Chapter 23 Malachi
Malachi
I closed the door behind me and leaned against it, exhaling slowly as I shut my eyes. The wood felt cold against my spine, but not colder than what had just passed between us.
Aurelia. Her name crawled in my mind, unwelcome and impossible to ignore. I should’ve known better, should’ve handled the entire exchange with more restraint.
But there was something about her… Something sharp and relentless that scraped against every buried part of me.
Opening my eyes, I took in my chambers. The room was dim, lit by a few flickering sconces mounted in the dark stone walls. Books lined the far wall—stacked on shelves, piled on the floor, tucked into corners.
Opposite them stood an easel, its legs carved with runes, holding a parchment with half-finished sketches—battle maps, constellations, the occasional profile of a face I couldn’t bear to forget.
I moved through the adjoining archway into the washroom.
The reflection staring back from the silvered glass above the basin was not unfamiliar, but it wasn’t entirely mine either.
I’d seen this version of myself before—after battles, after loss, after choosing the least devastating path in a world full of devastating choices.
The man who ruled armies with shadows. The one Kaelith hadn’t destroyed yet.
I gripped the edge of the basin until my knuckles cracked.
She was right. I hadn’t needed to touch her. Hadn’t needed to let the shadows slip free like that. But I wasn’t sure if they had answered my anger, or hers.
My power had always lived beneath my skin, only responding to me. It obeyed command, not emotion. Until now.
I turned away from the mirror and began unlacing the leather guards at my wrists, tossing them to the floor beside the shower. The fireplace in the bathing chambers had long since died, but the warmth from earlier lingered faintly in the stones.
My fingers moved to the buckles at my chest. The deep obsidian of my leathers glinted under the silver glow of the embedded crystals.
The material released with a whispered sigh.
Layer by layer, I stripped away the armor I wore even in sleep.
First the bracers, then the plated vest, until the tunic fell free against the tiled floor.
My boots came next, the clasps clicking softly before they were kicked aside. I worked the fastening of my trousers loose, the fabric sliding down my legs before I stepped free of them.
I turned the valve near the stone wall, and the pipes within groaned to life. A moment later, the showerhead above hissed, then sputtered, before sending a warm stream cascading straight down in steady rhythm. Steam began to bloom around me, clinging to the air.
Reaching for the lacquered wrap on the nearby hook, I twisted my hair back—each braid coiled and secured.
I gathered them at the crown of my head, then wrapped a treated shadowbark strip around all of it, tightly.
Waterproof and heat resistant. A gift from Lysara long ago, when we still believed such small things could protect what mattered.
My mother had taught me to care for my hair. Long before we became Keepers. Before the war. Before I’d learned to lead.
She made her own oils from crushed anise and sweetgrass, blending them with coconut and avocado—rich emollients that soaked into my scalp and softened each coil from root to tip.
She melted shea butter with aloe and honey, mixing until it smoothed enough to coat her fingertips and press into my strands.
The shea came from the nuts of the karité trees near Sylvara. We used to harvest them during the rainy season, when the ripe fruits fell to the ground.
“This is armor,” she’d say, rubbing the balm between her palms. “Just like your heart, your blood, your name.”
Each week, she would comb, section, and braid with quiet purpose, teaching me as her own mother had taught her.
"Your roots carry memory. You braid them with care, and with intention."
She’d hum while she worked, low and steady. A song without words, one I could still hear in the back of my mind when everything else went quiet.
Her nails would scrape gently against my scalp, grounding me. The scent of sweetgrass and crushed anise would linger for days, clinging to my pillow and the collars of my shirts, long after she was gone.
Heat spread over my skin, loosening the tension in my body. I exhaled, slow and controlled.
I would not let Kaelith, or this realm, change who I was at my core. Not again.
I shut the water off with a slow turn of the bronze valve, letting the final stream fall against the stone before stepping out.
Grabbing a thick, dark towel from the heated rail, I ran it over my chest, down my arms, over each old scar.
Some jagged, others precise. One along my ribs still burned faintly from a wound not fully healed—one that would never heal.
Another, a clean diagonal across my shoulder, had been given by someone I once trusted.
I unwrapped the protective wrap from my head and placed it carefully on the drying rack. My braids fell heavy down my back, untouched by the water.
I dressed in silence.
Not my normal heavy leathers. These were quieter, built for ease of movement but still strong, reinforced with shadow-forged stitching at the seams. I didn’t bother with gloves. I’d be shaking a lot of the town leaders’ hands as I invited them to the ball.
Crossing the room, I sank into the chair by the window, the worn leather molding to my frame. The mist beyond the glass curled and shifted.
My thoughts drifted—unraveling one thread only to catch on another. The past had its claws in me tonight. But so did the present.
Aurelia had every right to be angry.
And yet, she didn’t understand what she was stepping into. What weight her presence carried. What it stirred in those of us who remembered the beginning. And I, for all my faults, should’ve explained it instead of reacting like a man backed into his own shadow.
But there was something else in her. Something primal. I had felt it the moment I saw her at the gates. Recognition. The kind that makes your bones ache.
A knock came at the door.
“Leave,” I barked, not turning from the window.
A pause.
“I need some…” The voice was muffled, hesitant behind the thick door. “I need some help.”
Sighing, I pushed out of the chair and crossed the room. I opened the door—
—and nearly forgot how to breathe.
Aurelia stood in the corridor, clutching the front of a deep purple gown. The fabric shimmered faintly, catching on the mistlight seeping through the hall, its neckline dipping low enough to expose the top of her scar. But it was the new wound that held me.
Dark veins spidered from the stitched gash just above her heart, creeping like rot beneath her skin. Her pulse beat visibly against it, like it might try to push its way free.
“Has Santiago looked at that?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended. “It should’ve healed by now. It’s been nearly two weeks.”
She glanced down, then waved the concern away with a crooked smile. “He has. Said wounds like this take longer. Looks worse than it feels.”
I didn’t believe her. Instead of pressing, I let her change the subject.
“I think I made Lysara upset,” she said, guilt flickering behind a crooked smile.
“But it turns out my wardrobe is full of gowns that already fit. Odd, but convenient. I just can’t lace the back myself.
I couldn’t find her, and Santiago disappeared.
I didn’t want to go wandering through the castle alone and half clothed, so… ”
She was rambling.
I stepped aside, gesturing her in.
Her eyes swept the room. They paused on the sketches stacked atop my easel.
Making her way to the easel, she picked up the top page, the corners trembling slightly between her fingers.
In the drawing, a woman sat tall, every line of her posture etched with quiet strength. Her face, noble and composed, was framed by a soft wrap of cloth that draped over her shoulders. Her cheekbones stood proud, her gaze steady and unflinching. Her skin was a rich, warm umber.
A crown rested atop the wrap, each gem outlined and shaded to catch an imagined glint of light.
Around her neck, layered necklaces fell in elegant lines.
Teardrops, suns, and other sacred shapes echoed along the chains.
The shading at her throat and collarbone was soft but intentional, giving the illusion of warmth. Of life.
Aurelia stared, transfixed.
Time stretched between us.
Then she turned to me—one hand still clutching the front of her gown, the other holding the portrait like it might vanish.
“I know her,” she said, breathless.
“That’s impossible.” I stepped forward before I could stop myself, hand reaching for the sketch—because the look on her face, the recognition there, wasn’t something she could’ve fabricated.
“No.” Her grip tightened. “I do. I’ve seen her in Synnex. Who is she?”
I froze. Cleared my throat. When I finally spoke, my voice was rough. Unsteady. “She’s my mother. And she’s dead.”
It was one of hundreds of sketches I’d drawn of her. Again and again, just to keep her face from fading.
She had never come to me in a dream. Not once. I’d searched the Veil for years, waited for a sign she still lingered. For a shadow to stir. A whisper to rise. Anything. And now, Aurelia stood here… insisting my mother still lived.
Stepping closer, I gently took the sketch from her hands and placed it atop the stack, careful not to wrinkle the edges. I motioned for her to turn, so I could lace the back of her gown.
She hesitated, but did as I asked.
The silk whispered as I gathered the laces, her breath catching when my fingers brushed the shallow hollow at her back.
“Many years ago,” I said quietly, sweeping her wild curls to one side. Her skin was warm beneath my hands. My gaze caught on the mark carved into her flesh.