Chapter 17 #2
Malik hesitated, then leaned back into the leather, fingers tapping the armrest with restrained emotion.
“It was Anatolia,” he said at last. “I was studying and doing reconnaissance in the old city. I wasn’t looking for anything... and then I saw her.”
He paused, eyes drifting to the ceiling as if reliving the moment.
“When our eyes met, the world stopped. Everything else faded—like time itself held its breath. Her beauty struck first, yes, but then her voice and mind… consumed me. I gave myself to her. Fully.”
His eyes gleamed with that same reverent, feverish glow I’d seen before—one that frightened me more now than ever.
“I couldn’t keep secrets from her,” he continued. “It would’ve been an insult to what we had. So, I told her the truth about what I am. And she looked me in the eye and confessed—she’s a Timeborne.”
“Well, well,” I said, studying the dead stub of my cigar. “Sounds eerily familiar. Alina’s one, too.”
Malik leaned forward, almost laughing. “Incredible, isn’t it? Two of the darkest of the dark… meeting their match among Timebornes.”
Then his eyes lit up with dangerous hope.
“Oh, Balthazar,” he breathed. “I can’t wait to start a family with Layla.”
The words hit like a slap, but he didn’t notice. He was lost in his dream.
“We’ve carved our way here. We’ve ended her father’s hold—her father, the Timehunter. Nothing stands in our way now. No more rules. No more chains. Just a future. Don’t you feel it?”
Layla’s father… is a Timehunter?
The words ricocheted in my skull like bullets. Timehunters—the very monsters who had destroyed my life, torn my family from my arms, and left me to rot in shadow. And now she was their daughter?
I couldn’t believe it.
No—I could.
Because this was exactly what they would do, I saw it now. Clear as day. They were circling like vultures, playing a long game. Layla, Malik… they were working together. All of them. To undo me.
Alina’s voice rang in my mind, slicing through Malik’s illusions like a blade.
We must stop him from finding the blades. They bring only false promises of joy. We must rid ourselves of Malik and Layla before it’s too late.
I schooled my features into calm, leaned back in the leather chair, and stroked my jaw as if mulling over something profound.
“Your plan holds merit, my son,” I said deliberately. “If we can find the daggers.”
I leaned forward, feigning enthusiasm. “Tell you what—I’d like to get to know Layla better. Why don’t the two of you join me for dinner? Just the four of us. A quiet night to speak in more detail. What do you think?”
Malik’s face lit up like a boy offered a crown.
“Splendid idea! We’ll bring the wine. I’ve a lovely Bordeaux from France—aged, smooth, perfection.” He kissed his fingers dramatically. “You’ll love it.”
“Sounds grand,” I said, rising to my feet. “Come tomorrow. Seven sharp. I’ll have the cook prepare a feast fit for kings. We’ll dine... and dream of futures.”
Malik stood and clasped my hand in both his, warm and unknowing.
“You’ll see, Balthazar,” he beamed. “This plan—it will work.”
I met his gaze and smiled. Broad. Bright. Deceitful.
“I look forward to it,” I said smoothly.
But in my heart, I was already counting the ways I would kill them both.
At precisely seven o’clock the following evening, Malik and Layla arrived at the estate—punctual to the second, as expected.
They looked every inch the enviable couple.
Malik wore a tailored black wool tailcoat with silk lapels, matching trousers, and a deep-blue silk waistcoat fastened with delicate mother-of-pearl buttons.
A crisp white shirt and a neatly knotted cravat completed the look, giving him the polished air of nobility.
At his side, Layla radiated grace in a long sapphire gown, the bodice embroidered with intricate silver beading that caught the light with every step.
Her raven-dark hair had been swept into an elaborate updo, soft ringlets cascading to frame her delicately heart-shaped face.
Alina watched her like a hawk sizing up a field mouse—and I nearly choked on my own amusement.
With a smooth gesture, I handed off their coats to the maid and beckoned them into the formal living room.
The room was a feast for the senses—curated, refined, and exuding wealth.
Dark mahogany furnishings matched the moody elegance of the Persian carpets beneath our feet.
A grand piano gleamed in the corner by the window, its lacquered lid catching the last threads of sunset.
Velvet curtains in a deep forest-green framed the wide glass panes, and above us, a chandelier of cut crystal shimmered with fractured light.
The grand and commanding fireplace roared with a crackling blaze beneath a gilded oil painting of a hunting party on horseback.
The scent of wax, firewood, and something sweeter—perhaps perfumed oils—lingered in the air like memory.
The credit belonged to Alina. While I was away, she had poured herself into this room—into every gilded frame and polished edge—turning it into something meant to impress... and disarm.
As we gathered by the table and drinks were poured, Alina and I exchanged a glance, unspoken plans flickering between us. This evening was a performance, and our stage had been set with deadly precision.
Alina led Layla toward the fireplace with practiced charm, gesturing gracefully to one of the tufted chairs.
“I’d love to get to know you,” she said sweetly, her voice all honey and silken interest. “Balthazar has told me so much about you.”
Malik and I took the easy chairs by the fireplace—close enough to hear the women’s conversation, but far enough to carry on our own if we wished.
As we sipped our Madeira, I overheard Alina say with casual delight, “I adore your gown, Layla. You must tell me who designed it.”
Layla’s cheeks turned the soft pink of flattery. “Actually, I made it myself,” she replied modestly. “I’m rather fond of needle and thread.”
“She’s being humble,” Malik interjected with a proud smile. “She made my ensemble as well. She often fills her days stitching when I’m away—it’s become an art form for her.”
The warmth in his gaze could’ve ignited the fire a second time.
“How remarkable,” Alina gushed. “I fear I’d look like a rag doll if I dared to sew my own clothes.”
“Nonsense,” Layla said brightly. “Anyone can sew! I’d be happy to show you sometime, if you’d like.”
“Oh, that would be lovely,” Alina replied brightly. “We could have so much fun together.”
I had to stifle a laugh behind my glass. Alina would slice off her own toes before threading a needle in earnest. She wielded charm like a blade, never domestic tools.
Turning toward Malik, I engaged him in light conversation—parliamentary motions, foreign policy shifts, whispers from the continent. But my attention remained half on the women by the fire, their words slipping between the crackle of flames.
Alina tilted her head, her smirk curling like smoke.
“So, tell me, Layla… what’s this I hear about ancient daggers?” Her tone was light, sweet—too sweet. “Balthazar mentioned quite a tale. Relics. Redemption. I’m simply dying to hear it from you.”
Layla’s gaze flicked to me, then quickly away.
“It’s… thrilling, really,” she said softly. “They’re more than just weapons. They can change the very nature of darkness to silence the cravings. To offer peace.”
Alina leaned in, voice a conspiratorial whisper.
“And what exactly do you know about Balthazar’s darkness?”
Layla’s eyes gleamed. She lowered her voice.
“Malik’s told me enough. Your lover’s a monster… or didn’t you know?”
Alina laughed. It was a strange sound—light and lilting, but touched with something wicked, something feral.
“Oh, I know,” she said. “And I love him because of it.”
I felt her fury pulse across the room like a stormfront. It stirred the air, subtle but electric. But I ignored it. Whatever she suspected, she’d get nothing from me unless I chose to give it.
I turned back to Malik, steering our conversation toward politics and foreign entanglements. My tone remained neutral even as the crackle of Alina and Layla’s words dragged across my nerves.
“Both of our lovers were born from darkness,” Layla said, smiling softly. “But I’ve helped Malik control his urges. He only kills now when he has to—and only those who deserve it.”
Alina sighed. Loud enough to draw attention.
A sigh of disdain, thick with contempt.
I ground my teeth so hard I tasted copper. The truth overpowered Layla’s words—she was reshaping and bending him into something docile. Controlled. Like Cora had done to Mathias. The same righteous poison. The same ruin.
Red-hot fury licked through my veins, but I remained still. It wasn’t time. Yet.
I drained the last of my wine, reached for the silver bell, and gave it a sharp ring.
The maid entered promptly. I gestured toward the empty glasses.
“More Madeira. For everyone.”
She refilled each glass with grace and retreated.
To fill the silence, I spoke of Queen Victoria—her rise, her symbolic power, the global expansion of her empire. I barely heard my own voice. I was listening—waiting—for Alina to play her part again.
And she didn’t disappoint.
“So,” she said, swirling her glass, eyes locked on Layla, “what would you do, darling, if you found these miraculous daggers?”
Her tone was syrupy. But beneath it lay a viper.
Layla straightened in her seat, rising to the occasion like she’d stepped onto a stage. Her voice rang with conviction.
“I would make the world a better place,” she said.
“I would help Malik live a life free from slaughter, free from the hunger that eats at his soul. He’s tired of killing—tired of being what he was born to be.
We want to get married. Have children. But we can’t while the father of those children is still… a monster.”
She took a measured sip of her wine, her gaze distant, wistful.
“I love him more than life itself. My greatest wish is to free him from the curse of his existence… to stop the cycle of killing and consumption, or else lose him to it forever.”
That was it. The confirmation I’d been waiting for.
Layla was no different than Cora. Just another sweet-tongued savior eager to “fix” the dark. And Malik—he was sliding fast. Soon, he’d be nothing but another simpering fool like Mathias, stripped of his teeth, his edge dulled by love and mercy.
Or worse—he’d turn on me. Try to come out on top.
Layla’s eyes wandered the room, then settled again on Alina.
“My father,” she said, “is a Timehunter. He’s spent his entire life studying the Sun and Moon Daggers in Anatolia. He believes they hold the key to controlling time… and rewriting fate itself.”
I paused mid-sentence and lifted a finger to Malik, signaling silence. My full attention was on her now.
She extended her hands as if holding something sacred.
“They’re that powerful. Capable of tearing open the seams of reality itself—of undoing the very threads that bind us. I believe the only way to destroy darkness is to harness that power. To use it for good.”
“You believe that?” Alina asked softly, her voice dipped in sugar and shadows.
Layla nodded, eyes glassy with emotion. A single tear slipped down her cheek.
“I do.”
I smiled at her—pleasantly, thoughtfully.
“That’s quite the tale,” I said. “Fascinating.”
Her spine straightened with renewed resolve.
“My family has spent generations trying to unlock the mysteries of those blades. But if they fall into the wrong hands—especially the Timehunters—”
Her words faltered. A visible tremor coursed through her body.
She swallowed.
“My father… wanted to kill Malik. That’s why we ran.”
The fear in Layla’s voice was raw—too honest to be rehearsed. Malik turned toward her with a soft, protective glance. Their eyes locked, and momentarily, the room seemed to vanish around them. A fragile bubble of intimacy formed between them, and something inside me twisted, tight, and venomous.
Then Malik spoke, his voice weighted and deliberate.
“Yes, the daggers are powerful. Not to be underestimated. They’re not just weapons—they’re ancient conduits.
But not everyone can find them. It takes a…
certain kind of person who can solve the puzzle and open the scrolls.
There’s a process. And I admit…” He hesitated.
“Some of the details are still unclear to me.”
I leaned in slightly, my throat suddenly bone-dry.
“Do you know where they are?”
Layla answered. “No. But we heard someone—someone from a different period—knows.”
Her words faded like breath on glass. Desperation bled into her expression, replacing the fear with hope.
“Do you have a name? A location?” I asked, my tone deceptively calm.
Layla and Malik exchanged a look. The silence stretched.
“Yes,” Layla said.
“Splendid,” I replied smoothly. “Then we’ll all go find them—together.”
My eyes flicked to Alina’s. One glance was all it took. Her stare met mine with cold understanding.
Without ceremony, I seized her by the arm. “Come with me. Now.”
Our tension rose as we stepped away from prying ears.
“They must die,” I hissed, my grip tightening around her arm.
Alina’s eyes gleamed with resolve. “Before they turn us into prey.”
In that moment, without a vow or ritual, we made a pact.
We would kill them. First. Before hope could corrupt them.
Before love could make them weak.
Before they reached the blades—
And destroyed everything we were.