ariadne’s raven hair fell about her shoulders while the rest remained braided back to keep it out of her face. The forest green dress, cut in the same fashion as her sister’s, hung looser on her thin frame. Her face, however, held more color than it had a couple nights ago. As much as he hated to admit it, the Elit’s duty was necessary.

And damn, she was radiant.

“Princeps.” Azriel bowed, fist over heart, to the lord first before addressing the women. “Miss Harlow. Miss Harlow.”

Markus inclined his head as the women bobbed their curtsies. He then held out his hand, a more personal greeting than previous nights. Azriel grasped his forearm as the Princeps said, “I have business at the Hub tonight. I will be back before dawn. Take care of them.”

“Yes, sir.” Azriel looked to the women with a trained, neutral expression. “They’re safe with me.”

“Very good.” Markus turned and, approaching his horse, hoisted himself into the saddle with ease. “I am trusting you, Tenebra.”

Trust. Not something Azriel had in himself when it came to Ariadne, yet there he was. As the bond clambered forth, demanding to be met, he stamped it back down with equal force. If Ehrun had been right about anything, it was that one assessment: she would never—could never—love him.

“Safe travels, my Lord.”

Without a farewell to his daughters, Markus clicked his tongue and spurred his horse forward. He disappeared down the dark drive lined with tall, regal hedges and lit at intervals by lanterns. The flames, encased in glass, flickered as he passed but did not extinguish.

Azriel turned back to his charges for the evening. “We should get going.”

“Eager to return?” Ariadne angled her head at him. “Do you have other plans?”

He almost laughed and strained to keep the amusement from his face. “No.”

He just didn’t need to spend any more time with her than was necessary.

Emillie lifted a brow, then fit her foot into the first stirrup. Thom, steadying her mare, held out an arm for her to grasp as she mounted. Beside her, Ariadne followed suit without assistance.

With them settled, Azriel stepped into the saddle, his leg sending a sharp pain through him for the first time in weeks. That’s what he got for thinking about it too much. He swallowed back the grunt, turning it into a cough to cover the discomfort.

“What’s our first stop, Ladies?”

Ariadne swept her analytical gaze to him. “Madame Ives’s.”

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