He sets the glass down with a deliberateness that makes me go still. "Cato doesn't just imprison them."
Something in his voice raises the hair on my arms. "Then what does he do?"
"He drains them." He stares at the wine bottle, but I don't think he's seeing it. "The Everlasting scepter weakens each time it's used. It needs to be regenerated." His voice drops. "That's what the healers are for. That's why he's gone through so many of them. Kept them chained beneath his palace like livestock. Drained them until there was nothing left."
The room tilts. I grip the armrest hard enough to hurt, fighting to keep my expression blank while my heart slams against my ribs. The pleasure gardens. The Everlasting being fed. The Shroudmaidens on the bridge.
"It's why he has hunters searching constantly," Malachi continues, oblivious to the way my world is cracking apart. "Even now. Even after all these years."
He takes a long drink, watching me over the rim. "Do you know what the Sages' original purpose was?"
I force myself to breathe. "To tend the Undying Flame. Guard the ancient texts. Reveal the fates of newborns."
"The last one is perhaps the most important." He lets the glass dangle from his fingers again. "Their gifts compel them to seek out certain newborns and reveal their fates. People travel for months just to bring their children to the Sages' temples, hoping their child will be deemed worthy of a revelation."
I stare at the wine glass, aching to reach for it, but my hands won't stop trembling. I curl them into fists instead. "What's your point, Malachi?"
His brows rise, surprise or amusement or both flickering across his face. "My point is that Sages don't take in twenty-five orphaned children out of the goodness of their hearts. And they certainly don't choose seven of those children to train as their own, years before their gifts manifest, without reason." He tilts his head. "You have to admit, it's rather peculiar."
The word hangs between us. Peculiar. As if my entire childhood, my entire identity, is simply a curiosity to be examined.
"Perhaps they were bored," I say with a lightness I don't feel. "You seem to have opinions about everything. What's your take on it?"
"I'm not certain yet." His eyes search my face in the dim light. "There are many things about Lunaris I can't quite reconcile."
"Like the memory trade."
"Among other things." His mouth curves, but his gaze remains intent. Probing.
He leans forward to set the glass on the table, and I catch it: the tightening of his jaw, the subtle hitch in his movement. It's the kind of tell Cas and Arlo used to wear when they came home from the Dueling Estate, trying to hide wounds they thought made them look weak.
"You're injured."
He goes still. "I'm fine."
"You don't move like someone who's fine."
His eyes meet mine, guarded now, the openness from moments ago shuttered away. "It's nothing."
I shrug. "If you want my help, you know where to find me."
He nods, and we let the silence stretch between us. It should feel awkward. It doesn't. It feels like something settling into place, quiet and unexpected.
"You still haven't told me about the artifact," I say. "The one you need my help finding."
"Right." He leans back. "Have you heard of god scepters?"
The question hits me like cold water. The image the Flame showed me flashes through my mind: the scepter floating in darkness, light pouring down on it like a blessing or a curse. Is that what he's searching for? Has he already torn apart Jordi's quarters looking for it? Searched my room while I was gone?
My panic must show on my face, because he laughs. The sound is dark and smoky, curling through the room like incense.
"If I didn't know better, I'd think you used Mortiana's scepter to make your bargain."
My eyes narrow. "How do you know I didn't?"
His lips curl into something slow and cunning. "Because we can't both have it."
"You have it?" My mind races. If he has Mortiana's scepter, whose did Jordi find? Lugal's? But Lugal isn't one of the four. He's a consort, a god by marriage only. As far as I know, he doesn't have a scepter of his own.
