16
The shields had been torn down, likely destroyed when Calvo was razed, and any hope of a scent trail was crushed when they found only char, burnt flesh, and smouldering ruins. Had the shields been a desperate attempt to protect the town…? Worse was the evidence that the beasts who'd decimated Ilysen had been here too: limbs with bite marks, half-eaten corpses, and claws dragged through a courtyard, leaving deep gouges in the stone.
Ark marked every sign of the beasts with nervousness. He might have been trained to fight fae and beastkind alike, but he'd never practised against something this destructive. They'd flattened a whole town, had slaughtered the occupants and flattened every home in the settlement. This would stretch his training and abilities; even if he was a saint reborn, he was the saint of justice and trials. Ustinya was known for her wisdom and strategic mind, not for taking on a whole pack of flesh-eating monsters.
"We shouldn't be here," he sighed, throwing an accusatory look at Azrail. "We should stay far from here."
"Maia won't rest until she's searched the town herself," he replied, not a hint of doubt in his voice.
"How do you know?" Ark asked, narrowing his eyes. "No offence intended, but how do you know her so well? You only accepted her as your mate a week ago."
Azrail sighed, hands shoved in his pockets. "I deserve that. And honestly, I don't know. I keep getting these feelings about her, sensing things."
"The mate bond," Ark guessed, avoiding an area of ground that had been clawed so deeply that cracks branched through the stone.
Azrail nodded, and kept the rest of his thoughts to himself. There were dark shadows under his eyes and his body language screamed that he was on the verge of a breakdown, or perhaps in the middle of one and barely holding his shit together. Ark had been a senior guard for years, and it took effort not to step in and take some of the weight off Azrail’s shoulders.
But Azrail was in charge here. This washisrebel militia, and his family, and Ark wasn't a guard anymore. He was a criminal, and a fugitive. He'd abandoned his post, walked out on the junior guards who followed him, and it was a sick, oily feeling he'd been trying to ignore all week.
He didn't resent Maia for it, and he wouldn't change his decision for anything. But his new rebel status nagged at him like a broken tooth—fine for hours until he accidentally brushed it and pain spiked through him.
"If you're struggling—" Azrail began, sighing when Ark shot him a look.
"IfI'mstruggling?" Ark asked, a laugh in his voice. "The pot calling the kettle black comes to mind."
Azrail gave him a flat, amused stare. "I was going to say talk to Maia."
"Not to you?" Ark raised an eyebrow, keeping an eye on where Maia walked hand in hand with Jaromir and Prince Kheir ahead of them, her wolves lolloping through the ashes like it was a fun trip and not a desperate search for survivors. If Vawn had been here, he was gone. Crushed or eaten.
Azrail's expression turned wry, blue eyes twinkling. Handsome bastard. "Do you trust me?" he asked. He glanced behind them to where Bryon stalked through the city, resentful and brimming with demons.
"To a point," Ark answered carefully, stepping over a blackened patch of grass he wasn't sure would take his weight. All that was left of the town was the square they'd passed through; everything else was razed to the ground. He'd never seen fire do this: not just burn through wood, but decimate brick and melt metal. Had the beasts created the fire, or a cleanup crew?
"The point of your sword?" Azrail quipped, startling a low laugh from Ark.
He gave the rebel leader a crooked grin, letting sharp teeth show. "Precisely."
Azrail didn't seem offended; if anything, he was amused.
"It’d be better if we could get along," Ark added, his eyes on Maia's back, her long silver braid bouncing as she walked. "For Maia. I don't want to make things harder for her."
"No," Azrail agreed. "And for what it's worth, I'm done being a stupid bastard and keeping her at arm's length."
Ark watched him from the corner of his eye, his posture casual. "Did a woman treat you poorly in the past?"
Azrail's blue-black head whipped around, his striking face dark with a glare. "We're not having a heart-to-heart here, guard."
"Odd," Ark replied calmly. "I thought that was exactly what was happening."
A muscle flared in Azrail's jaw, strangely satisfying to see. He expelled a growling breath and quickened his pace, leaving Ark behind.
"I'll take that as a yes," Ark called out. If Azrail would justtalkto him, Ark might be able to understand him a little, and trust him more. Ark understood; he’d had his heart broken before. The scars of the break had faded years ago, but he remembered how cagy and distrustful it had made him at the time.
"It's not—" Azrail threw his hands up and turned, light catching on the dark designs inked on his arms as his jacket slid down one shoulder. "My parents were beheaded in front of me, my baby sister nearly killed along with them. We barely got out with our lives, and every day after that was full of the understanding that we could be found and killed at any moment."
Ark paused in front of the rebel, a frown furrowing his brow. Baby sister—Evrille must have been young when their parents were killed. Exceptionally young. No wonder she and Azrail had such a tight bond. As an only child, Ark watched them with hidden wistfulness. His fellow guards were the closest thing he had to siblings, and he'd walked out on every one of them to be with his mate. A pang squeezed his chest.
"I kept us safe by keeping everyone at arm's length," Azrail said tightly. "Anyone getting close had warning bells pealing in my head, so having a mate..."