The thought pressed down on me, but I shoved myself upright anyway, breath shallow, pain lancing through my ribs. My pulse thundered–equal parts fear and determination. If he really was from Synnex—if he was one of the missing healers—then maybe,just maybe, there were answers here. Answers I could use to aid Aeryn.
Aeryn’s face flashed in my mind. I remembered the desperate prayer I’d made two years ago, begging the council to send a healer when the darkness first began to take root. No one had ever come.
“Why are you here?” I demanded, voice sharper than I intended. My fingers dug into the blanket, bracing against the ache in my chest. “What’s your name? Did you come here because of my brother?”
Confusion clouded his gaze, followed by something softer—sadness, maybe. “I don’t know about your brother,” he said gently. “I’ve been in the cells below the castle for… a long time.”
I sank back against the pillows, chest heaving. Was he someone’s brother? Was he trying to save someone too? I saw myself reflected in him—trapped, cut off, powerless. “We could help each other,” I said, the words rushing out before I could second-guess them. “We can escape together.”
His eyes lifted to mine, the firelight catching on their edges. “You don’t understand,” he said quietly. “I don’t want to leave.”
“What do you mean you don’t?—”
“I have things to finish here.” His voice was steady, unyielding. “And you’re in no condition to leave. You’d tear yourself apart.”
I turned my head to the side, the firelight flickering shadows across the room. “I need to leave,” I whispered, the words barely audible at first. “I need to save him.”
I hadn’t come because I thought Nyxarra would spare me. I came because staying would have killed him just as surely as leaving might kill me. Hayat trained me well enough to survive almost anything in Synnex. That had to count for something out here. The hinges moaned, and the air thinned. Cold rushed through the room, raising goosefleshalong my arms.
My body remembered before my mind did. That same pressure in my chest, that same golden flicker at the edge of the dark—him.
The firelight faltered as he stepped inside, shadows bending toward him as if pulled by a tide. The air thinned, colder with each unhurried stride. His eyes traced the distance between us—slow, measuring, and the corners of his mouth curved when the last of the warmth seemed to leave the room.
"I apologize," he drawled, his voice thick with amusement. "I didn’t mean to get you all…"
He paused, locking eyes with me as his grin deepened. "…hot and bothered."
The realization hit hard. He knew. Somehow, he knew my dream—Hayat’s hands on my skin, his mouth at my throat, the hunger I hated myself for wanting. My chest heaved, bile stinging the back of my throat. I felt skinned, laid bare. Violated.
“Malachi, it has been five days. She needs to eat in order to heal.”
When Malachi turned, the easy curve of his mouth leveled out; the room seemed to hold its breath. The healer flinched, but the shadows binding him pulled taut, silencing whatever words had gathered in his mouth.
Malachi stepped forward, his presence swallowing the distance between us. His eyes skimmed me with cold precision, lingering on the bandage across my chest.
"You're still breathing," he remarked, his tone devoid of emotion. "Good."
Confusion curdled into anger, burning hotter than the ache in my chest. “Why does it matter to you?” I demanded, my voice rough.
Malachi didn’t so much as blink. “It doesn’t matter to me,necessarily. But it does to our prince. As for myself—I could care less,” he replied flatly.
“Couldn’t,” I shot back automatically.
A beat. He tilted his head, not quite a smile, not quite a threat. “I didn’t misspeak. The more you talk, the less I care.”
My pulse pounded in my ears, and I glared at him. “Who are you?” My voice was ice, but it didn’t faze him.
He leaned against the wall, at ease in a way that made my skin crawl. He didn’t respond. Instead, his gaze drifted to the healer, still bound to the bedpost. The healer met his gaze without flinching, the muscles along his cheek ticking once.
“Tell me, Santiago, is she stable?” the man asked, his tone indifferent.
"Yes," he replied, his voice clipped.
Santiago. Malachi.
The names struck a chord I couldn’t place—sharp, dissonant, almost painful in their familiarity. Something deep in me reacted before thought could catch up, a pull low and ancient, like a memory that wasn’t mine. The harder I reached for it, the faster it slipped away, smothered beneath the weight of memories I had long since forced into silence.
Malachi hummed thoughtfully. "Good. Kaelith will be pleased."