It's not a question. I can see the answer in their faces. In the careful pity they're trying to hide. Warmth reaches through the bond, Malachi trying to steady me, but I wrench myself away from it.
Sever the connection before it can take hold. I can't accept comfort right now. Not for this. Not when I made the elixirs that kept these people compliant. Not when I helped build the cage they were sold into.
Chapter Twenty
Ileave the pretty dress hanging in my wardrobe. Tonight calls for something else. I pull the Veritas armor from my trunk. I've only worn it twice, both times ceremonial, but tonight it feels right.
Necessary. The pleated black leather skirt sits high on my waist. The silver chest plate fits like a second skin, scalloped shoulder guards curving over my arms. I clip the round medallions into place, the Veritas symbol etched into each, and fasten the maroon cape and hood.
Finally, I secure the silver cuffs on my forearms and pull on my boots. When I catch my reflection in the mirror, I look like I'm ready for war. Good.
Malachi turns toward me when I walk out of my bedroom. His gaze travels slowly from my boots to the crown of my head, lingering in places that make heat rise to my cheeks.
"Did you enter a dueling competition I wasn't informed of?"
"No." I brush past him toward the door. "But you've just reminded me to enter you in the annual jester competition."
His low chuckle follows me out.
We take the back routes, but tonight I lead us down a path most outsiders never find.
"How are your injuries?" I ask as we walk. "Both of them."
"Better. No pain on my side or my back."
I turn to stare at him. "You're serious?"
"Why wouldn't I be?"
"Because that weapon was designed to kill you. And those scars looked like they'd been hurting for centuries."
"Well." His mouth curves. "I am being treated by the finest alchemic healer in Tenebris. Possibly all of Iredell. Perhaps even?—"
I bump his side with my shoulder. "Okay, I believe you!"
He chuckles. My laughter fades as we approach the live oaks that flank the narrow path. Someone has strung lights through the branches, hundreds of them, glowing soft and golden against the dark.
Neither of us speaks.
By day, these trees form a canopy of twisted trunks and trailing moss, beautiful in an ancient, overgrown way. By night, the path usually feels foreboding, shadows pooling between the roots. But tonight, bathed in this borrowed starlight, it's something else entirely.
I turn to say something, but the words dissolve before I can speak them. Malachi walks beside me with his hands in his pockets, his stride unhurried for once. The golden light softens the sharp edges of him, and he looks less like the terrifying warrior I've come to know and more like ... something else. Someone who might have existed before the curse. Before the bargains. Before everything was taken from him.
"What is this place called?" he asks softly.
"It doesn't have an official name." I look up at the canopy above us, where the branches from opposite sides of the path reach toward each other, intertwining like fingers laced together. "The students call it Union Street. Because the trees look like they're trying to hold on to each other."
I don't know why my voice drops. "There's something almost tragically romantic about it, don't you think?"
He's quiet for a moment. "There's a word in the old tongue. Adhoranelo."
"Adhoranelo," I repeat softly. "What does it mean?"
"It doesn't translate directly." His voice is low, thoughtful. "It describes a feeling of deep longing. A soul-deep ache for someone, or somewhere." He glances at me. "The kind of ache that never fully goes away."
"That sounds unbearably sad."
"It's not meant to be." Something soft enters his expression. "The elders say the ache settles in your chest as a reminder. That somewhere in the world, there's a place you belong. Or a person you're meant to find."
