Page 90 of The Golden Rose Of Valenul

The humiliation, of course. Though unsaid, Loren knew precisely what Nikolai meant. Not once had he allowed anyone to best him without exacting his revenge. It was how he climbed to the position of General so quickly.

“I will find a way to discredit him,” he mused aloud. “What I need is to track down more information about his fae father. No fae of worth settles amongst vampires, only criminals.”

“We do not carry records of fae lineage.”

“But I have his name,” Loren said, a dark hope brimming. “Azazel.”

Nikolai’s eyes sparkled with the same vicious glee he felt. “No surname. Fascinating. Do you have contacts with the high fae?”

“I have worked with their general before against the dhemon blight.” The path cleared in Loren’s mind just as they exited the trees and were drenched in moonlight upon entering Laeton. “We shall work together again to rid me of this plague as well.”

Chapter 20

The plan had been to leave. Run away before the release of the Will. Azriel had wanted to put as much distance between himself and Ariadne as he could—to leave her to a happy, calm life with the General. It’s what she deserved after everything she’d gone through.

The last thing he wanted was to be a Lord Governor. For so long, he’d learned to hate the Caersans and their insufferable Society. He raged against them, what they’d done to his mother, and how they’d ostracized him and Madan. Together, they planned to destroy it all. Then wisdom came with age, and before either of them knew it, they stood in the foyer of the Caldwell’s Laeton manor bearing the name they’d run from for so long.

The staff of the house, lined up along the far wall, looked at them with a mixture of uncertainty, reverence, and hope. Garth Caldwell wasn’t known for being the kindest Caersan. In fact, his rough upbringing and the terrible things he’d endured turned the late Lord Governor into a wretched excuse of a man.

Did the servants see his face, albeit a bit younger, when they looked at them? Azriel didn’t bear as much resemblance to the Caldwells as Madan did. Only the green of his eyes and quirk of his mouth alongside the blue veins along his jaw shared a hint of Caersan lineage. At least… that’s what he was always told.

The house, not nearly as grand as the Harlow’s, was two floors tall with soaring ceilings and massive chandeliers in every room. Whereas Azriel had grown accustomed to the pale colors used to brighten the rooms of the Harlow Estate, the dark wood and jewel-toned walls were at once comforting in their warmth and claustrophobic.

“Welcome home, my lords,” said a Rusan man with vibrant red hair who stepped forward to bow low. “My name is Petre, and I am head of your staff.”

Azriel stared for a long moment. He’d never get used to people bowing to him. It felt foreign and wrong.

“Thank you, Petre.” He glanced at Madan, seeking approval and receiving none. The other new Caldwell appeared just as at a loss. “I’m grateful for your help. I…”

His words faded, and he looked around again. The parlor opened to his right with a low fire and well-maintained furniture. Overhead hung a crystal chandelier that flickered with candlelight. He’d never imagined himself standing on this side of it all. Ownership of a fine manor was never on his list of things to accomplish.

Sighing, Azriel scrubbed his face with his hands. The room tensed, the servants inhaling collectively. He lowered his hands to find Petre rooted to the spot, his freckled face blanching at his signs of distress.

“Petre,” Azriel said, hoping his voice sounded as calm and controlled as he intended. “To be completely honest with you…”

A mousy-looking woman shifted, clearly uncomfortable. She noticed his attention and looked quickly at the floor, the light brown bun on her head wobbling precariously.

“All of you,” he said a little louder, then pointed to the parlor, “come and sit.”

Everyone hesitated. No one seemed to breathe for a long moment before another Rusan woman with brown skin and her twists pulled into a low bun said, “My Lord, that is not customary.”

Looking to Madan, who shrugged, Azriel said, “And I’m not Garth. If you won’t sit, then I will.”

At that, Azriel stepped around Petre and sat in the middle of the foyer. If they wouldn’t accept his offer to sit on the furniture, he’d make them watch as he refused to use it as well.

“I need your help.” He looked over his shoulder at Petre.

The Rusan seemed lost. He knew he shouldn’t be standing above the master of the house in such a manner but was also too accustomed to following traditions. Eventually, Petre stepped closer and slowly, cautiously, sat on the floor beside Azriel.

“How can we help you, my Lord?”

Madan sat on Azriel’s other side and stretched his long legs out in front of himself. He said nothing. Instead, he watched the other servants expectantly. One by one, they moved forward and sat as well.

“To be frank, Petre,” Azriel said and leaned back on his elbows. It’d been too long since he’d sat in such a position. “I have absolutely no fucking clue what I’m doing.”

Beside him, Madan burst out in laughter. The others stilled again and watched. Then a few of them cracked smiles. Slowly, oh so slowly, the temperature of the room warmed.

“My Lord?” Petre looked from Madan to Azriel in confusion.

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