Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
For the first time in three years, I don't go to the clinic. I go through the motions of dressing, then change into a shapeless tunic I normally sleep in. I sit at my desk. And I start writing.
Everything I've learned. From Lenora's journal. From Malachi. From Jordi. From the Sages. From the Flame. I write it all down because I'm certain of only two things now. The first is that at some point, I won't remember any of this.
As I write, I realize why I've always been at odds with the history books. The ancient texts. The carefully curated archives of Veritas. Writing is self-serving altruism disguised as art.
Worse, disguised as fact. We recount history as we perceive it and hope we're remembered for telling the truth. But there are so many sides to every story. So many ways to perceive a single event. In the end, every account is true. And every account is false.
This is why we keep making the same mistakes. Not because we fail to see the signs. We see them. We simply cling to what resonates with our own experiences. Choose what serves our purpose.
In Lunaris, what serves the Council serves the residents. In Veritas, what serves the Order serves us. We tell ourselves otherwise. But the pattern is the same.
We are used, therefore we use.
Maybe that's why every organization, every order, every guild relies so heavily on logic and fallacy. They know it's in our nature to tear each other apart. All they have to do is provide the push. The weapon. Then sit back and watch.
Which makes me wonder about the gods. They invented this hierarchy. They sit above it all. So why intervene now? Why work together, summon mortals, bargain with us? What are they afraid of? I don't know.
What I do know is this: in the end, nothing will matter.
Except, perhaps, everything.
I close the journal as the knock comes. I push away from my desk. Take a breath. Prepare myself for the conversation I've been dreading.
Malachi gave me space after everyone left in the middle of the night. But I've felt his restlessness through the bond all day. A low hum of impatience. Of worry.
I pull open the door. He's wearing a clean navy tunic and matching pants. His hair is damp, freshly washed.
His frown deepens when he sees what I'm wearing. "You didn't go to the clinic?"
"I didn't think I should." I glance past him, checking for Kage. We're alone. "I'm not sure we should stay here much longer."
"We can stay tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll go somewhere else." His jaw tightens as he searches my face. "I can't do this anymore."
My stomach drops. "Do what?"
"This!" He throws his hands up and lets them fall against his sides. "Tell me what changed between that kiss, which I can't stop replaying every second of every godsdamned day, and that meeting with the Sages. Tell me what they said to you."
The breath I take catches in my throat. Gods. I've imagined this conversation a thousand ways. Not once did I think he'd mention the kiss. For the thousandth time, I think how much easier this would be if he were just some outsider. A stranger passing through for the Moon Festival.
But if that were true, he wouldn't mention the kiss. Wouldn't want to speak at all. We wouldn't have gotten to know each other. Wouldn't have these feelings between us. This longing. This ache. This adhoranelo. I sort through every scenario I prepared. In the end, there are only two choices.
I can tell him the truth. Risk losing his private smiles. The heat in his eyes when he looks at me. His warmth. His kindness. Those moments of possession. His rapt attention.
I'll lose those things eventually. The prophecy guarantees it. The Flame confirmed it. But I don't have to lose them now. I could pull him to me. Kiss him. Get lost in the moment.
The moment the thought forms, I think of all the choices that have been taken from us. From him. The choices I've taken from others, and I know I can't take this one from him. I won’t.
I remember what he told me once: Tomorrow's stories shouldn't diminish today's actions. I can't ignore this any longer. Maybe he'll hate me. Maybe he won't. But that will be his choice to make. And mine to live with.
"You're right," I say after a long moment. "We need to talk."
Concern flickers across his face. It almost makes me want to take it back. Instead, I turn and walk to my bed. Sit cross-legged against the pillows.
His eyes widen. "You want to talk in here? In bed?"
"It won't matter. I doubt you'll want to rip my clothes off after you hear what I have to say."
His eyebrow rises. "I'm fairly certain that would never be the case."
I huff out a laugh, tucking my knees into the tunic and hugging them to my chest. "I'm fairly certain you're wrong."
"Should I remind you that I'm rarely wrong?" He kicks the door shut behind him and steps inside.
I shake my head and watch him look around, considering his options. He crosses to the seating area, picks up one of the wing-backed chairs, and carries it to my bedside. He sits. Waits.
I take a breath. "Tell me about your debt."
Surprise flickers across his face. Then his eyes narrow. "Why?"
"Mortiana said she cannot speak of the dead. But you can. If you're willing to tell me about your debt."
He goes completely still. "You answered her summons?"
"Answered?" I raise an eyebrow. "As if I had a choice?"
The lights flicker. "Every time you step into that room, every time you approach the Flame, you're making a choice."
"I don't know how not to answer." My voice is calmer than I feel. "She gave me things to ask you. Things to tell you. Things I don't want to say."
"What kind of things?" That quiet, dangerous tone again. The one that makes my neck prickle.
"She wants you to take me to her."
He scoffs and looks away. "That's not happening."
"She said she'll give me the scepter herself."
The lights flicker. His hands flex on the chair's arms. "She said that?"
"Her exact words: 'Tell Malachi to bring you home, and I will give you the scepter myself.'"
His eyes narrow. "What does she want in exchange?"
"Nothing." I shrug, though nothing about this feels casual. "She said she already has my soul."
His jaw tics. He looks away. I don't need the bond to tell me he's furious. Don't need my empathy. Don't need the lights, which are flickering differently now. As if they're afraid to stay lit too long. As if they might catch his ire.
"Mal."
He clenches his fists in his lap. Closes his eyes. "I'm not taking you to her."
The words are soft. Too soft.
I hug my knees tighter. But I can't look away from his face. I've seen him under flickering lights before. Seen the hard lines of his jaw, the menacing energy that surrounds him when he's upset.
This isn't that. This is more. If I weren't watching so closely, I might miss it. If I hadn't memorized every line of his face, I wouldn't notice.
But I am. And I have.
Which is why it's impossible to miss the thin lines forming beneath his eyes. Not silver, like the Sages get when their eyes flash. These lines are gold. Or copper. It's hard to tell against his skin.
Then his eyes open.
I thought the Sages were terrifying when their eyes flashed silver. They're nothing compared to this. His beautiful golden-brown eyes, the color of memory stones and my favorite sunrise, flash bronze.
Bronze.
And everything inside me goes still.