I find my brother just leaving his residence, clearly prepared for travel. He's dressed in formal attire—the kind he wears whenconducting business off-estate—and there's a travel satchel slung over one shoulder.
"Mal." He pauses when he sees me, surprise flickering across his features before settling into his usual composed expression. "You're up early."
"Could say the same." I study his posture, noting the subtle tension that suggests urgency. "Going somewhere?"
"I have some negotiations to tend to regarding an upcoming auction." He adjusts the strap on his shoulder, his green-gold eyes assessing me with the careful attention I've learned to be wary of. "Nothing critical, but it requires personal attention. I'll be gone three, maybe four days."
The timing is almost convenient—gives me space to process everything without his constant observation. But it also means delaying the conversation about Lenna's reassignment, and I'm not sure I can manage three or four more days of this.
"Is something wrong?" Damiros asks when I don't respond immediately. "You look?—"
"I'm fine." The lie comes automatically. "Just wanted to discuss stable operations before you left, but it can wait."
His expression suggests he doesn't believe me, but he doesn't push. "We'll talk when I return. Whatever's happening with the beasts can hold a few days, I'm sure."
The beasts. Right. Because that's what he assumes is bothering me, not the impossible situation with the human laborer who may or may not remember loving a version of me that doesn't currently exist.
"Safe travels," I manage, stepping back to let him pass.
He nods and moves past me, pausing only briefly to clasp my shoulder in what might be meant as reassurance. Then he's gone, heading toward the carriage house and leaving me standing alone in the pre-dawn quiet.
I can wait a few more days. Tell him about Lenna's reassignment when he returns and I've had time to be certain it's the right choice. Three or four days to figure out if I can survive her presence or if removing her is the only way to preserve what little stability I have left.
The decision should bring relief.
Instead, it just feels like the inevitable destruction of whatever fragile thing exists between us—damaged and confusing as it is.
17
LENNA
Ifinish wiping down the last of the prep tables, my hands moving through the familiar motions while my mind stays somewhere else entirely. The kitchen is warm and busy with afternoon meal preparations, the scent of roasting tuskram and braised dreelk heavy in the air. Normally I'd find the routine soothing—the predictable rhythm of chopping, stirring, cleaning—but today it all feels like static I'm trying to push through.
Nimae has been nudging me all morning. Small comments dropped between tasks, pointed looks when she thinks I'm not paying attention. "You should talk to him," she said while we were peeling zynthra roots. "Actually talk, Len. Not just let him touch you and then pretend neither of you feel anything."
She's right, obviously. The situation with Malrec has become impossible to navigate—this strange dance where he initiates physical intimacy but remains emotionally withdrawn, where every touch feels like memory but every conversation reinforces that we're strangers. I can't keep existing in this liminal space between recognition and confusion.
I need to ask him about the dreams. About whether he's experiencing the same impossible familiarity I feel every timewe're in the same room. About why he keeps pulling me close only to push me away again. About what the fuck is happening between us that transcends anything that should be possible.
The thought of confronting him makes anxiety curl tight in my stomach, but staying silent feels worse. Like I'm slowly drowning in questions I'm too afraid to voice.
I untie my apron and hang it on the designated hook, running damp hands over my work dress to smooth the wrinkles. My reflection in the polished metal of the storage cabinet shows exactly what I feel—uncertainty written across features I barely recognize anymore. The Lenna who arrived at this estate weeks ago wouldn't have dared approach Malrec for personal conversation. That version of me knew her place, kept her head down, survived by being invisible.
But I'm not that person anymore. Can't be, not after everything that's happened.
I slip out of the kitchen through the servant entrance, navigating familiar corridors toward the stable access points. The transition from upper estate to lower levels is gradual—stone growing rougher, air growing warmer, ambient magic thrumming through the walls with increasing intensity. My body responds to the environment with recognition that should be impossible, my feet finding the most efficient path without conscious thought.
The stables are quieter than usual when I descend into them, most of the beasts settled into their afternoon lull. The air carries its familiar combination of heat, sulfur, and something faintly metallic that clings to the back of my throat. I pause on the walkway, scanning the enclosures for signs of Malrec's presence.
Azhrael notices me first. The massive beast shifts in his containment bay, his luminous eyes tracking my movement with the focused attention he reserves exclusively for me. The binding wards hum as I approach, recognizing my magical signature andallowing me passage—something that still feels surreal weeks after Malrec performed the ritual.
"Hey," I say softly, reaching through the barrier to run my palm along the armored ridge of Azhrael's jaw. His skin is warm beneath my touch, textured like living obsidian with heat pulsing just beneath the surface. He leans into the contact with a rumbling sound that vibrates through my arm, his usual volatile energy settling into something calmer.
Being near him always brings a strange sense of peace—like touching something essential I didn't know I'd lost. I linger longer than necessary, letting my fingers trace the familiar contours of his face while he watches me with those unsettling, intelligent eyes.
"You know something I don't," I tell him, not really expecting an answer. "About me. About him. About whatever this is."
Azhrael's response is a low, resonant sound that could mean anything. But his gaze shifts briefly toward the exit leading to the feeding pastures, a deliberate movement that feels almost communicative.
