It can’t be. He wouldn’t. Malach made vows to me.But I can’t pretend it isn’t suspicious. I have to at least think about it, right?
I left Malach. According tonish thatshacustoms, I broke our vows by moving to the Fringes. Anyone else might have wished me dead for that betrayal.Could Malach be lying to me? Would he work with my dad to get revenge on me for leaving?
The thought takes my breath away. He said he helped me get away, and I believed him. But he avoided all the arena fights.
Shit.I’m stuck between two worldviews: the rigid system of honor my homeland runs on and the eye for an eye mentality of the Fringes. There’s strength in both, but which do I choose?
I don’t want to believe Malach is capable of this, but the motives check out, the logic holds, and the opportunity lines up.
Even Malach’s injury the night I fought Riven at the Mouth of Hell. He told me he couldn’t remember what happened, but what if the missing guardians are fine? I know the horrible bruising on his chest was from a radiant attack, but he could have done it to himself. Gods, I first saw Malach cast that assault on a courtyard training dummy when we were fifteen.
I wrap my arms around myself.
I think I’m going to be sick.
The air crackles and pops, and my alone time ends abruptly. They’re back from recon, but I’m not ready. I haven’t decided what to do yet. Should I confront Malach?No.If I’m right, it could force his hand, and if I’m wrong, I’ll break his heart and destroy any hope of a happy future together.
I can’t risk either alternative.
I tuck my wings and smile as they tease me about my deep clean. Riven is stunned, looking around his house like he’s never seen it before. Luca and Alistair say they’re surprised I lasted this long. Ciprian shoots me a worried glance and kisses my cheek, his lips cold from the mountain air, and Malach stares right through me before excusing himself.
My fingers spasm at my side.
Could Malach betray me?I don’t know. But until I do, I’ll act as if everything is fine. More lives depend on me getting this right than just my own.
THIRTY-NINE
Monster Realm Survival Tip #30:
Loyalty is both a valuable weapon
and a dangerous weakness.
RIVEN
The gnarled tree is scarred and coated in ice. I run my gloved hand over the bark until I find the knot I’m looking for and press in.
There’s a crunch, then the knot slides in, releasing the faint scent of sap and revealing a small cubby. The smell is nice, but I can’t enjoy it. The forest is too quiet. The wind too mild. This realm is rarely loud, making noise is too dangerous, but this silence is ominous. It’s sentient, like the plants themselves are lying low.
Inside the cubby, there’s a rolled piece of paper, tied with a braided vine—Hyacinth’s calling card. I raise the scroll to my nose and sniff. Resin and woods, with a peppery edge.
My shoulders dip, and tension I didn’t realize I was carrying falls away from me. She’s safe. Wrapping the note in rosemaryisher signal of loyalty. My choice to help Celine hasn’t made her turn on me. I worried but I shouldn’t have.
I stuff the message in my cloak without reading it. Lingering here isn’t safe.
These woods have eyes, and the search for Celine is the largest organized manhunt I’ve seen on the monster realm since I was sent here as a young boy. Anyone caught in the fallout won’t live to talk about it, which means it’s time for me to leave. Permanently. With Rue near death, I’ve got to get her daughter out too. This is no place for a witch, especially one as powerful as Hyacinth.
A beast bellows in the distance. The sound is followed by a high-pitched screamthat aborts at its highest frequency. One of the wild monsters that roams this realm has secured its lunch.
I watch as the knot slots into place, leaving only the rough bark of an old tree behind.Time to go. My cloak drags the ground as I walk; the weighted fringe erasing the final sign that I was ever here. I force myself not to hurry. If I move faster, my feet will grind the ice pellets into a layer too dense to be disguised by my cloak.
Veydra master Barthol hammered the limitations of the cloak into my head from a young age. He had no patience for an eight-year-old’s clumsiness or games of any kind.
“Be invisible,” he snarled, his voice an odd mixture of menace and calm. “The veydran duty is to pass unnoticed. You’re no one, Riven, and if you can’t convince me and the world of that, you’ll be nothing.”
I hated his words. Hated how he walked. How he talked. How his preferred face—hulking and cruel—seemed to quiver and froth as he spoke.
But I kept my reservations to myself.
