Chapter 37 #2
The room is not a cell or a torture chamber. It’s a lavish dining parlor, the sort reserved for the academy’s highest echelon during feast days. Red runners, gold filigree, candles in tall crystal stems.
At the long table’s head, seated in a plush, high-backed chair, is Davrin.
And not as the shriveled, mutated husk I’d braced for, but Davrin as he was on my first day, with a clean uniform, eyes bright and alert, skin unblemished.
He’s devouring roasted riverfowl glazed with honey, and after every few bites, he reaches for a steaming chunk of bread, tears it in half, and dips it into a wine-dark sauce. A white napkin covers his lap, unspotted despite the carnage on his plate.
I swallow acid. I can still feel the forked tongue that slapped my shoulder. It takes effort to keep my breathing quiet.
Opposite Davrin sits Keeper Malakai, his cruel, elegant hands folded atop a scroll, attention fixed on Davrin. The table between them is set for a dozen, but only their two plates are full. The rest of the chairs stand empty, facing the feast like silent witnesses at a tribunal.
Malakai reclines, watching Davrin eat as if he’s been starved for days.
I shudder. The transition from the heinous passageway to this ghastly civility is so abrupt I can’t trust it.
“Most Elites last less than an hour on the slab,” Malakai is saying, tone pleasant, almost admiring. “Some manage two. A rare specimen will push to three before the breakdown. Beyond that, none survive. Not in this decade, at least.”
Davrin chews, nodding as if discussing coursework. “And me?”
His voice is surprisingly steady. He wipes his mouth with the napkin, as though he’s at a normal dinner party.
Malakai’s lips curl in what might pass for a smile, in the same way that a wolf’s bared teeth might pass for an invitation. “You made it to five hours and remain not only intact, but lucid. I would call that unprecedented.”
Malakai gestures, and a Hollow I didn’t initially see refills Davrin’s cup.
Davrin reaches for his glass and drinks deep. There’s the faintest tremor in his left hand, the kind that comes from nerves stitched together under duress. Otherwise, he seems … whole. Or as whole as you can be after whatever they’ve put him through.
“Three hours, and your veins didn’t darken at all. Not one fissure. Your body held when every other has broken.” Malakai leans forward slightly, staring at Davrin with clinical interest. “Do you understand why that matters?”
Davrin swallows. “I suppose my tolerance for the academy’s tests is higher than most.”
“A glib answer,” Malakai murmurs, “but not inaccurate.”
He taps a quill against the open scroll, leaving black dots along the margin. “Do you recall anything from the process itself?”
Davrin’s gaze drifts to the candelabra. “Bits and pieces. The pain doesn’t linger, but there’s … a kind of clarity.”
He looks at his own hands, flexing them, as if trying to feel what’s changed. “Everything is sharper. Louder.”
Malakai’s eyes gleam. “We don’t normally test initiates. Their bodies collapse too quickly. Elites endure longer, and even then, like I said, most expire.”
Malakai gestures vaguely toward the door, to the chamber behind me, and I shrink back.
“They wither, or their minds collapse, or the Darkening takes them too quickly to be shaped into anything of value. But I had the privilege of witnessing what you did in the Void eels’ tank. Only one other untrained Soulren has managed such a feat.”
Davrin holds Malakai’s gaze, either nonplussed by Malakai’s explanation or riveted.
Malakai tilts his head. “You’re not the first to gain heightened senses, but no one has achieved your level of adaptation intact. Usually, we get halflings stuck between what they were and what we require. Useless. Neither this nor that. A disappointment, through and through.”
He spears a slice of candied pear with his fork, admiring its translucence as if it’s a rare jewel. “But you? Entirely another matter. Eat, Davrin. You’ll need fortitude for what comes next.” He pops the fruit in his mouth and chews with infuriating leisure.
Malakai’s gaze roams the table, pausing on the empty places set as if for ghosts.
Then he leans forward, one hand framing his chin, Soul-fire blue flickering in the depths of his single brown eye.
“You know the pattern, by now. Once the body endures enough rounds, most of them shatter. But a few progress, just enough, before the soul gives way. That’s when the Darkening takes hold, and the subject becomes the thing we truly need.
Powerful, superb. But mindless. Bereft of will.
No matter how many times we refine the process, they always tip into madness or a vapid beast.”
Ember is silent, her presence behind my eyes a cold reservoir as the truth crawls closer.
Davrin shifts in his seat, putting down his fork with a deliberate clink. “So what am I, then? The other Keepers said I was a waste. That I wasn’t worth the effort or the blood.”
His voice is so flat it almost sounds bored, but even at this distance, I can see the sweat beading at his brow.
Malakai lets out a little chuckle. “Ah, but they lack the vision of the Master. Or the context. You’re not a failure, Davrin.
You’re the singular variable, the deviation that just might solve the entire puzzle.
” He rolls the stem of his glass between two fingers, then downs the contents in a swallow.
“You see, your veins didn’t blacken. Your bones didn’t fail.
And your mind”—he waves a hand—“is still yours, even after five hours under the knife and the injections.”
I remember the diagrams from the corridor, flesh and bone erupting, faces reduced to toothy masks, then contrast it with Davrin here. Not only alive, but upright, articulate, and eating with the manners of a visiting dignitary.
Malakai unfurls a hand, gesturing toward the thick leather folders that sit beside his wine like extra courses. “You’re not just a survivor, Davrin. You’re a candidate.”
“A candidate for what?” Davrin’s voice cracks on the last word, just a little.
Malakai’s smile never falters. “There is a destiny in this, Davrin. One that transcends the torment.”
Davrin’s eyes flicker with the same terror that flashed through them when he was pulled out of the eel tank. But then he schools his face and nods, as if accepting a promotion instead of a prison sentence. “Fine. What comes next, then?”
Malakai steeples his fingers. “You will rest, for now. Regain your strength. Tonight, the Master will visit. And you will be prepared for the Binding.”
The word capitalizes itself within the room, chilling my nerves. Binding. I can almost see the hook it casts into Davrin’s future.
Davrin swallows hard, then looks up. “Will it … change me? More than I already am?”
Malakai’s smile breaks into a full, wolfish arc. “Yes. But only in the ways that matter.”
Davrin picks at the food with unsteady hands, then drops the knife and fork entirely. He wipes his mouth, stands, and bows to Malakai. “If that’s all, Keeper, I’d like to be excused.”
“Go, then. But don’t wander. You know how easily bodies disappear in this place.”
Davrin glances toward the door, and I pull back, pressing myself flat to the wall in case he spots me. But he makes for a smaller door at the far end, steps through, and is gone.
The moment the latch clicks, Malakai’s facade drops. He slumps, fingers kneading the bridge of his nose, the mask of authority slipping just long enough to reveal something like exhaustion. Or regret.
Then he straightens, uncorks a bottle, and pours himself another drink.
“They never believe me until it’s too late,” he murmurs.
I stay hidden until the Hollow enters to clear the table, gliding with the silent obedience of the well-trained dead.
Malakai regards the Hollow for a while, then says, “What would you have done, if you’d have lasted through the Darkening?
The problem with our little monsters, you see, isn’t the power.
It’s the absence of authority. They burn so bright, but they lose themselves.
If we could pair such might with a mind that endures”—his voice drops, the words thick, almost reverent—“it would change everything. No more mindless beasts. No more wasted raw material. A singular will, fused to the engine of the Void.”
The Hollow gives no answer. He isn’t supposed to.
Malakai chuckles and downs his glass, then stands and sweeps from the room, coat fluttering behind him like an inky wing.
I stay frozen until his footsteps fade completely. The Hollow continues clearing plates with repetitive, dull clicks of cutlery and ceramic.
Five hours, Malakai had praised. Unprecedented.
Five hours before Davrin’s body should have broken. Before the corruption should have taken hold. Before he should have become one of those chained things in the dungeon.
I press my palms against the wall to stop my hands from shaking, Falcen’s anguished expression flashing behind my eyes as black veins spread across his body.
How long has he been enduring this?
Not five hours. Weeks. Months, maybe.
And if Davrin, who survived five hours intact, is being prepared for a “Binding,” whatever that is...
My composure cracks.
What stage is Falcen in?