“Legends are bones. They hold their shape.” He tilts his head. “Stories are living things. They grow and shift.”
“And that’s supposed to be okay? You wouldn't care if stories painted you as a coward? A villain?"
He laughs, low and humorless. "Who says they don't already?"
I go still. It hadn't occurred to me that he might exist in our histories. That somewhere in the vault or the Noxbridge Library, there might be accounts of a man named Bain, painted as heroor monster depending on who held the pen. Jordi told me once that Draven's name appears in books scattered across the vault and the Noxbridge Library. Always painted as a hero, which means little in Lunaris, where the Council decides who deserves that title and history rewrites itself to agree.
It occurs to me that we're bound regardless of whether he's a hero, a coward, a villain, or all three. But something else nags at me, something softer than curiosity.
"Does it bother you? The way the stories paint you?"
"Should it?"
"I think it would bother me."
He studies my face for a long moment. "Has it occurred to you that they might be telling the truth?"
"I'm not asking if it's true." I hold his gaze. "I'm asking if it hurts."
Something flickers in his expression. He looks away, toward the bookshelf, toward the darkness beyond the window.
"It used to."
"What changed?"
"My perception." He's quiet for a moment. "History is written by whoever survives long enough to hold the pen. There’s never been a hero who hasn’t been villainized, just as there has never been a villain who hasn’t been deemed a hero. I guess I learned to live with it.” He looks at me again. “Tomorrow’s stories shouldn’t diminish today’s actions.”
The words settle into me, finding a home somewhere near my ribs. Jordi would appreciate this man, I think. The way he sees the world. The weight he carries without complaint. We sit in silence for a long moment, comfortable and strange all at once.
Finally, I stand. "I'm going to try to sleep."
He nods but doesn't move. I feel his gaze on my back as I cross the room, warm and steady through the bond.
"Goodnight, Menace."
His voice follows me into the darkness, wrapping around me like smoke, like a promise I'm not ready to examine. I close the door behind me and lean against it, heart beating too fast for reasons I refuse to name.
Chapter Fifteen
Three days and still no word from Jordi. No mention of him in the daily announcements, no explanation for the extended festival, no indication of when the Veritas ceremony will take place. The silence feels deliberate. Calculated.
But Mother's newest assistant let slip that she'll be at the estate this evening, and I intend to be there waiting. As soon as I can figure out how to secure this godsforsaken corset.
I wrestle with the ribbons until my shoulders burn, then give up. Margot's shop it is. I hate the waste of time, but this is the only thing I own that Mother will deem appropriate, and I refuse to give her ammunition. A loose corset, a wrinkled hem, a single hair out of place, and she'll spend the entire conversation picking at it instead of answering my questions.
I smooth the gold chiffon skirt that pools at my feet when I walk, fasten the thick gold bracelet Naima forged for me, a feathered cuff that hides a thin dagger in its hilt, and open my bedroom door. I freeze when I find Malachi standing on the other side. He steps forward, filling the doorframe. His black sleeveless tunic is torn and streaked with dirt, and his expression could curdle milk.
"Goddess, Mal!" I press one hand to my galloping heart and the other to my corset to keep it from sliding off entirely.
"Where have you been?" The words come out low. Almost a growl.
I blink, caught off guard by his hostility, and by the way my pulse kicks when I catch the heat in his gaze as it sweeps over me. It's there and gone in a heartbeat, replaced by something harder.
"You were looking for me?"
He raises an eyebrow. "Does that excite you? Were we playing a game of hide and seek I wasn't informed of?"
My eyes narrow. “I’m not excited. I’m annoyed."
