Chapter 49 Malachi
Malachi
She slept like the dead.
No—gods, poor choice of words. But she did. Heavy, unmoving, draped in a calm that felt unnatural on her.
I sat at the edge of the bed, boots beside me, shirt forgotten. My fingers curled loosely over the mattress where her curls spilled. She’d turned toward where I’d been lying, one hand still outstretched, begging me not to stray too far.
And I didn’t want to.
That was the problem.
I’d promised myself that. Promised I’d protect her—sure—but from a distance. As duty. A shadow trailing her steps, not a man tangled in her sheets.
And yet here I was, her hand still stretched toward the space I’d left.
I should’ve pulled away last night. Should’ve told her no.
My body had begged me not to. But Kaelith would never let her be mine—not truly.
No one could keep what he’d already claimed.
And I knew that. Gods, I knew it. But the wine had dulled the edges of reason, left me with nothing but her lips, her hands, the fire in her eyes when she chose me.
I exhaled sharply and rose, tugging on my boots with a practiced, almost desperate precision. I needed air. Distance. Answers.
The village was quiet as I stepped into the night. Damp fog clung to the cobblestones, curling around the lantern posts and cloaking the sleeping homes in silver. I walked slowly, half-hoping something would stop me. Someone.
But no one stirred.
This place was not mine, and yet it greeted me like an old wound reopening. The faces I passed here—the ones who bowed their heads or looked away too quickly—they remembered me. But I was no longer the man they remembered. Only a ghost wearing his skin.
And yet, last night, she’d looked at me like I was just a man. That was more terrifying than any prophecy.
I crossed the threshold of the village and stepped where the Veil thinned. Gabriel waited in the shadows.
“She’s here,” he said simply.
We walked together. No need for words. The quiet between us was a language of its own.
Eryndis stood barefoot in the grass. The wind didn’t touch her. The dew didn’t dare cling. Her veil billowed with the soft breeze.
“Malachi,” she said. “I called you here because the prophecy is no longer distant—it is beginning. And you must know the cost before you choose your place in it.”
“I came,” I said. “Don’t ask me why.”
A long silence. “Because you always do.”
I clenched my jaw. “Then tell me what I already know. Say it plainly.”
She tilted her head, studying me. “You care for her. It’s a mistake,” Eryndis said. “But it’s already made.” Her tone left no room for argument.
My breath stilled.
“She’s dangerous,” she went on, her voice calm, almost gentle. “She’s changing.”
“Too quickly,” I bit out. “Kaelith’s bond is a chain wrapped around her throat and I—”
“You what?” Her voice sharpened. “You want to undo it? Pretend it’s only duty? You’ve spent centuries hating the parts of yourself that feel, Malachi. It is both a blessing and a curse to feel everything as deeply as you do. But it’s that same feeling that has you trying to rewrite fate now.”
My hands curled into fists.
“You speak of fate,” I spat, “but all I see are broken pieces of a world the gods let rot.”
Her veil rippled, her voice like a blade.
“You think we let it rot willingly? You think it was only the gods who looked away when the fire came? When the Rebellion burned?”
The night stilled as her gaze found mine.
“Every kingdom turned its back, Malachi. I warned them—the rulers, the courts, my own sisters—that the balance would not endure if they chose only themselves. But they wanted power paraded as freedom. Sovereignty dressed up as strength. Even the goddesses traded mercy for order, and banished me for refusing to follow.”
Her eyes darkened, the weight of centuries folding through her voice.
“And you—you stood with them. You held the walls while the thrones called for blood. You upheld the order that ground your own people into dust, until all that remained of them were bones.”
I didn’t respond. She stepped closer.
“You made a vow. But to what? A city? A crown? A memory of what Nyxarra was supposed to be?” Her voice softened—not kind, but knowing. “You claim you know who your people are. Yet when I speak of them, you look only at her. As if she alone carries the weight of everything you lost.”
She paused, her next words a quiet indictment. “Hope is not loyalty, Malachi. Hope placed on one person is not a future—it is a fire. And left unchecked, it consumes everything else you swore to protect.”
I clenched my jaw but didn’t answer.
“She is not just a piece on the board,” Eryndis continued. “She is not your redemption. She is not your ruin. She is all of it. And none. You can’t keep pulling away from what you already chose.”
I shook my head, voice barely audible. “I didn’t choose any of this.”
“You did the moment you saw her. The moment you didn’t look away.”
She stepped forward again and lifted one hand—just a whisper of touch, her fingers brushing my brow.
And then—light.
Aurelia, standing in cracked stone, all four goddess marks alive and glowing across her back. Her skin was streaked with blood and gold. Her scream shattered the sky. Her eyes were nothing but shadow.
Gabriel, on his knees.
A boy clutching his ribs, blood spilling down his side—too young, too familiar.
Kaelith beside Aurelia—smiling. Not triumphant. Not cruel. Calm. Knowing.
And me—frozen.
Unable to move. Watching her fall.
I stumbled backward, the vision ripping free.
Eryndis didn’t flinch.
“You saw what waits if you interfere,” she said. “That is not a threat. It is a truth. Some futures collapse the moment you try to force them.”
I knew what she meant. Interfere by choosing for her. By stepping where she had to walk alone.
I clenched my jaw, still reeling, still trying to breathe past the fire in my chest. “Then why show me at all?”
Her gaze softened, not with pity, but with something heavier.
“Because you keep trying to carry both prophecy and control,” she said.
“The goddesses once bargained with your line—a pact made long before Kaelith ever drew breath, one you have lived inside without naming. He means to twist that promise into power. You cannot. If you try to take her place, the path ends in ruin. But if you stand with her—if you let her choose—she may yet survive what awaits.”
My hands shook. “You want me to watch her die?”
“No.” Her veil trembled in the breeze. “I want you to watch her live on her own terms. I want you to trust her strength more than your fear. You are not her keeper, Malachi. You are her witness. Her choices must be her own—even if they undo you.”
Her gaze burned through me.
Gabriel stepped forward, voice quiet but firm. “Then come with us.”
Eryndis turned slowly at the sound of him. Her veil shifted, catching the moonlight. She lifted a hand and cupped his face. Her thumb brushed beneath his eye.
Tears welled in Gabriel’s gaze before one slipped free. “Surely you can,” he whispered. “Please. I cannot lose you again.” Another tear fell. Then another.
“I’ve waited lifetimes. I’ve knelt in ruin. I’ve bled for the hope of seeing you, hearing your voice, just once more. And now you’re here, and you’re telling me you won’t come?” His voice cracked. “Why? Why stay buried in this forgotten place when the world needs you? When I need you.”
Eryndis’s own tears fell soundlessly, slipping past her veil. She pressed her brow to his, her hands cradling his face.
“I cannot leave this place,” she said, voice breaking.
Gabriel shook his head violently. “You can. You must. I’ll carry you if I have to. Is it Kaelith? The other goddesses? Tell me—tell me what binds you and I’ll tear it down.”
I watched them, something unraveling in my chest. The pain in Gabriel’s voice was a wound without bandage.
And yet… I already knew.
“She said she cannot leave this place,” I said softly.
Gabriel turned to me, frantic now, eyes pleading. “But why? She—she can leave. She’s a goddess. She—” His voice cracked again, hoarse and raw. “She has to.”
I swallowed. “Because she isn’t bound to it,” I said. “She is it.”
Gabriel’s breath caught.
“This grove. The mist. The others locked her from the world—but she made herself into something more. Something enduring.”
Eryndis stepped back, her hands falling from Gabriel’s face.
“I remade myself into something they could not erase. I am the grove. Its roots, its wards, its breath.”
She stepped closer, gaze breaking open with sorrow. “This place is woven from what remains of me. It is sanctuary only because I am sanctuary. If I leave… it crumbles. The magic fractures. The Veil tears.”
Her hand ghosted to Gabriel’s cheek again, soft as breath. “And all the souls who found refuge here—all those you swore to protect—would be left with nothing but ash.”
Gabriel fell to his knees. His voice cracked, raw. “Then I’ll stay,” Gabriel said fiercely, lifting his head. “If you cannot leave, I’ll stay with you. Here. We can live here, all of us.”
Her veil trembled. Her hands faltered where they touched him, and grief shadowed her gaze. “Gabriel… you do not understand what it means to bind yourself here.”
“I do,” he said. “I’ve carried that weight since the day you were taken from me. I would carry it ten lifetimes more if it meant being beside you.”
Silence fell heavy. The grove seemed to hold its breath. Eryndis stood there, barefoot in the grass, her veil stirring with sorrow and something unspoken.
Understanding dawned slowly on Gabriel’s face. Not relief. Not hope. Acceptance—the kind that bruises.
We turned back toward the village at last. Gabriel walked beside me, but something in his gait had changed, bent beneath love and loss made one.
I didn’t speak. My thoughts had already gone ahead, back to the girl curled beneath my blanket, still reaching for me in her sleep. Still trusting I hadn’t strayed too far.
Aurelia—the one who carried the gods’ marks. The one the prophecies spoke of. She might save us from the rot pressing in on every side. Or bring it crashing down with her. The blade poised to cut the world in two. The one I wasn’t supposed to love. The one I feared I would destroy.