Malin – Receiving Line
Malin
Receiving Line
The Dwarven matriarch in blue velvet approached, requiring a precise double bow and a greeting in fractured Dwarvish.
The effort of dredging up the right phrase left Malin light-headed, but she managed it.
Beaming, the matriarch reached out and squeezed Malin’s hand with surprising, bone-grinding force.
Instantly, the dormant siphon magic in Malin’s blood surged forward. Starving and desperate, an invisible tendril of her magic sank into the matriarch’s robust, thrumming life force.
Malin’s breath hitched. Panic flared hot in her chest. She clamped down hard on her mind, violently yanking the magic back into its cage before the Dwarf could notice the drain.
The grand reception hall was a jewel box of color and sound, but the endless pageantry was bleeding her dry.
Her feet throbbed against the polished amber floor, and her back screamed in protest against the rigid Elven posture.
She possessed the discipline to control her siphon magic, but that control required absolute, unbroken focus.
Now, buried under layers of physical pain and mental exhaustion, that focus was dangerously wavering.
She was terrified of what the hungry magic might do if her concentration finally broke.
I have control, she told herself, her heart hammering as the matriarch waddled away. I can do this.
“You are doing well, Noor’wyn,” Aeladar murmured out of the side of his mouth, his voice so low only she could hear it. “Just a little longer.”
His nullification magic could easily control her cravings by shutting her powers down, but she felt entirely too guilty to ask.
She refused to trouble him with another crisis when his focus was already torn between saving her mother and surviving this political theater.
He had spent weeks waiting for the political pandering to end, so they could obtain the EMP.
She could control herself.
Growing up in Media’s technologically non-magical environment, where her parents were anything but parental.
Her mother was a distant, political ghost, and Victor, the man she had believed to be her loving father for twenty-nine years, turned out to be calculating, emotionally barren, and ultimately treacherous.
After a lifetime of starving for a true parent, she had miraculously found one in this imposing, battle-scarred General. He had spent decades bleeding for the Mellyrn Armies, entirely unaware of her existence, only to become her fiercest protector in a matter of weeks.
Looking to him as an anchor, she studied his profile. His posture was a masterclass in strength and feigned boredom. His violet eyes stayed as sharp as steel, meticulously assessing every guest. His polite smile was entirely forced, a defensive mask she understood perfectly.
Malin tried to mirror his poise, lifting her chin and folding her hands precisely at her navel.
But her nerves were fraying thin. A dull ache had taken up permanent residence behind her eyes, and as she looked down the line snaking around a marble pillar, the queue of dignitaries seemed to be growing instead of shrinking.
After over an hour, she lost track of all the names she had met.
She had been pleasantly surprised that the Dracnor dignitaries had sent greetings from the Volkov family that had protected her children.
She could have passed on the visit from the Dracnaughts, with their lizard-like scales and serpent tongues.
At least they had assured her that the offenders who had attacked the wyrmling her children had protected were dealt with.
The dragon touch, as Aeladar had called it, had left her feeling cautious for several minutes after they passed.
A cluster of Kanata mages stepped forward, but they gave Aeladar a remarkably wide berth. Their eyes remained fixed on him, not with the polite, calculating gaze of the Elven court, but with raw, lingering fear.
“Why are they staring at you like you’re going to execute them?” Malin murmured, keeping her smile fixed for the crowd.
Aeladar’s jaw tightened, though his voice remained a gentle, reassuring rumble.
“Because I have a well-earned reputation in Kanata. The war between Mellyrn and their kingdom ended decades ago, but the blood I spilled does not wash away easily. It was a darker, more violent time in my life, Noor’wyn.
I will tell you of it someday, if you wish to hear it. ”
Malin studied the imposing man beside her.
Aeladar was undeniably brutal. It was a staggering task to reconcile the lethal warrior who had slaughtered an entire pirate compound with the warm, patient father holding her together right now.
His violence was a terrifying shield, yet he wielded it solely to protect his family.
More importantly, he paired that deadly nature with absolute transparency.
Her mother and Will were cut from the same secretive cloth, constantly leaving her stranded in the dark with their hidden agendas and unresolved trauma. But Aeladar offered no walls. There was zero defensiveness in his voice, only the quiet, patient promise of the absolute truth.
As the Kanata mages hurried past, the procession faded back into a mind-numbing cycle of bows and pleasantries.
The next delegate didn’t walk; she stalked.
The Basat ambassador moved with the liquid, predatory grace of a great cat adapted to a human gait.
Her lustrous obsidian fur and frost-white whiskers complemented her daring indigo robes perfectly, while her slit-emerald eyes dissected the room like a surgeon’s scalpel.
Beside her trotted a snow-white feline of staggering size, thick with winter fur.
It was so large that if it stood on its hind legs, it could comfortably rest its front paws on her waist.
Aeladar’s posture subtly shifted. Malin caught the slight tensing of his jaw and the sudden, sharp focus in his violet eyes. The bored aristocratic facade vanished, replaced by the rigid, hyper-aware stillness of a man sizing up a lethal threat prowling toward them.
Malin began a measured, formal bow. Before she could utter a greeting, the white feline launched itself.
Silent as a falling feather, it leaped and landed squarely against Malin’s chest. Instinct took over; she caught the heavy, muscular beast, staggering slightly as a sharp, collective gasp rippled down the reception line.
The ambassador’s eyes widened in a fractional micro-expression of shock.
But as the giant cat wormed its head under Malin’s chin, purring so loudly it vibrated against her aching ribs, the stifling tension in her body melted.
The creature smelled divine, like a combination of spun candy and vanilla bean, reminding her of her childhood.
It was like a sweet confection, and its mink-soft fur acted as an instant balm to her frayed nerves and simmering magic.
“I must apologize, Dr. Hawkson,” the ambassador said. Her oddly melodic voice emphasized the wrong syllables, but the title caught Malin off guard.
Dr. Hawkson. Not Duchess. Not House Trillium. Where did this foreign ambassador learn her human title?
“Opal does not usually seek out company,” the Basat continued. “Especially not from those without fur.”
Suddenly, hyper-aware that she had abandoned all Elven protocol to cradle a giant cat, Malin attempted to lower him to the floor, but he refused to budge. Opal gave a mournful yowl, fiercely kneading the silk of her sleeve with kneecap-sized paws.
Beside her, Aeladar’s broad shoulders began to shake. The imposing General was silently laughing. It was such a rare, genuine reaction that her heart swelled, the oppressive weight of the throne room lifting just a fraction more.
“It’s fine,” Malin managed, giving up and sinking her fingers into the silken white fur. “I think he knew I needed this.”
The ambassador tilted her head. “Perhaps Opal knows something he hasn’t shared yet.
We Basat believe our familiars can see many futures,” she suggested with a slow, feline blink.
“I am Mira’ren Nightfall. If it would not be an imposition, I would request a private audience tomorrow morning, once you have rested from this grueling ceremony. ”
“Of course. I look forward to it,” Malin said, genuinely meaning it.
Mira’ren bowed, the motion as fluid as spilled ink. At her silent gesture, Opal hesitated, then launched himself from Malin’s arms, landing without a sound at the ambassador’s feet. They slipped away, leaving her arms strangely empty.
A sudden commotion at the far end of the grand chamber drew Malin’s attention. It was a subtle ripple in the crowd, but it made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end before her brain even understood why.
The air left her lungs in a violent rush as she recognized the man striding toward her.
“Daddy.” The word slipped out involuntarily, a ghostly reflex from a girl who no longer existed.
Her head swam. Her legs instantly turned to deadweight, and she threw a desperate hand out, grabbing Aeladar’s arm just to stay upright.
The towering General followed her horrified gaze.
Walking toward them was Victor Neldoreth. The man she grew up believing to be her father. Had it only been weeks ago that she thought he was?
For a fractured heartbeat, her mind violently rejected the sight before her.
Victor never left Media… or at least that she knew.
He belonged to a world of sterilized labs and the omnipresent thrum of electronics, not this ancient, magic-soaked throne room.
But there he was. He looked older; the streaks of white in his hair were more prominent than when she last saw him just months ago.
He wore a suit of such sharp, clinical modernity that it looked alien against the sea of Elven silks, the gleaming chrome pin of the Media sigil fastened at his throat like a weapon.