He huffs a laugh. "Menace, if you wanted to get me into bed, you could have just?—"
"Finish that sentence and I'll use the scissors on something other than fabric."
He laughs, the sound cut short by a hiss of pain. "Such excellent bedside manner."
"Be quiet and move."
I brush past him and pause in the doorway to Jordi's room.
The bed is made. Everything in place. Neater than my brother ever kept it. And it doesn't smell like him anymore—his particular blend of ink and the herbs he kept dried in his pockets. Now it smells like Malachi. Cedar and rain. I didn't expect that small detail to hurt as much as it does.
I swallow hard and focus on what needs to be done. I spread a towel across the mattress. Malachi lowers himself onto it without comment, watching as I cut the ruined fabric away from his wound. When I'm finished, he sits up just enough to toss the remnants aside.
When I look up, he's watching me, gauging my reaction to his scarred torso. The marks crisscross his chest and arms, pale lines against golden skin, too many to count. I keep my expression neutral.
We all carry scars. Mine don't speak of war, but they have their own stories. Some of which I don't even remember.
The dagger rests beside him on the mattress, its blade gleaming white in the lamplight.
"What is that made of?" I ask as I clean the wound.
He lifts it, turns it in his hand. "I'm not certain. Ivory, perhaps. Or bone." His jaw tightens. "Whatever it is, it incapacitated me instantly."
My hands still. "He called it a Rook killer."
"He did."
I raise an eyebrow and hold his gaze as I dab alcohol into the wound.
He hisses through his teeth. "Remind me to hire you if I ever need someone interrogated."
"You're a warrior."
"You already knew that."
"I did." I lighten my touch on the wound. "Are you a Rook?"
"Yes."
The word settles into me with unexpected weight. "But Rooks are bound to raffins. Or they were."
His eyes crinkle at the corners. "We are."
I turn that over in my mind as I begin stitching the wound. Freida used to tell us stories about the Rooks, Lugal's chosen warriors, bound to their raffins through blood and magic. "They're barely leashed until the furia takes hold," she'd said once, her voice dropping low. "And then they're ruthless. Unstoppable."
I glance at Malachi's face. Calm. Patient. Waiting. I try to reconcile that image with the man bleeding beneath my hands.
"I thought you said you had wings."
"I did."
"Then why would you need a raffin?"
"Raffins fly higher than any winged being can reach. And they carry their own gifts." He's quiet for a moment. "More importantly, the raffin chooses its rider. Mine chose me. I accepted."
I nod slowly, turning those two words over.Chose.Accepted. A bond built on mutual consent, not force or transaction. Unlike everything else in this godsforsaken city.
"I'm done," I murmur, tying off the final stitch.
