Chapter 21 Malachi
Malachi
There were days when I could almost pretend I’d grown numb to this place. Today wasn’t one of them.
I was reminded once again of how I was tricked into bonding with Nyxarra—when I gave my oath to protect a city I loved and, in doing so, chained myself to its ruler.
Escaping Nyxarra had been futile, and now, the attempts were few and far between. Those who still tried were dreamers. The ones who remembered life before. Before the binding. Before the mist swallowed the sky.
I walked the long, narrow corridor toward the kitchen, each step deliberately quiet, my shadows tempering the fall of my boots. I needed food before escorting nobles to a ball none of us wanted.
I turned the final corner—and paused. Laughter drifted from the kitchen. Real, unguarded laughter.
Lysara.
It had been years since I’d heard that sound from her. Not the soft court-smooth chuckles she gave in public, but something genuine. She stood near the hearth, her crimson hair gleaming in the firelight, her head tilted toward Santiago. He was grinning, one hand rubbing flour from his shirt.
I cleared my throat.
The two of them jumped and stepped apart, their expressions shifting into something more neutral. The children, however, didn’t hesitate. Nara darted toward me, her tiny limbs covered in flour, her curls bouncing with each step.
“Malachi!” she squealed, arms flung wide. “King of all the lands and protector of the realms!”
I crouched just in time to catch her mid-pounce. She landed squarely in my arms and immediately dusted my black leathers in a fresh coating of flour.
Kylo followed, hesitant but smiling. “She’s been telling stories again.”
There was more meaning behind that than just a child rambling about her favorite bedtime tale.
Nara had suffered from night terrors and lucid dreams since she was just two years of age.
Vivid, prophetic, disturbing—sometimes all three.
Most thought the visions had been triggered by the loss of her parents, who’d vanished during a failed crossing near the mist-border.
They wanted something better for their children.
And knowing the risks, they still went. Trauma like that changes a child.
Kylo, barely older, had tried to shoulder what was left of their world.
Brave, quiet, and far too perceptive for his age.
The two of them had been cared for collectively by a handful of us who still remembered what it meant to protect the vulnerable.
Kaelith had nearly sent them beyond the mist. But at the last moment, he’d decided to keep them within the Keep.
Said they could be "useful." So they were assigned to the kitchens instead.
Small hands kneading dough, fetching herbs, staying out of sight while being close enough to observe. He would call it mercy.
I knew better.
“I’m sure she has,” I muttered, ruffling the boy’s hair.
Nara planted a kiss on my cheek and leaned back. “Where’s the pretty girl? The one with the story-eyes?”
I stiffened, the warmth in my chest instantly cooling. “Aurelia?”
“She was just here,” Lysara said, her frown deepening. “Eating bread and pretending not to listen to Santiago talk about romantic tragedies.”
Santiago gave a small shrug, rubbing flour from his hands. “She laughed at me, but I think she was enjoying it.”
The words were light, but the glance he flicked at me wasn’t. Too quick. Too careful. He still couldn’t look me in the eye for more than a breath. Santiago was only out of the cells because I allowed it—only for her. His levity rang hollow, a shield he wore badly.
“She’s not here now,” I said, scanning the room. The air thinned in my lungs, the bond tightening the way it did when something was wrong. “How long ago?”
“I—I don’t know,” Lysara murmured, already turning to look toward the corridor. “Minutes, maybe.”
Kylo followed quietly, eyes wide. “She was here. I swear. She gave Nara the last honey cake.”
A child Shadow Elf appeared and pointed a floured finger toward the hallway. “She went that way. Past the big room with all the chairs.”
My stomach sank. The direction she pointed wasn’t toward the guest quarters—it was toward the dining hall that often served as Kaelith’s “training” room.
I put Nara down, brushing flour from my chest, and strode from the kitchen without another word.
The scent of ash and citrus was already curling in my nostrils before I reached the archway. A gold goblet was lying at the door of the dining hall—its contents seeping into the cracks of the stone floor.
Picking it up and placing it on the serving table, I walked into the hall. That’s when I saw it. Dark red, thick, the color smearing in a wide drag across the stone floor.
I followed it. Each step slower than the last.
The trail glistened ahead—a brushstroke painted in flesh. My boots echoed against the stone, each strike muffled by the iron tang clawing up my throat. The smear curved along the tile like a grotesque script. A body dragged through the halls, limp and voiceless, leaving its testimony in red.
A sick heaviness settled in my gut.
Kaelith used this room for everything except dining. He claimed the acoustics were better for sparring, that the vaulted ceiling carried the elegance of pain, of surrender. Perfect, too, for feeding—every gasp, every shudder amplified until it became performance.
A glint caught my eye near the base of the far column. I moved toward it, careful not to step in the blood. The smear ended in a wide, half-dried pool that kissed the edge of the arched garden doors.
And beside it—barely visible in the shadow—was a footprint. Smaller than Kaelith’s. Too small for a soldier.
Still damp. Fresh.
“You shouldn’t be here, shadowborn,” a low voice I’d recognize anywhere said behind me.
I turned.
Gabriel stood half in shadow near the archway, arms crossed loosely over his chest. Tall, broad-shouldered, built for speed as much as strength.
His presence filled the corridor, sharp lines carved by torchlight.
Dusky lavender skin melted into the gloom, and his silver eyes caught the fire in fractured gleams.
One of the last Shadow Elves still bound to the inner castle.
Kaelith claimed he’d “saved” them after the rebellion, but the truth was the opposite—the Shadow Elves had saved Nyxarra’s people.
They were the reason we’d survived when the mist rose and the city starved.
Their gifts were older than language, older than most dared name.
Dangerous. And for that, they were slaughtered, hunted, enslaved.
But still, he stayed—a ghost of a rebellion. A man who drifted where he pleased.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he repeated, his silver gaze cutting into me. “She isn’t meant for you.”
I went still, every muscle marking the distance between us. Control first. Always control.
“She?” My jaw tightened. “If you mean Aurelia Moirae—she’s not meant for anyone.
Least of all me.” The words came flat, clipped.
The Shadow Elves collected whispers the way others collected coin.
If “she” was on his tongue, prophecy wasn’t far behind.
She was complication enough without prophecy dangling from her name.
Gabriel blinked once. If he was surprised, it didn’t show beyond the faintest shift in his posture. But something in his eyes flickered.
“Yet you chase after her,” he murmured, almost to himself.
“Just trying to keep everyone safe,” I said, sharper than I meant to. We both knew how well it had turned out the last time I’d sworn to keep anyone safe. One city, one oath. A whole people bound to a king who wore my promise like a chain.
And still—I couldn’t seem to stop myself from doing it again. Kaelith couldn’t gain more power.
Gabriel inclined his head, chin tilting toward the garden archway.
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
His mouth twitched, the ghost of a smile. “Don’t let him keep taking pieces of you, Malachi.”
Kaelith had. And he would. Until I found a way to remind him whose shadows he walked through.
Gabriel’s silver gaze softened a fraction. Then he vanished into the dark once more, no more than a breath against the stone.
I straightened and reached for the garden door, pushing it open. It jerked to a stop, slamming against something solid.
“Goddess above,” Aurelia muttered, stumbling back with a hiss as her hand flew to her head. I caught her by the waist before she toppled, steadying her just in time to see a thin ribbon of blood snake down from her hairline.
“You always greet people like that?” she asked, peering up at me through her fingers, blood dripping between them. Her voice was dry, biting. “Or am I just special?”
“You’re bleeding,” I said flatly, ignoring the jab.
“You walked into a door.”
She scoffed. “You barreled into it.”
“You weren’t supposed to be on the other side.”
Her scowl deepened as she shoved my hands from her waist. “It’s just a scrape. I’ll stitch it up myself.”
“We have healers. There’s no need.” I reached for her head to get a better look.
She slapped my hand away. “It’s not deep. I’ve had worse. This one might even scar pretty.”
I arched a brow. “Pretty?”
“Well, it’ll blend in with the others careless men like you have unfortunately left,” she said breezily, though her fingers stayed pressed tight against the wound.
“At least this one comes with a better story. ‘Maimed by a door’—it’ll blend in with half the others I’ve picked up by being pulled into other people’s wars, don’t you think? ”
Something inside me pulled taut, then held. She made it sound like a joke.
“Come on,” I said gruffly. “If you don’t want a healer, there are supplies you can use in the infirmary.”
“Malachi—”
“Either you walk there, or I carry you.”
She grumbled under her breath but followed, arms crossed the entire way.