Chapter 30 Malachi
Malachi
The ballroom shimmered beneath the glow of a hundred floating lights, the air heavy with perfume and the sharp bite of spiced wine. Gilded nobles moved like puppets across the marble floor, their laughter too brittle, their masks too still.
I lingered at the edge of it all, arms folded behind my back, gaze sweeping the room with practiced disinterest. Gabriel stood beside me, a carved shadow in obsidian armor, expression unreadable.
“No sign of them,” he murmured. His voice, like the rest of him, was quiet steel.
I didn’t answer. Instead, I watched the space beside the throne remain conspicuously empty.
They left the ballroom together nearly an hour ago. Whispers turned restless. Courtiers exchanged glances and still, they had not returned.
“If he kills her,” Gabriel said after a long moment, “I’ll be quite upset.”
I turned my head toward him, caught off guard by the words. Upset. For anyone else, it would’ve sounded flippant. But Gabriel never wasted words. For him, it was a promise of retaliation.
I kept my own voice low. “Gabriel, I more than anyone always assume the worst. But she won’t die. She’s too valuable to him, and to this kingdom. What good would she be if she were gone?”
He didn’t answer right away. His gaze stayed fixed on the throne, on the space where Kaelith had sat not long ago.
“If you were sure of that,” he said finally, tone still flat, “you wouldn’t be standing like you’re waiting for the world to end.”
I glanced at him, but before I could speak, the heavy doors at the far end of the ballroom creaked open.
Kaelith entered. Alone.
He moved with deliberate calm. His platinum hair gleamed under the chandeliers.
The orchestra stilled until his boots reached the base of the dais. Without fanfare, Kaelith climbed the steps and sat. Not in the ceremonial high seat reserved for princely counsel, but in the throne. He grabbed a goblet of wine from the Keeper standing at his side and drank deeply.
A murmur rustled across the crowd. I caught Gabriel’s frown deepen.
Kaelith adjusted his gloves, then raised a single hand. The musicians resumed with strained obedience, the melody faltering before finding its rhythm again.
His eyes found mine. He inclined his head ever so slightly. A summons.
When I reached the foot of the throne, I waited.
“You will all travel with her,” Kaelith stated. “You, Lysara, the healer. Gabriel—if he deigns to crawl from his gloom. When she wakes, you may go.”
Gabriel was no longer beside me. He had slipped back into the shadows as easily as breath.
Kaelith lifted one gloved hand to his face, brushing it casually against the bridge of his nose, and paused.
A drop of crimson welled just beneath his nostril.
His smile twitched, eyes briefly unfocused. He wiped it away with the edge of his glove and blinked like nothing had happened.
“You leave at first light,” he said smoothly, voice louder now. “And Malachi…”
“Yes?” I paused before adding, “Your Grace?”
He stood. There was only a breath between us. “Ensure she arrives safely. I’ve grown rather fond of her company. I've taken my own measures to ensure her safety. It would be in your best interest to do the same.”
I held his gaze. There was something in it, something flickering behind his charm. Something not entirely his.
I inclined my head. “Of course.”
He dismissed me with a flick of his fingers.
As I turned, Gabriel was already at my side. “He bled,” he said under his breath.
“Yes.”
We both said nothing after that.
The music continued. The nobles drank. And Kaelith sat atop the throne, expression calm, gloved hand resting lightly on the arm of the throne.
Across the ballroom, I caught sight of Lysara and Santiago mid-spin—the former a flash of deep crimson silk, the latter smiling wide enough to fool anyone watching.
A normal night, for anyone looking in. But something had shifted. I could feel it in my bones. Change—unseen, unstoppable—had already taken root.
“You look far too serious for a celebration,” came a voice just behind me.
I turned. A woman in emerald silk stepped closer, her smile too knowing. A noblewoman I had once pulled from the fire of a riot.
“Ask me to dance,” she purred. “For old times’ sake.” Her fingers grazed my arm, lingering. I didn’t move.
“I remember a time when you would’ve jumped at the chance. When we used to—”
I caught her wrist. Firm, but not cruel. “That was a long time ago,” I said evenly. “And you are not who you were then.”
She blinked, taken aback. But I didn’t stop.
“You once carried Eryndis’s sigil. Stood shoulder to shoulder with those who bled for her. And now you bow for coin and comfort. You’re holding on to scraps, Elira, and even you know it.”
Her mouth opened. Closed.
I released her wrist. “Enjoy your evening,” I said. And walked away before she could make me regret saying it.
I began down the corridor toward my chambers, but something shifted beneath my skin—an old hum, low and magnetic, dragging me off course.
The shadows moved differently, curling toward Kaelith’s wing.
I stopped at the door to his chambers. It was shut, locked with more than iron, woven through with spellwork too intricate to be seen.
And still, I heard it. A heartbeat. Low and distant.
It faltered. Then fell silent, long enough to make me still. Long enough for quiet to turn into dread.
I pressed my palm to the door. The magic responded with a crackle of resistance, heat blooming along my skin.
So I stepped sideways—into the space between.
My body remained in the corridor, but my shadow peeled free, separating. It slipped forward without weight or sound, pulling my awareness with it as it threaded through the narrow fractures in the warded door.
This was not simple shadow-walking. It was crossing—a traversal through the Veil.
To move this way was to become something else. Essence without anchor. A creature made of dusk and breath and memory, caught between what is and what lingers.
Light recoiled. Magic trembled. My limbs no longer felt like limbs at all, only extensions of will moving through folds of forgotten space.
I was not unseen. I was simply…unheld.
Only those marked not just by shadow, but by Eryndis herself, could cross this way. Shadow Elves could slip through cracks of light and dark, yes—but the Veil was different. Older. Hungrier. A place even Kaelith’s wards could not touch. And it knew me.
The Veil demanded blood as its compass. Wherever I had shed it—on battlefields, in temples, on thresholds—I could return. A tether drawn in iron and shadow, guiding me through the folds between. And tonight, it pulled me here.
When I emerged into the sealed chamber, the magic in the walls recoiled. The space rippled briefly before finally stilling. Shapes returned. The haze cleared.
And I saw her.
Aurelia lay upon Kaelith’s bed. Her breathing was rapid, uneven. Her lips parted, cheeks flushed with fever. Something was wrong.
I knelt beside her, shadows curling protectively around the edge of the bed. I reached forward, my form still woven of smoke and will, and placed my hand against her cheek.
The moment I touched her, the world folded inward. Her breath slammed into my lungs, her fear knotted tight in my chest, her shadow-sick pulse roared through my veins—and for a heartbeat, none of it was hers alone. The Veil didn’t know the difference between us… and in that moment, neither did I.