12. Malrec
MALREC
Azhrael's scales shift beneath my palm, warm and faintly rough like volcanic glass that hasn't fully cooled.
I run my hand along the ridge of his neck, feeling the massive muscles coil and relax under my touch.
The rhythm of it is meditative, grounding in a way that nothing else has been for the past three days.
Three days since I kissed her.
Three days since I felt like I was remembering something that never happened while simultaneously experiencing it for the first time.
Azhrael rumbles low in his chest, a sound that vibrates through the stone beneath my feet.
Not aggressive—content. He's been calmer since Lenna returned from the auction, since her signature was bound into the containment wards.
Like having her presence woven into the estate's magical infrastructure settled something fundamental in him that my authority alone never could.
I should find that concerning. Should be analyzing what it means that my most dangerous beast responds to a human laborer with more genuine cooperation than he's shown me in years.
Instead, I can't stop thinking about the way she looked at me in that garden. The confusion and desire warring in her eyes, mirroring exactly what I felt. The way she'd touched me like she already knew how we fit together.
"You're going to wear a groove in his scales if you keep that up."
I don't startle at Damiros's voice, though I hadn't heard him approach. Years of managing volatile beasts have trained me to maintain composure even when caught off-guard. I continue stroking Azhrael's neck, not looking up.
"He's restless," I say evenly. "The new acquisition disrupted the territorial balance. I'm reinforcing stability through direct contact."
"Mmm." Damiros moves into my peripheral vision, leaning against one of the reinforced support pillars that overlook the enclosure. "Is that what you call it?"
I finally glance at him. My brother looks perfectly composed as always, his sharp features arranged in that expression of mild interest that never quite reaches his green-gold eyes.
His silver hair is immaculate despite the volcanic heat that permeates the lower levels. Everything about him projects control.
Which means he's here for a reason beyond casual observation.
"What do you want, Dam?" I ask, returning my attention to Azhrael.
"A conversation." He pauses, and I can feel his gaze on me even though I'm not looking. "About the auction. About the journey back."
My hand stills against Azhrael's scales. "The acquisition was successful. The binding protocols held during transport. I see no issues requiring discussion."
"I'm not talking about the beast, Mal."
The nickname sounds wrong in his mouth. Too familiar for what we are now—brothers in biology but not in the ways that matter. Not in years.
"Then what are you talking about?" I keep my voice carefully neutral, professional. The tone I use when discussing logistics or containment protocols.
"Lenna." Damiros says it simply, without inflection.
Azhrael's rumble shifts, taking on a warning edge that makes me press my palm more firmly against his neck. Settle. He responds to the command reluctantly, subsiding into wary alertness.
"What about her?" I still don't look at my brother.
"The silence on the return journey was rather notable.
" Damiros's voice carries that particular quality he gets when he's choosing his words with deliberate care.
"Three people in a carriage for hours, and barely a dozen words exchanged.
You didn't even look at her, Malrec. Not once.
Which is particularly interesting given how much you'd been watching her before. "
Something cold slides down my spine. I force myself to keep stroking Azhrael's scales in steady, even movements. "She's a laborer. I watch all the staff to ensure they're performing their duties competently."
"Is that so?"
"Yes."
"And the binding ritual? Tying her signature to the containment wards so she can move freely through barriers designed to keep temporary staff contained? That's standard protocol for laborers too, I suppose?"
My jaw tightens. "Azhrael responds to her. It's more efficient to allow her direct access than to constantly adjust ward permissions."
"Efficient." Damiros repeats the word like he's testing its weight. "That's one way to describe it."
I finally turn to face him fully, pulling my hand away from Azhrael. The beast shifts behind me, clearly displeased by the interruption, but doesn't vocalize his displeasure. "If you have something to say, just say it."
Damiros studies me for a long moment. His expression hasn't changed, but something in his eyes makes my shoulders tense. It's the same look he had when he first saw Lenna in the stables—that flash of something that looked almost like fear before he masked it.
"Is everything alright, Mal?"
The question catches me off-guard. Not because it's unexpected from a brother checking on family, but because the concern in his voice sounds genuine. Real in a way that most of Damiros's expressions aren't.
I should lie. Should maintain the professional distance and insist everything is perfectly under control.
Instead, I hear myself say, "I've been having dreams."
Damiros goes very still. "Dreams?"
"Strange ones." I cross my arms, hating how exposed the admission makes me feel. "Vivid. Like memories more than typical dreams. Things that feel like they happened but couldn't have."
"What kind of things?" The question comes quickly, sharper than his previous careful tone.
I shake my head, not quite ready to voice the specific content. Not ready to admit that every dream centers on Lenna—domestic scenes of impossible intimacy, conversations we've never had, moments of connection that have no basis in our actual interactions.
"Just... moments," I say instead. "Places I've been but remember differently. Conversations that feel real but can't be. It's been getting worse since—"
I stop myself before I can say "since she arrived." Before I can give Damiros that piece of information that will only confirm whatever suspicions he's clearly harboring.
"Since when?" Damiros presses.
"Recently." I keep it vague, deliberate. "It's probably just stress. The estate expansion, the new acquisitions, managing increased volatile behavior across multiple enclosures simultaneously."
It's a reasonable explanation. Logical. The kind of thing that happens when someone works too many hours without adequate rest.
But Damiros's face has gone carefully blank in a way that makes my instincts flare with warning.
I know that expression. I've seen it before when he's processing information he finds threatening or concerning.
When he's recalibrating his understanding of a situation that's developed beyond his control.
"You should rest more," he says finally. "Adequate sleep is crucial for maintaining the kind of focus your work requires."
"I'm aware." The response comes out more clipped than I intend.
"And perhaps limit your direct contact with the beasts for a few days. Let the other handlers manage the routine maintenance while you focus on administrative oversight."
"Azhrael won't cooperate with other handlers."
"Then use the human." Damiros says it like he's suggesting the most obvious solution in the world. "You said she has a rapport with him. Let her handle the direct contact while you observe from a safer distance."
Safer. As if distance could protect me from the way my chest constricts every time she's near. As if observation could shield me from the overwhelming pull that makes me want to touch her, hold her, ask her if she feels this too—this impossible recognition that shouldn't exist.
"I'll consider it," I lie.
Damiros watches me for another beat, his green-gold eyes searching my face for something I'm careful not to show. Then he straightens from the pillar, adjusting his sleeves in that particular way he has when he's preparing to leave.
"Take care of yourself, Mal," he says quietly. "And if the dreams continue, or if anything else unusual happens, you'll tell me. Yes?"
It's phrased as a question, but the weight beneath it feels more like an instruction. A request I'm expected to honor without question.
I nod once, noncommittal.
Damiros holds my gaze for another moment, and I see it again—that flash of something that looks almost like fear. Or guilt. Something deeper than brotherly concern, something that makes my skin prickle with unease.
Then it's gone, masked behind his usual composed expression. "I'll leave you to your work. Try to get some actual rest tonight instead of communing with the beasts at all hours."
He leaves without waiting for a response, his footsteps echoing through the stone corridors until they fade completely.
I turn back to Azhrael, who's been watching the exchange with uncharacteristic alertness. His luminous eyes track my movement as I approach the barrier again, pressing my palm against the warm surface of the containment ward.
"What do you see that I don't?" I ask him quietly.
Azhrael tilts his massive head, a gesture that in any other creature might seem almost curious. Almost understanding. He moves closer to the barrier, bringing his face near mine with the kind of careful approach he only uses with Lenna.
The recognition in his eyes is unmistakable. Ancient and certain, like he knows something fundamental that I'm still struggling to understand.
I think about telling Damiros everything.
About describing the dreams in detail—how I remember Lenna in my study, in my private quarters, in my arms with the kind of intimacy that comes from years rather than weeks.
How I remember loving her with a certainty that makes my current confusion feel like insanity.
But something stops me. Some instinct I can't name but trust anyway.
The look in Damiros's eyes when he first saw her. The panic underneath his carefully controlled questions just now. The way he keeps watching us both like he's waiting for something specific to happen—or trying to prevent it.
My brother is hiding something. Something about Lenna, about my dreams, about the gaps in memory that feel less like stress and more like absence.
And until I understand what he's hiding, I'm not giving him any more information than I already have.
Azhrael rumbles again, softer this time. Not contentment, but something close to it. Like approval for a decision I've only half-consciously made.
"She's just a laborer," I tell him, testing the words. "Nothing more."
The beast's eyes gleam with what I can only describe as disagreement. He knows I'm lying. Knows that Lenna is fundamentally important in ways I can't explain or justify. That she's already woven into the fabric of this place—and into me—with a permanence that terrifies me.
I press my forehead against the barrier, feeling the faint hum of magic beneath my skin. The wards recognize me absolutely, allowing proximity that would incinerate anyone else.
But they recognize her too now. Welcome her like she belongs here.
Like she's always belonged here.
I need to understand what's happening. Need to figure out why my body insists on remembering things my mind can't access. Why Azhrael responds to her with the kind of loyalty he once showed me before something changed—before some invisible shift made him resentful of my authority.
Why kissing her felt like coming home to a place I've never been.
The dreams will come again tonight. They always do now, growing stronger and more detailed with each passing cycle. Maybe this time I'll remember more. Maybe this time the pieces will start fitting together into something that makes sense.
Or maybe I'm just losing my mind in the slow, inevitable way that happens to people who spend too much time in close proximity to infernal beasts.
But even as I think it, I know that's not true. This isn't madness. It's something else. Something that involves Lenna and Damiros and gaps in time I can't account for.
Something that feels distinctly like curse work.
The thought crystallizes with sudden clarity, sending ice through my veins despite the volcanic heat. Curse work. Memory manipulation. The kind of magic that requires both power and precision, that leaves distinctive markers if you know how to look for them.
The kind of magic my brother specializes in.
I pull back from the barrier, my mind racing through implications I'm not ready to fully examine. Not yet. Not until I have more information, more certainty about what I'm actually dealing with.
But the seed is planted now. The suspicion that won't leave me alone.
Damiros knows something. Something about me, possibly Lenna. Something that I think has to do with these memories that should exist and made them disappear, leaving only fragments that bleed through in dreams and visceral physical recognition.
The question is why.
And more importantly—what exactly does he know that I don't?