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 theedges 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 yourown 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.”