Chapter 30
Hazel
Darkness is not a vacant chasm. It is a presence in itself, waiting to be woken. Always stirring. When I loosen my hold, it opens its mouth and bares its teeth. Desperate to sink them into my throat and consume me—one bite at a time.
My brother does not understand what it is to wrangle my fingers around the throat of the beast that swells in my veins. He draws a ribbon of light in the air, and his people fall at his feet in a fit of giggles.
They preen over his magnificence. The sheer beauty of what he can create, as if it is comforting.
Darkness consumes, but the light burns.
Malachi watches me over the flicker of his flame in his palm. Until his fingers clasp tight, and he snuffs it out. While his subjects see his smile, the veil is thin tonight, revealing nothing but ambition in his eyes.
I search the threads between us, seeking the one that once bound us together. It becomes duller—stretches farther every day. His growing magic is tugging him in too many directions. He’s consuming too much, but he won’t listen when I warn him of the consequences.
Malachi stands, and I draw my shadows inward. They slither into my fingers, drifting into my veins. I hadn’t realized quite how far they were reaching. They’ve grown unruly lately.
My brother fears their growing presence, but it’s his fault with all this magic stirring.
Malachi excuses himself from his subjects and heads in my direction. With every step, the thrum between my temples gets louder. Until he stops before me, and it’s nearly unbearable. The magic radiating off him is so rich that there is no drinking it all down.
“The half-human lived,” I say simply, turning to leave the party with my brother.
Selia doesn’t bother following us. She avoids my presence, and I avoid hers. She doesn’t belong here. Hopefully, Malachi will tire of her soon and come to that realization.
“Of course she lived.” Malachi spins one of his gaudy golden rings around his finger. “Wilder made sure of it.”
“Is that what this was then? A test to let her go and see what he would do?” I pinch my shoulders back as my neck begins to throb. “You let her leave simply to see if he would follow? What if he didn’t?”
“He won’t risk anything interfering with his plan. Not after what I did to his queen.” Malachi’s smile is malicious.
The circles under his eyes darken every day. Casting shadows where my brother has always been only light.
“You need to be careful with the girl, brother,” I warn him.
“Shouldn’t I say the same to you?” He pauses in the hallway.
While we’re surrounded by his guards, there is no one who can hear through the shell of magic he uses to encircle us.
“Callum told me about your run-in with Elorie.” Malachi’s tone is harsh. “You were told to keep your distance.”
“I was curious.” I play coy.
Malachi’s eyes narrow. The urge for him to reach out and wring my neck with a halo of light is strong, but he knows I’d simply drink it down.
“Her magic can’t be trusted.” I wave a hand, and shadows dance around my fingers. “It is not what you think it is.”
“Then what is it?”
My lips purse, and I can still taste her magic. Like a drop of snow on the tip of my tongue. So distinct yet barely there. I can imagine it, and yet there are no words to define what it is.
“I don’t know.” I shake my head.
Malachi starts walking again, leading me through the dark rear passages of the palace. “She resurrected an aether wielder, Hazel. I don’t care how we define her magic; she is the chosen I saw in my visions. Her magic is the missing piece.”
“She can’t even wield it.”
“She will.” He sounds so certain.
I could spoil his mood by letting him know how far away her magic was when I grabbed her arm, but I don’t. After all, Elorie’s magic is endless. The trouble is, it acts as if it has a mind of its own, like mine. Not simply a part of her, but tied to something else entirely, bending her to its will.
“When will you tell me more about your visions?” I ask him, pausing as he opens a door that leads into the depths of the dungeon. “Where did they come from?”
Malachi’s light flares, igniting a path for us down the spiraling stone staircase.
“You know as much as you need to,” is all he shares.
An agitated spit of magic brushes off his shoulder. It’s shifting lately. Something else reflects in his light.
Malachi stops when we reach the bottom of the stairs, and he doesn’t bother letting his light follow us deeper into the dungeon. Labored breathing comes from all around us, setting me on edge. Death permeates from the belly of cells beyond.
He stops at the loom that sits near a small well.
It once glowed as beautifully as a star in the night sky, but now the fibers in the wood are dull.
Malachi brushes a finger over the spindle, pausing long enough to prick himself.
He shifts his hand over the small circle of stone in the center of the room, dripping blood into it.
There are a few places in the palace where Malachi can tap into the magic of the realm to read its health.
But here, in this particular spot, the magic of the realm connects with a vein that leads directly to the Well.
Since discovering that, this is the only one he visits.
Curious what the Well and its creatures are doing to our land.
“The Well is temperamental. Unpredictable.” Malachi grits his teeth as he reads his connection. “The full moon cannot come soon enough. I need to harness her power if our plan is going to work.”
“I hear she failed to resurrect her maid.” I circle the room, brushing my shadows against the darkness, soothing them. “Not even a flicker of magic. Yet another of Wilder’s ideas failed miserably. Why do you bother listening to him?”
“Because he made a good point. The girl is emotional, and that was our best chance. She’d grown attached to Isolde.”
“Foolish of her.”
“Human of her,” Malachi corrects. “It was a thought, and it didn’t work. In any case, Wilder and I want the same thing, so it was worth trying. She’s useless to us both if her power doesn’t wake, and there isn’t enough time to wait out the next prophecy.”
I graze my magic against the stone. Letting vines of it slither through the dungeon until they reach a cold husk in the first cell. “One of your prisoners is dead.”
Malachi snorts a breath, not caring.
I angle my chin to one of the guards, urging him to clean up the mess. He covers his mouth at the stench of death, and I let my magic falter just enough to get a hint. To see what this realm has come to.
The brisk air in the dungeon prickles my arms. It reeks of vomit and piss. The stench of rotting flesh hangs heavy while rats scurry about. Little squeaks that remind me of something I can never quite place. Smells that are oddly familiar.
I close my magic and block it out. “What is next? You can’t possibly take her to the priestesses like this.”
“Why not?” Malachi continues to hold his hand over the Well, testing its strength. “There are other ways to get her magic to waken; one of us is sure to figure it out soon.”
“You and Wilder, playing with the fate of the realms. The gods do not look kindly upon those who toy with the path of the Luminess.”
“The gods cannot touch what they cannot contain.” Something dark brews in my brother’s gaze.
He watches the magic of the realm slowly surge.
It’s a flicker of what it once was, barely licking the edge of his palm before retreating.
Even the magic of the heart of the realm has begun to conserve itself.
Already, I feel the obsidian doing less to stave this swell of darkness inside me.
It reaches for the edges, searching for more.
Malachi angles his head back, taking a deep breath as he releases the realm’s magic. His finger heals, closing off the connection to Lyrichia. When he takes a step back, his face is harder—the circles deeper. His blond hair has dulled with his cheeks.
“Guards,” he yells for them again, and one comes down the staircase. Only his most trusted are allowed down here. It’s spelled nearly as much as the walls of the prison.
Malachi tips his head toward the hallway when the guard stops in front of him. “Bring me one.”
My brother manages to stay standing for the guard, not letting his knees wobble until he is out of sight. Only then does Malachi rest his weight against the stone wall, catching his breath.
Carefully, I let my magic reach for him, grazing the edge of his and testing its strength. His magic shrinks, and yet it grows. The more he drinks, the more he drains.
“I’m fine, Hazel.” He tries to reassure me, but there are cracks.
The guard’s footsteps echo down the dark hallway, pausing when he stops to unlock a cell. The clang of metal is followed by screaming as he drags a pretty, young Fae from the dungeon. Her face is caked with dirt, but her eyes are bright. She has freshly woken magic, ripe for the taking.
If Syrus finds out Alasdair and my brother are responsible for the missing Fae in Echme, a new war may be unleashed, which is why he can never know.
Those forests are the last left untouched by the Well.
Where magic still grows freely. Soon, that too shall pass, but until then, the raw power of those Fae is Malachi’s only hope.
Each day, this sickness spreads, cracking through the light that used to shine so pure inside him. Each day, he grows stronger and weaker. And still, I’ve been unable to figure out what type of poison is mangling his magic.
The guard forces the female forward. Obsidian shackles bind her wrists so she can’t fight back. A belt at her waist contains the rest. There is barely enough strength for her to match his steps as he pulls her along.
They pass by me, and the female’s green eyes meet mine. She panics, pulling away and trying to avoid me. It does nothing but bring a smile to my face. They always fear the shadows, not considering what might be revealed by the light.
The guard brings the female to my brother, and she sinks into his arms. He brushes her hair back, and she finds it in her to smile. I wonder what lovely picture he paints in her mind to erase her fear.
His fingers graze over her cheek, and she softens in his embrace.
“I didn’t do what they said I did, Your Majesty.” Her eyes are filled with such hope.
Hope that he might hear her.
Hope that he might save her.
“I know.” He brushes his hand down her throat, and she smiles. “You are innocent. I scent it in your blood.”
His hand continues to roam, and I glance away. It’s the sickness spreading, turning him into something he isn’t. With enough magic, he will heal. He will be himself again.
The female moans as he grabs her between the legs.
“Please, my king.” She begs for him, even as her shackles rub her wrists raw.
Shackles he put there.
“What is your name?” he asks, moving her over his lap so he can get better access.
“Neola.”
“Very pretty.” He breathes her in, pausing at the vein on her throat. “Would you like to save your kingdom with me, Neola?”
“Yes.” She heaves out a breath as he holds her closer.
His gaze meets mine over her shoulder. “We are going to save Lyrichia, aren’t we, sister?”
“Of course”—I glance down the long hall of cells, haunted with the sounds of rattling chains and muffled sobs—“the kingdom is yours. You made sure of it, brother.”
My gaze finds his, and the sapphire pits are nearly as black as mine.
His grin stretches as he pets his prisoner a final time.
With that touch, her fear swells. He slips away his mask and lets her see who he really is.
Her screams echo until his teeth sink into her throat, and she can barely gurgle a cry while he drinks her magic from her blood.
No, it is not the darkness that one should fear. It is what lurks within it.