Chapter 12 Malachi
Malachi
Back inside the castle, I followed Kaelith through the corridors, the tension between us unspoken and palpable. The air thickened near her chamber; burnt cedar clung to cold stone. Torches flared and dimmed, dragging long shadows across the floor.
The hinges whispered as I pushed the door open, the sound low and drawn, breaking the hush that clung to the hall.
Firelight stuttered over the walls, warping the carved faces of the goddesses in the corners.
Aurelia lay under emerald blankets, breathing shallow but steady.
Dark curls spilled across the pillow, stark against pale skin.
Bandages rose and fell with each breath, the once-white tinged faintly with red.
She shouldn’t have survived.
Fever had burned the color from her mouth.
The corruption had receded under the healer’s light; the black veins no longer rode beneath her skin.
But she hadn’t escaped death’s grip, only kept ahead of it, step by fragile step.
Kaelith strode past me, his movements effortless, the weight of his presence seeping into the room.
His gaze found her. Hunger sharpened his features—not for her body, though he’d never deny himself what pleasure offered—but for blood. Moirae blood. In her veins lay the kind of power Kaelith hungered for. A legacy eternal. A crown that would never slip.
She was a means to an end.
Kaelith took another step forward, reaching out to trail his fingers along the carved bedpost. A casual gesture of idle possession.
“She’s exquisite,” he said, not bothering to lower his voice.
He wanted me to hear it. He wanted the Synnex healer to hear it.
But most of all, he wanted her to hear it—even in sleep.
To let his voice seep into her dreams, coiling around her subconscious.
To ensure that when she woke, she would already feel the weight of his claim.
A slow pulse of irritation burned in my chest. My fingers flexed at my sides before curling into a fist. I resisted the urge to reach for my sword.
I had known this was coming, had predicted it the moment I spoke her name. But watching it unfold in real time made my stomach twist.
I may have been Kaelith’s personal guard, his most trusted blade, the head of his army—but it was not by choice.
I angled my head, catching Santiago’s reaction in the corner of my eye.
The healer sat near the foot of the bed, his back pressed against the carved wooden post, hands resting in his lap where the faint shadow-binds still pulsed against his wrists. He had yet to be released from my command—tied to her until her body was strong enough to stand on its own.
Exhaustion hollowed his face, but something hard glinted in his eyes when he looked at Kaelith. His fingers twitched, curled, straightened. He kept his mouth shut.
Kaelith’s gaze lingered a moment longer, flicking briefly to the pulse at her throat before dragging over her full, parted lips. A slow, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, as if already imagining the ways he could shape her into something useful.
“She will be mine, Malachi. One way or another.”
Then, with a quiet exhale, he turned on his heel and strode from the room. The room fell into silence, save for the soft crackle of the fire.
I crossed to the bar cart beneath Eryndis’s statue. Decanters glinted under the candlelight. I poured two fingers in two glasses.
Lifting one to my lips, I savored the first burn as it slid down my throat, warming my chest before holding out the second to Santiago—an unspoken invitation.
He took it without hesitation. Instead of relishing the drink’s rich complexity, its centuries-old refinement, he tilted his head back and downed it in a single swallow, like it was some piss-poor tavern ale.
“That,” I said, “was meant to be enjoyed.”
Santiago exhaled sharply, setting the empty glass aside with a dull clink. “Enjoyment’s a luxury,” he muttered. “And I doubt you poured that out of generosity.”
I leaned back against the bar, rolling my own drink between my fingers. “Tell me what you know of her.”
“Nothing,” he replied too quickly.
I let out a short, humorless breath. “Do you know how old I am, healer? I’ve seen children lie better than that.”
His jaw flexed as he leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his knees. “I knew her. When we were children. I don’t think she recognizes me,” he admitted, voice low. “Probably for the best.”
I remained silent, waiting.
Santiago sighed through his nose. “I was eleven. She was… maybe ten? Younger than me, but she never acted like it. Never afraid to pick a fight with anyone.” His eyes flicked to mine at that, a veiled challenge, but I only lifted my glass in silent acknowledgment.
“She was a scrap of a thing, but she never stayed down. Always swinging at kids twice her size, mostly because that rich brat Hayat was teaching her how to fight behind everyone’s backs.
Thought he was some kind of swordsman. She thought she was, too.
That night in the square, though… she didn’t swing.
She just held her brother’s hand so tight, I thought she’d snap his fingers clean off, whispering to him like words could stop what was coming. ”
I studied him. “And what was coming?”
Santiago’s throat bobbed. He glanced at the decanter, then back to me. “I’m going to need more of that to keep going…”
I humored him, pouring another drink. This time, he took a slower sip before answering.
“They burned them,” he said, voice stripped of any softness.
“Her parents. In the town square. They burned them alive—afraid of the power they possessed, afraid of the unknown.” He stared into his glass, watching the amber liquid swirl.
“Her father looked my father in the eye before the flames took him.”
I knew the story—everyone did—but hearing it from someone who’d watched was different.
My fingers tightened around my own glass. “Your father?”
“Draven Navarro,” Santiago said, his voice hollow. “Councilman. Best friend to her father. And one of the men who sent them to die.”
The room thinned. I let the quiet hold.
“She didn’t cry,” Santiago said finally. “Just… watched.” He rubbed a hand down his face. “I’ve spent years wondering what she was whispering to her little brother that night.”
I swirled my drink, watching the firelight shift through the glass. “And what do you know of her brother?”
Santiago’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I don’t know. Only that they weren’t allowed to take part in any patron ceremony. The leaders thought if they were unclaimed, unmarked by the goddesses, they’d have no powers. That they’d eventually just… die.”
I frowned. Patron marks were never true immortality—only borrowed longevity, a leash disguised as grace.
A fragment of divinity threaded through mortal flesh, slowing decay, blunting age, keeping the body from finishing what time began.
It was not life extended, but life suspended—so long as devotion was paid.
The goddess gave breath; the mark decided when it could be taken back.
Once, they’d been blessings—gifts given freely, meant to help mortals live well and long.
But after Eryndis was banished, faith curdled into obedience.
What had been love became control, and every mark since carried its price.
Those marked by flame, tide, or bloom lived longer, healed faster, and fed the goddesses who claimed them. The unmarked were left to fade.
Santiago leaned forward, lowering his voice. “She already bears a mark, though. Her scar—it’s not normal. It runs deeper than any wound should. It wraps around her waist. I don’t know how far it stretches, but I’d wager it reaches her back.”
I kept my expression unreadable but shifted in my stance. “Show me.”
Santiago tensed. “She’s asleep. That’s a violation of her privacy.”
“I didn’t ask for your permission,” I said, my voice absolute.
His jaw tightened, but he obeyed, pushing up from his chair and moving to the bed. Aurelia stirred as he pulled back the blanket, her body limp and heavy with the sedative he had woven into her.
His fingers hovered over the buttons of her linen dress. Behind him, I waited. Slowly, he undid them, careful to keep the fabric draped over her as he exposed the scar.
I stepped closer. The scar ran beneath my fingertips—from her brow, down her full mouth, tracing the base of her neck. My hand drifted lower, following its path over her sternum, down the flat plane of her stomach.
Hunger flared, familiar, unwelcome—a reminder of what my kind was made for. To drink what gods left behind, to drain the light and power from anything still capable of burning.
She was lean, her body honed by survival, yet there was a softness to her—evidence of someone who still chose to live, not merely endure. The scar twisted at her waist, wrapping around her side before vanishing toward her back.
This wound felt like something ancient. Something claimed. And its power—dark, undeniable—called to me like nothing ever had.
I straightened, glancing down at Santiago. “Button her up.”
He didn’t hesitate. His jaw was tight as he covered her again.
I drained the last of my glass in one swallow and set it down with a quiet click, leaving the room without another word. The door shut behind me, sealing the weight of what I’d seen where it belonged—in shadow.