"No," he says with quiet confidence. "You're not. You laugh again. Not just at others' fear, but with genuine amusement. You create beauty with your shadows, not just destruction. You look at her the way you once looked at…"
"Don't," I warn, my shadows darkening. "Don't say it."
"Someone has to," he persists with unusual boldness. "You love her, Malakai. It's written all over you, obvious to anyone who remembers who you were before Julia's death broke you."
Love. Such a simple syllable for so devastating an emotion. I stand abruptly, my shadows whipping around me.
"Love is a weakness I cannot afford," I say automatically, the words hollow even to my own ears.
"And yet," he persists, rising to stand before me, "you're about to name her your equal before the entire court. Something no Shadow Lord has done in recorded history."
"It's strategic," I argue. "A political maneuver to strengthen…"
"Stop lying," he interrupts, something of our old friendship emboldening him. "If not to me, then at least to yourself. You're naming her as your equal because you love her."
Before I can respond, a ripple of awareness brushes against my consciousness—Seraphina, nearby, her emotions a complex tangle I can't quite decipher through our connection.
But something is wrong. The bond between us thrums with her anxiety, her fear.
"We'll continue this discussion later," I tell him, already moving toward the door. "It seems my Omega requires my attention."
"Of course," he replies, his voice returning to its usual formal tone, though a hint of familiarity lingers. "Run away from the conversation, just like old times."
I pause at the doorway, glancing back with narrowed eyes. "Careful, old friend. I still turn people into garden ornaments when irritated."
"I'll keep that in mind... my lord," he responds, the hint of a smile touching his lips.
I stride through the corridors toward our chambers, my shadows flowing about me in agitated patterns. What he said struck closer to the truth than I care to admit. Love. Perhaps that is what this unfamiliar ache signifies. This constant awareness of her, this need to ensure her safety, her happiness.
This terror at the thought of losing her.
As I round the corner, I spot Ivy slipping out of our chambers, her expression uncharacteristically serious. She freezes when she sees me, her small form tensing.
"Shadow Boy," she greets me with forced lightness. "Fancy meeting you in your own palace. How unexpected."
"Fairy," I reply, narrowing my eyes at her obvious discomfort. "Troubling my wife again with your chaotic influence?"
"Me? Chaotic? I'm a paragon of stability and good judgment," she protests, her wings fluttering nervously. "Just providing some... friendly advice. Girl talk. Completely ordinary, nothing-to-see-here girl talk."
Something in her scent is off—anxiety, secrecy.
Before I can press her further, Emmett appears behind me. Ivy's eyes immediately dart to him, her silvery hair shifting to a telling pink.
"General," she acknowledges with unusual formality.
"Lady Ivy," he returns with equal stiffness.
I glance between them. "How fascinating. The fairy actually rendered speechless. I should commemorate this historic moment."
Her face flushes. "I have important fairy business elsewhere," she announces, backing away. "Very urgent. Probably involving... moon dust. Or something equally sparkly and important."
She bumps directly into my general, who steadies her with automatic gentleness. Their eyes lock for a heartbeat too long to be casual.
"Excuse me," she murmurs, uncharacteristically subdued, before darting away in a flash of silver light.
"Not a word," he warns me as she vanishes.
"I wouldn't dream of it," I reply innocently. "Though I do wonder what color your children's wings would be."
