Page 48 of The Golden Rose Of Valenul

“There is nothing left to be done.” Her father shook his head. “If I interfere now, it will undermine the General’s control over his subordinates.”

“What if he dies?” Ariadne watched as Azriel was led to the flogging post. Though full-blooded Caersan vampires healed faster than most fae or mages, his half-Caersan lineage would almost certainly reduce the speed at which Azriel healed. Only fae with magic healed as fast as them. He had none. He was no better off than a Rusan vampire facing that level of flogging.

“He won’t,” Madan assured her quietly, still not looking at her. “Trust me.”

The wrist shackles were removed along with Azriel’s shirt. Ariadne’s heart thundered as the crowd sucked in a collective breath. His muscular chest was covered in scars ranging from long, razor-thin stripes to broad, short reminders of daggers or knives.

On his left pectoral, however, was the one scar that made her throat tighten: a crescent pointing to the sky with three lines, each shorter than the last, descending from it. The mark of Keon—the same brand she bore in almost the exact same place.

He had been burned by dhemons, too.

Azriel’s face twisted at the sounds of shock, unable to conceal his shame and discomfort at being scrutinized by them all. When he turned to have his wrists locked into the chains dangling from the flogging pole, the onlookers inhaled again, and his muscles rippled as they stiffened. If his chest had been bad, it paled in comparison to his back. Lumps of scar tissue criss-crossed along his skin, and it was obvious that this was far from his first time getting flogged.

By the gods, what had he done to deserve such fates?

In that moment, Ariadne knew Emillie was correct: two hundred lashes could very well kill him. His body did not heal like a Caersan’s, and whatever fae blood he possessed did nothing to aid him.

“Please stop this,” she begged her father. “Please. This is my fault—I am sorry! Please make him stop.”

Her father turned his golden eyes to her, jaw tight. “No.”

So it was her punishment. To watch Azriel suffer for his defense of her at the hands of the man she thought she could trust. With each slow, agonizing second, that trust dripped away.

On the platform, Loren shrugged off his jacket and unfurled a whip. The long, thin end hit the wood underfoot with a dull smack. He took one last look at the crowd, then lifted the handle and let it fly.

A whistle, then a crack as it connected with Azriel’s back. His hands twisted in the shackles to grip the chain overhead, muscles flexing all down his arms and shoulders. Yet he made no sound as the second and third strikes landed.

A low murmuring rose over the crowd. Surprise, perhaps, at his lack of visceral reaction to pain? Ariadne did not know.

What she did know was the lightheadedness that overcame her as the skin split on Azriel’s back. Blood poured as the tenth lash ripped across the old scars, pooling at the guard’s feet. As suspected, he did not heal like a Caersan would. Sweat dappled Loren’s forehead, but the General reeled back and struck again.

A phantom pain radiated from Ariadne’s back where cut after cut dug into her flesh. Its permanence, thanks to the salt, itched beneath the dark blue dress she wore.

Her breathing turned ragged as she watched, counting each lashing.

Fifteen… sixteen…

Despite actively avoiding prisoner punishments after that first experience, Azriel’s flogging was not the first she witnessed. The memory clawed its way back into the forefront of her mind as Azriel’s knees began to quake.

Twenty… twenty-one…

The last person she had seen whipped had been a dhemon at the keep. What he had done to deserve such a punishment, Ariadne did not know, nor did she ask. It had not been possible for her to wonder or speak as she was dragged down the dungeon corridor to her small, dark cell. The dhemon, chained up to the wall, stood firm against the beating, and all she could remember thinking was good.

Now, she wanted it to end. Needed it to end.

She could not breathe. Her head swam, losing count of the wet slaps of the whip on mutilated skin. Worse, each strike was delivered by a man for whom she had ached mere nights ago. Now, his smirk twisted his face from beautiful to nightmarish. His cruel enjoyment of Azriel’s pain, reminiscent of Ehrun’s sick pleasure, seared into her mind.

Mere nights ago, that face had smiled down at her, making her light with elation. Those hands held hers with such care.

Now, they tortured the one man who ever stood up for her.

“Ariadne,” Emillie breathed, catching her as she swayed on the spot.

Shaking her head, Ariadne took a step back, running smack into Madan’s chest. She heaved in a rattling breath. “I cannot…”

Ariadne turned and pushed through the crowd, aiming for their carriage on the far side of the Court House. If she could reach it, she would be able to catch her breath. She just needed to sit—to get away from the bodies pressing in on her and the sound—that terrible sound. It echoed in her mind.

“We will go,” Emillie offered, taking her arm to steady her.

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