Kaelith’s smile widened, savoring the break. He tossed a coinonto the stall. “A bargain struck. Flowers for the dying, and a girl for the living.”
The father pulled his daughter close one last time, whispering something into her hair before placing her trembling hand into Kaelith’s. Her chin lifted for the briefest instant—a daughter’s final act of rebellion—before she bowed her head.
I followed Kaelith as he led her back to the castle, the crimson, starlit flower still turning idly between his fingers. The man’s stare burned between my shoulders like a brand.Keep her alive.
I did not make promises if I could help it. But my hand stayed on the hilt of my sword a few steps longer than it needed to.
12
Malachi
Back inside the castle,I followed Kaelith through the corridors, the tension between us unspoken and palpable. The air thickened near her chamber; burnt cedar clung to cold stone. Torches flared and dimmed, dragging long shadows across the floor.
The hinges whispered as I pushed the door open, the sound low and drawn, breaking the hush that clung to the hall.
Firelight stuttered over the walls, warping the carved faces of the goddesses in the corners. Aurelia lay under emerald blankets, breathing shallow but steady. Dark curls spilled across the pillow, stark against pale skin. Bandages rose and fell with each breath, the once-white tinged faintly with red.
She shouldn’t have survived.
Fever had burned the color from her mouth. The corruption had receded under the healer’s light; the black veins no longer rode beneath her skin. But she hadn’t escaped death’s grip, only kept ahead of it, step by fragile step. Kaelith strode past me, his movements effortless, the weight of his presence seeping into the room.
His gaze found her. Hunger sharpened his features—not for her body, though he’d never deny himself what pleasure offered—but for blood. Moirae blood. In her veins lay the kind of power Kaelith hungered for. A legacy eternal. A crown that would never slip.
She was a means to an end.
Kaelith took another step forward, reaching out to trail his fingers along the carved bedpost. A casual gesture of idle possession.
“She’s exquisite,” he said, not bothering to lower his voice. He wanted me to hear it. He wanted the Synnex healer to hear it. But most of all, he wantedherto hear it—even in sleep. To let his voice seep into her dreams, coiling around her subconscious. To ensure that when she woke, she would already feel the weight of his claim.
A slow pulse of irritation burned in my chest. My fingers flexed at my sides before curling into a fist. I resisted the urge to reach for my sword.
I had known this was coming, had predicted it the moment I spoke her name. But watching it unfold in real time made my stomach twist.
I may have been Kaelith’s personal guard, his most trusted blade, the head of his army—but it was not by choice.
I angled my head, catching Santiago’s reaction in the corner of my eye.
The healer sat near the foot of the bed, his back pressed against the carved wooden post, hands resting in his lap where the faint shadow-binds still pulsed against his wrists. He had yet to be released from my command—tied to her until her body was strong enough to stand on its own.
Exhaustion hollowed his face, but something hard glinted inhis eyes when he looked at Kaelith. His fingers twitched, curled, straightened. He kept his mouth shut.
Kaelith’s gaze lingered a moment longer, flicking briefly to the pulse at her throat before dragging over her full, parted lips. A slow, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, as if already imagining the ways he could shape her into something useful.
“She will be mine, Malachi. One way or another.”
Then, with a quiet exhale, he turned on his heel and strode from the room. The room fell into silence, save for the soft crackle of the fire.
I crossed to the bar cart beneath Eryndis’s statue. Decanters glinted under the candlelight. I poured two fingers in two glasses.
Lifting one to my lips, I savored the first burn as it slid down my throat, warming my chest before holding out the second to Santiago—an unspoken invitation.
He took it without hesitation. Instead of relishing the drink’s rich complexity, its centuries-old refinement, he tilted his head back and downed it in a single swallow, like it was some piss-poor tavern ale.
“That,” I said, “was meant to be enjoyed.”
Santiago exhaled sharply, setting the empty glass aside with a dull clink. “Enjoyment’s a luxury,” he muttered. “And I doubt you poured that out of generosity.”
I leaned back against the bar, rolling my own drink between my fingers. “Tell me what you know of her.”