Chapter Forty - Eight
Chapter
Forty-Eight
MALACHI
Iwait for her in the east wing, in a room I've kept sealed for centuries.
The setting sun casts long shadows through the tall windows, painting everything in shades of blood and ash. Fitting, I suppose, for what I'm about to reveal.
I've shown this room to no one. Not Gideon, with his unwavering loyalty. Not Elias, despite his scholarly curiosity. Certainly not Asher, who would find some way to trivialize even this.
But Sage... Sage needs to understand. If she's to fulfill the prophecy, if she's to stand against the council with me, she must know what drives me. What has driven me for over four hundred years. And yesterday's training showed me that she is capable of fulfilling the prophecy.
The door opens precisely at sunset. She's punctual—I appreciate that.
She steps inside, eyes widening as she takes in the space. Unlike the rest of the estate with its dark woods and rich fabrics, this room is stark, almost monastic. White walls, bare floors, no furniture save for a single wooden chair. And covering every surface—paintings.
Hundreds of them, ranging from small sketches to life-sized portraits. All of the same woman.
"Malachi?" Her voice is soft, uncertain.
I don't turn, continuing to stare at the central portrait—a woman with copper hair and eyes the color of summer storms, her expression both gentle and resolute.
"Her name was Elinor," I say, my voice sounding distant even to my own ears. "She was my wife."
Sage moves closer, her footsteps hesitant on the wooden floor. "I didn't know you were married."
"Few do." I reach up, fingers hovering near the painted face without touching it. "It was a very long time ago."
"She was beautiful," Sage observes quietly.
"Yes," I agree. "But that was the least remarkable thing about her."
I turn, finally facing Sage. Her expression is open, curious, without the pity I've dreaded seeing. Good. I couldn't bear pity, not for this.
"You deserve to know my history with the Council," I say. "Why I've spent centuries planning their downfall. It begins with her."
I gesture for Sage to sit in the single chair, then begin pacing slowly before the portraits. The movement helps—keeps the memories at bay, allows me to tell this story with some semblance of control.
"I was born in 1593, in what is now northern Italy," I begin. "The son of a wealthy merchant and a mother who died giving birth to me. My father was distant, occupied with his business and his grief. I was raised primarily by servants."
Sage listens silently, watching me with those perceptive eyes.
"My power manifested early—at twelve, during a confrontation with a local bully.
I killed him without meaning to, without understanding what I'd done.
" I pause, the memory still sharp despite the centuries between then and now.
"My father found me a tutor after that. A warlock who taught me control, who introduced me to our world. "
I stop before a small sketch of Elinor laughing, her head thrown back in uninhibited joy. A rare moment I'd captured in charcoal one summer afternoon.
"I was twenty-six when I met Elinor. She was the daughter of an English diplomat, in Italy with her father on some political errand.
" A smile touches my lips at the memory.
"She was utterly unimpressed by my wealth, my status, my careful charm.
She called me pretentious to my face within minutes of our introduction. "
Sage's lips curve slightly. "I can see why you liked her."
I nod. "She was fearless. Brilliant. Stubborn.
Everything I never knew I wanted until I found it.
" I move to another portrait, this one showing Elinor in profile, lost in thought.
"We were married within six months, against her father's wishes.
He thought me unsuitable—too intense, too controlling. He wasn't wrong."
The next part is harder. The weight of it still sits in my chest, a stone that never lightens.
"For three years, we were happy. Truly happy, in a way I've never been before or since.
We had a small villa in the countryside, away from both our families.
I continued my magical training, and she...
" I pause. "She wrote poetry. Beautiful, insightful work that captured the essence of things in ways I never could. "
I turn to another portrait, where Elinor sits at a desk, pen in hand, brow furrowed in concentration.
"I knew nothing of her lineage, of her mother's family. Neither did she." My voice hardens. "Until the spring of 1622, when her power manifested."
Sage straightens, understanding dawning in her eyes. "She was a witch."
"Yes." The word comes out rough, edged with old pain. "It happened suddenly—we were in the garden, arguing about something trivial. She became angry, and flowers began blooming around her feet, responding to her emotions. Neither of us understood what was happening."
I move to the largest portrait, the one that dominates the center wall. Elinor in a blue dress, standing in a garden, her hands outstretched as if summoning something from the earth itself.
"Her magic was beautiful," I say softly. "Wild, intuitive, connected to living things in a way warlock magic never is. I was fascinated. Enchanted. And foolishly, naively, I believed we could explore it together, that I could help her understand and control it."
Sage watches me carefully. "What happened?"
My hands clench at my sides, the familiar rage rising as it always does when I reach this part of the story.
"I made inquiries among other warlocks, seeking guidance, information, anything that might help us understand her sudden abilities." My voice turns bitter. "Word reached the council. They sent representatives to 'assist' us."
I turn away from the portraits, unable to look at Elinor's face for what comes next.
"They arrived on a summer evening. Three warlocks, led by a man named Thaddeus Blackwell, the Magister of that time.
" The name tastes like poison in my mouth.
"They were courteous at first, expressing interest in Elinor's abilities, offering to guide her.
I was relieved—grateful, even. I thought they genuinely wanted to help. "
The rage builds, familiar and poisonous. "They waited until I left the house. I had business in the city, would be gone three days. They assured me they would watch over Elinor, teach her basics of magical control until I returned."
I turn back to Sage, no longer bothering to hide the cold fury that has been my companion for centuries.
"When I returned, the villa was in ashes. Elinor was gone. In her place, a formal notice from the council—the eradication of a witch, sanctioned and executed under council authority."
Sage's hand flies to her mouth, horror in her eyes. "They killed her? Just like that?"
"Not just like that," I say, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
"They tortured her first. Extracted every bit of her power they could before ending her life.
I learned later that they bound her, drained her slowly over two days, keeping her conscious throughout.
Then they burned what remained, leaving nothing for me to bury. "
The silence that follows is heavy, charged with my rage and Sage's stunned comprehension.
"I went mad," I continue after a moment. "Grief and rage consumed me. I hunted down one of the warlocks who had been there, tortured him until he revealed every detail. Then I tried to attack the council directly."
I move to the window, looking out at the darkening grounds. "I failed, of course. I was young, untrained in combat magic, blinded by grief. They could have killed me easily."
"Why didn't they?" Sage asks softly.
"Because Thaddeus Blackwell had a better idea." I turn back to her. "He saw potential in me. In my rage, my power, my determination. He offered me a place among them, a chance to 'understand the necessity' of their actions, to join their ranks and help maintain the order they had established."
"And you accepted?" She sounds incredulous.
I smile coldly. "I appeared to. I knelt before him, swore the oath of loyalty, joined their ranks. And for the next century, I learned everything about them—their structures, their weaknesses, their deepest secrets. I became indispensable. Trusted. All while planning their destruction."
I move to a small side table, the only piece of furniture besides the chair. On it sits a wooden box, intricately carved. I open it, removing a small vial of ash.
"All I have left of her," I say, holding it up to the fading light. "I recovered it from the ashes of our home. A few grams of what was once the woman I loved."
Sage rises from the chair, moving toward me with an expression of such genuine compassion that I almost can't bear to look at her.
"I'm so sorry, Malachi," she says, voice thick with emotion. "What they did was monstrous."
"Yes," I agree, replacing the vial in its box. "And they've continued to do monstrous things for centuries. The purge of the witches wasn't about protection or safety. It was about power. Control. They couldn't bear the existence of magic they couldn't dominate."
I close the box, securing it carefully. "That's why the prophecy of the Seven matters so much.
A witch binding multiple warlocks to her, creating connections based on mutual exchange rather than domination—it's everything the council fears.
The magic they've worked so hard to corrupt, returning in its purest form. "
"And you've been waiting for this," Sage says. "For me."
"For centuries," I confirm. "Searching, watching, gathering allies and resources. Waiting for the witch who would fulfill the prophecy."
I turn to face her fully. "When I saw you at the ritual, I knew immediately. Your power signature—it's identical to Elinor's. Not similar. Identical."
Sage stills, processing this revelation. "What does that mean?"
"I don't know," I admit. "Reincarnation, perhaps. Or something the Seven Mothers engineered when they cast their final spell. But I knew, in that moment, that you were the one the prophecy spoke of. The witch who would bind multiple warlocks and challenge the council."
"And restore balance," she says slowly, echoing my words from yesterday.
"Yes." I step closer to her, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her skin. "That's why I claimed you. Why I paid whatever price was necessary. Not just for revenge—though I won't deny that motivation—but for restoration. For redemption of what magic was meant to be."
She studies me, those blue-grey eyes seeing more than I'm comfortable revealing. "And Elinor? Is that why you wanted to bind with me? Because I remind you of her?"
The question cuts deeper than she knows. "No," I say firmly. "Elinor is gone. Has been gone for centuries. My desire to bind with you was about who you are, Sage. Not who you might have been."
She doesn't look entirely convinced, but she nods. "Thank you for showing me this. For telling me."
I move past her to the door, suddenly needing space, air, distance from the memories this room contains. "Now you understand what drives me. Why I've devoted centuries to this cause."
She follows me, pausing at the threshold. "The other warlocks—do they know? About Elinor?"
"Gideon knows parts of it," I reply. "Enough to understand my hatred for the council. Elias knows I lost someone. Asher knows nothing. He'd find some way to make it a joke."
She nods again, absorbing this. "And the bindings? Do they know about the prophecy, that you expected me to bind with all of them?"
"No," I admit. "Elias has his own research, his own understanding of the original binding ritual. He believes he's restored something ancient and sacred, which is true enough. But he doesn't know the full prophecy."
"Don't you think they deserve to know?" she asks, a challenge in her voice.
I consider this, studying her face in the dim light of the corridor. "Perhaps. When the time is right."
We walk in silence through the east wing, returning to the more frequently used parts of the estate. As we reach the main hall, I stop, turning to face her.
"Tomorrow," I say, "we continue your training. Now that you understand what we're fighting for, perhaps you'll be more willing to embrace your full potential."
She meets my gaze steadily. "I understand your pain, Malachi. What the council did to Elinor was unforgivable. But revenge won't bring her back."
"This isn't just about revenge," I counter, though the words ring slightly hollow even to my own ears. "It's about justice. About preventing the council from doing to others what they did to her."
"And the bindings?" she asks. "Are they just tools for your vengeance too?"
The question stings more than it should. "No," I say firmly. "The bindings are sacred. Meaningful. I would never trivialize them that way."
She studies me for a long moment, as if trying to read the truth behind my words. Then, surprising me completely, she reaches out, her fingers lightly touching my cheek.
"I believe you," she says softly. "Not about everything. But about that."
The simple contact sends a shock through me—not just physical awareness, but something deeper, a recognition that echoes in my chest. Without thinking, I catch her hand, pressing it more firmly against my face.
For a moment, we stand frozen in this unexpected intimacy, her palm warm against my skin, my fingers wrapped around her wrist where I can feel her pulse beating steadily.
"Sage," I begin, not entirely sure what I intend to say.
She shakes her head slightly. "Not tonight," she whispers. "I need time to process all of this."
I release her hand reluctantly, nodding once. "Of course."
She steps back, putting proper distance between us. "Goodnight, Malachi."
"Goodnight, Sage."