Page 83 of The Golden Rose Of Valenul

Azriel leapt back, body bowing around the point of the sword. A rivulet of blood ran the length of Loren’s blade. When the guard stepped back, a dark ring of blood spread across his black shirt from the shallow stab.

Beside her, Ariadne tensed. Emillie turned her attention to her sister and squeezed her hand. She did not squeeze back, wide eyes trained straight ahead.

Emillie did not know what she would do when Azriel lost. If Ariadne chose the guard, for better or worse, she knew what would happen. A no-name, half-vampire guard against the General of Valenul? How did her sister believe such a match would be possible? Even if, by some miracle, he won, their father would never allow such an engagement to last.

A cry of alarm rose from the guests, and Emillie’s heart stumbled. She whipped back around. Azriel stood weaponless. Loren had successfully disarmed the guard, sword tossed out of reach.

A small, sad sound escaped Ariadne as she lurched forward. Emillie held her fast. She could not be seen going down there for Azriel—it would ruin her more than Loren’s damning announcement.

The General, though, did not hesitate. He swung hard, aiming for the guard’s neck. A killing blow if she had ever seen one.

Azriel bent his knees, dropping his weight heavily onto his thighs. He drove forward, cupped the back of Loren’s legs, and ripped the General’s feet out from under him. The Caersan crashed to the floor, his back slamming against the marble, and the sword jostled from his hand, too.

Before Azriel could right himself, Loren wrapped his now-free arms around the half-fae’s neck. The guard jerked his head up and leapt over Loren’s legs to shove his shoulder into the General’s throat. For a beat, it appeared nothing happened. Then Loren wiggled his arm free, releasing his hold on Azriel, and slammed his fist into the side of the guard’s head.

Loren pulled the fist back to swing again, and Azriel grabbed his wrist to pin it to his chest. Knee digging into the General’s gut, Azriel raised himself high and, using his free hand, rained punches down.

Emillie covered her mouth as blood sprayed from Loren’s nose. This was an unexpected turn of events. Most Caersan men would have given up once they had lost their sword. But Azriel was not a Caersan, and Loren did not seem ready to end the fight.

The General twisted out from under Azriel’s knee and kicked hard, landing a blow to the guard’s chest. Azriel grunted, grabbed Loren’s leg, and shoved it to the side. The Caersan rolled onto his knees with the force of the toss. He made to get back up, but Azriel moved faster than Emillie had ever seen anyone move before.

In a flash, Azriel slipped one arm across Loren’s chest and the other under the General’s arm. He clasped his hands together and hauled back—hard. Loren fell, back against Azriel’s chest, and the half-fae wrapped his legs around the General’s body. Azriel hooked one knee over his own ankle and squeezed hard.

Loren refused to give up. Though he could not move his body, he twisted his shoulders enough to elbow Azriel’s head. The guard, unphased, adjusted his hold. In a single, swift movement, the crook of Azriel’s elbow tucked under Loren’s chin. With the hand of the arm wrapped around the General’s throat, he grasped his own bicep and pressed his free hand to the back of Loren’s head.

Together, they rolled to the floor. Loren squirmed, fingers grappling for a hold on Azriel’s arm—to no avail. Before long, Loren’s face turned red, and his eyes rolled back. His whole body fell limp in the guard’s arms.

Azriel released the General and shoved the Caersan man’s unconscious body away. He stood, stalked to where his sword dropped, and retrieved his weapon.

Another collective intake of breath echoed through the near-silent ballroom as Azriel stalked back to Loren. He stood over the defeated General and slowly pointed the tip of his sword at the man’s throat. Everyone waited on bated breath to witness the demise of the military’s leader.

But it never came.

Chest heaving from exertion, Azriel kept the tip poised so when Loren’s eyes fluttered open, there was no mistaking the victory. The half-fae guard did not smile. He did not gloat. Instead, he turned to the Princeps expectantly.

“Azriel Tenebra.” Her father’s voice sounded louder than usual in the eerily-silent ballroom. “You have won.”

Whispers picked up around Azriel from the crowd. His heart thundered from the receding adrenaline. There’d been no doubt in his mind that he’d win against Loren. The General gained his position through minimal experience and, most of all, family name. He’d learned to protect himself and defeat stronger opponents from a young age.

“What a shame,” a Caersan woman whispered to her friend, eyeing him from her place at the edge of the crowd.

The other shook her head. “So sad for Miss Harlow.”

Azriel forced himself to remain focused on Markus. If he showed his discomfort for even a moment, they’d take it as an admission of guilt. Despite the fact that Loren always twisted events to suit his own agenda, they’d all side with their General.

All Azriel had wanted was to collect items to tide him over as he awaited a new guard assignment. He had planned to speak with the Princeps for permission to leave after the ball. The Caldwell Will would be released the next evening, and Azriel wanted to put as much distance between Laeton and himself as possible to avoid accepting the inevitable.

This changed everything. Now he couldn’t leave. He’d as good as signed that Will himself.

“How could the Princeps do this?” a Caersan man hissed next.

His companion sneered. “To accept a victory from the filth who forced himself on Miss Harlow?”

“Disgraceful.”

Azriel’s blood boiled. Never in a thousand years would he ever do such a thing. Not only was he driven by the bond to protect Ariadne at all costs, but he’d put a blade through a man for less.

Then there were the unwed women. They didn’t speak much. Instead, they worked their way closer, whispering comments behind their hands that made one another giggle.

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