I walked the long, narrow corridor toward the kitchen, each step deliberately quiet, my shadows tempering the fall of my boots. I needed food before escorting nobles to a ball none of us wanted.
I turned the final corner—and paused. Laughter drifted from the kitchen. Real, unguarded laughter.
Lysara.
It had been years since I’d heard that sound from her. Not the soft court-smooth chuckles she gave in public, but somethinggenuine. She stood near the hearth, her crimson hair gleaming in the firelight, her head tilted toward Santiago. He was grinning, one hand rubbing flour from his shirt.
I cleared my throat.
The two of them jumped and stepped apart, their expressions shifting into something more neutral. The children, however, didn’t hesitate. Nara darted toward me, her tiny limbs covered in flour, her curls bouncing with each step.
“Malachi!” she squealed, arms flung wide. “King of all the lands and protector of the realms!”
I crouched just in time to catch her mid-pounce. She landed squarely in my arms and immediately dusted my black leathers in a fresh coating of flour.
Kylo followed, hesitant but smiling. “She’s been telling stories again.”
There was more meaning behind that than just a child rambling about her favorite bedtime tale.
Nara had suffered from night terrors and lucid dreams since she was just two years of age. Vivid, prophetic, disturbing—sometimes all three. Most thought the visions had been triggered by the loss of her parents, who’d vanished during a failed crossing near the mist-border. They wanted something better for their children. And knowing the risks, they still went. Trauma like that changes a child. Kylo, barely older, had tried to shoulder what was left of their world. Brave, quiet, and far too perceptive for his age. The two of them had been cared for collectively by a handful of us who still remembered what it meant to protect the vulnerable.
Kaelith had nearly sent them beyond the mist. But at the last moment, he’d decided to keep them within the Keep. Said they could be "useful." So they were assigned to the kitchens instead. Small hands kneading dough, fetching herbs, staying out of sight while being close enough to observe. He would call it mercy.
I knew better.
“I’m sure she has,” I muttered, ruffling the boy’s hair.
Nara planted a kiss on my cheek and leaned back. “Where’s the pretty girl? The one with the story-eyes?”
I stiffened, the warmth in my chest instantly cooling. “Aurelia?”
“She was just here,” Lysara said, her frown deepening. “Eating bread and pretending not to listen to Santiago talk about romantic tragedies.”
Santiago gave a small shrug, rubbing flour from his hands. “She laughed at me, but I think she was enjoying it.”
The words were light, but the glance he flicked at me wasn’t. Too quick. Too careful. He still couldn’t look me in the eye for more than a breath. Santiago was only out of the cells because I allowed it—only for her. His levity rang hollow, a shield he wore badly.
“She’s not here now,” I said, scanning the room. The air thinned in my lungs, the bond tightening the way it did when something was wrong. “How long ago?”
“I—I don’t know,” Lysara murmured, already turning to look toward the corridor. “Minutes, maybe.”
Kylo followed quietly, eyes wide. “She was here. I swear. She gave Nara the last honey cake.”
A child Shadow Elf appeared and pointed a floured finger toward the hallway. “She went that way. Past the big room with all the chairs.”
My stomach sank. The direction she pointed wasn’t toward the guest quarters—it was toward the dining hall that often served as Kaelith’s “training” room.
I put Nara down, brushing flour from my chest, and strode from the kitchen without another word.
The scent of ash and citrus was already curling in my nostrilsbefore I reached the archway. A gold goblet was lying at the door of the dining hall—its contents seeping into the cracks of the stone floor.
Picking it up and placing it on the serving table, I walked into the hall. That’s when I saw it. Dark red, thick, the color smearing in a wide drag across the stone floor.
I followed it. Each step slower than the last.
The trail glistened ahead—a brushstroke painted in flesh. My boots echoed against the stone, each strike muffled by the iron tang clawing up my throat. The smear curved along the tile like a grotesque script. A body dragged through the halls, limp and voiceless, leaving its testimony in red.
A sick heaviness settled in my gut.