Mal's palace reminded Vectra of grave soil after rain. Even though his residence was by far the most opulent structure in town, only the inner circle of His Eminence knew just how bleak and sepulchrous the Bishop's taste was.
The man's penchant for dramatics could only be outdone by his cruelty. Somewhere beneath the floor, the souls Malach had already sentenced murmured in their eternal sleep.
Theron walked ahead of her, illuminated by the green light of fireflies floating around his head.
He caught one on his index finger and kissed his little spy.
Vectra followed him into the inner chamber, where the Venerated Bishop of the Seven Realms waited.
Malach stood beside a long obsidian table, the large, asymmetrical sleeves of his black robe rolled somewhat back, revealing his wrists. The Pen of Judgment hung at his throat exactly as it always had—suspended from a chain of matte black prayer beads, though no god but Theron would ever hear his prayers.
The Bishop turned. Vectra watched the moment recognition of Theron's face struck. Malach's entire body softened, as if gravity itself had changed rules on how to fold around an object.
"Hello," he smiled, brighter than the sun.
He crossed the chamber quickly, too quickly for someone whose bones were dust held together by the primordial chaos.
Theron met him halfway and the two embraced like men who had survived a war, even though no such thing as war or conflict could exist in a paradise Theron created and Mal executed.
Vectra leaned against a pillar and watched.
This was always the same. Malach held Theron longer than necessary. His hands pressed into the Stormwright's back an inch too deep, as if he were confirming that the body in his arms was solid and not a memory. Theron clapped him on the shoulder in response.
"Ran out again?" Theron asked lightly.
Malach huffed a quiet laugh.
"Your creations sin constantly," he replied.
His voice was soft, smooth, dangerously gentle.
Vectra did not particularly dislike Malach; it was not his predisposition, or his constant lying that got on her nerves and prickled her stomach with an urge to vomit bile straight at Mal's perfect, dead face.
It was his cowardice. How could a living corpse have any reservations about living fully? How could a man with an instrument of life and death around his neck be satisfied with the position of a mere secretary.
Believers looked at Theron with fear. Malach looked at him the way dying men looked at sunlight.
It was embarrassing, honestly. Vectra walked over and sat on the edge of the obsidian table. "Shall we get on with it?" she said.
Malach nodded, though his eyes never fully left Theron.
"Sit."
Theron obeyed easily, dropping into the carved chair Malach had prepared. It was designed for rituals like this—armrests carved from ancient bone, a shallow basin beneath the wrist.
Malach moved as carefully as possible. From a small box he removed a bundle of pale green leaves—fairy herbs from Urmen. He crushed them between his fingers.
The air filled with a cool sweetness. Pain would still come, but the edge would soften. Malach first helped Theron remove his outer tunic, then placed his hand gently beneath Theron's wrist.
For a moment he simply held it.
Vectra rolled her eyes.
The veins in Theron's arm glowed faintly beneath jade-white skin, something darker moving through them like lightning trapped beneath ice.
The force that had pulled Malach's soul out of Mullano and forced it into flesh again. The force that kept him alive. Malach lifted the fountain pen from his throat.
The nib gleamed like a blade.
"This may sting," Malach murmured. Theron snorted. "Get on with it, little bunny."
Malach's lips stretched into an apologetic grin.
Then he pressed the pen into Theron's wrist. The nib pierced cleanly. Black chaos blood welled instantly, thick and luminous, swirling with fragments of Kaen.
The first drop fell into a waiting vial.
It hissed softly.
Chaos burned glass before it settled.
Malach worked carefully, guiding the flow with the nib, filling each vial with slow patience. Vectra stepped behind Theron. His silver hair fell loose over his shoulders.
Without asking, she gathered it into her hands and began braiding. It was something she had done since they were children. Theron's hair had a mind of its own and although he often said it gave him headaches, Vectra insisted on a respectable presentation.
Malach spoke quietly as he worked.
Reports of the fireflies who besides the three beings in this very room knew where the Por o Por bridge lay in each realm and crossed without any need to ask Theron's permission, since they carried his black blood in their puny little bodies.
Theron listened with half-lidded eyes while chaos dripped from his veins and stained the stone basin beneath him.
The blood burned his skin where it ran down his arm. Vectra could see it blister. Mal's perfectly sculpted jaw went rigid. But he didn't stop. One vial. Two. Three. Four. Each one filled with the ink meant to kill criminals.
Vectra tied the braid off neatly.
Theron leaned back. Malach wiped a streak of chaos blood from his wrist with the edge of his sleeve, as if it were nothing more than spilled wine.
Eight vials now.
Nine.
Ten.
When the final vial was sealed, Malach set the pen back to its cover hanging around his neck.
Then he lifted Theron's hand. For a moment, he simply held it. Then he ran his thumb across the puncture wound. The skin sealed instantly.
Not a scar left behind.
Chaos retreated beneath the surface like a tide pulling away from shore, tearing apart its vessel from the inside. His organs, his spirit, his mind.
Theron flexed his fingers.
"All set?" he asked.
Malach nodded. But his eyes lingered.
Just a moment longer than they should have. Vectra watched the Bishop of all the realms looking at the man who had unknowingly dragged him out of death and into a life he had never asked for. And Theron—Theron smiled at him like he would smile at a trusted brother. Admiration. Respect. Warmth. Everything except the one thing Malach wanted. Vectra sighed quietly.
Some tragedies were wrapped in beautiful feelings.
This one just happened to look like devotion.
***
Milada cradled Ari's limp form, the wooden deck of the Lioness swaying beneath her, and the sea mist clinging to her eyelashes. Bonnie had hushed her own griefs long enough to stare at the two strangers Kin had hauled from the water. For a moment Milada considered lying – inventing a fever, a wound, anything mortal and easy – but Zora bumped her ankle with her head, as if reminding her why they had boarded this vessel.
"My brother is sick," she said finally, her voice hoarse. "I've never seen him like this. I… I don't know what he needs."
Kin frowned, scanning Ari's ashen face. "What kind of sick?" he asked bluntly. "Is it medical or magical?"
Milada opened her mouth, then closed it again, heat rushing up her neck. She could not tell these strangers about divine light and stars burning cold beneath Ari's skin, about primordial storms and the way she could feel his suffering like a pulled thread in her own ribcage.
"It's… it's magical."
Bonnie whistled low, exchanging a look with Kin. "If it's magic," she said, brushing a curl of dragon-metal hair from Zora's flank, "then you're in luck. We know a place. A people."
Kin looked straight into her burning green eyes. Are you trying to get them killed?
"They live in the woods near the lake – keep to themselves. They're the best at mending what most would call unfixable."
"Why do they live separate?" Milada asked quietly, tightening her grip around Ari's shoulders. "Are they dangerous?"
Bonnie glanced toward the dark horizon, where the forested foothills rose above the sea. "They don't live in Aazor because the good folk of Aazor don't want them there," she said with a hollow laugh. "They work with dead flesh and ashes. They speak to things we can't see. People fear them. Some say they worship the demon god Theron."
Milada's grip on Ari tightened.
"We trade when we must and stay out of each other's way the rest of the time," Bonnie continued.
"It will be dangerous if you go empty‑handed," Kin added. His voice was soft, but there was no warmth in it. "The Vlax Kaeni don't give their gifts for free. If you want them to help your… brother," he nodded at Ari, "then you'll need to offer something valuable in return. Do you have anything to bargain with?"
Milada thought of diamonds raining for a decade across Tripolis, of her father's vaults and Sibelle's light itself. She had nothing on her now except the clothes on her back and the weight of her godly duty. Zora pressed her head into Milada's hand, purring, as if to say: trust me. The tribe of Vlax Kaeni might be her only chance to save Ari's light.
"I'll find something," she said, though her stomach flipped at the thought. Kin's eyes darkened, reading the uncertainty she could not mask. He nodded toward the shore, where the mist thinned into pine forest and shadow.
"Then the Vlax Kaeni it is," Bonnie murmured, though Milada could hear unease in her tone. "Hold on tight. We'll put into port and guide you as far as their camp. After that… you're on your own."
Milada stared at the treeline, at the secrets it held. Every fiber in her wanted to turn back to Millenia's marble halls and the safety of Celestial law. But Ari groaned quietly against her chest, and Zora's tail flicked once with urgency. There was no other way forward but into the woods and toward a tribe known for saving souls and exacting their price.
***
Milada glanced back as Kin and Bonnie retreated, leaving her at the invisible line where the earth had been etched with interlocking runes. The soil shimmered faintly, woven with talismans meant to flare at anything foreign. She shifted Ari higher on her back, his weight lax and fever‑warm, and stepped across the barrier.
Nothing happened. No crackle of energy, no hiss of warning. The runes lay dormant beneath her bare feet. Zora — a sleek white puma now, with jade‑bright eyes and sabre‑like incisors — watched from Bonnie's side until Milada was inside, then padded after her.
Beyond the line, the world changed. The air cooled, the scent of rich loam and something sweetly decayed enveloped her muddy thoughts.
Trees arched overhead like cathedral columns of Theron's palace. their branches hung with ribbons and bones. Flowers bloomed in shades she had no names for — deep violets and pale blues — among tombstones half‑buried in ivy. Shadows moved at the edges of her vision and she realised they were animals: a stag picking its way through the underbrush, translucent ribs showing under its skin; a fox with half a face missing, sniffing at her curiously; a flock of birds perched in the skeleton of a tree, feathers grey as ash and eyes like polished opal. They were dead, every one of them — or they should have been. Yet they moved with grace, unbothered by their wounds. Their presence pressed warmth into the gloom. Nothing here felt ravenous. Death and life coexisted as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
She thought of the Black Canon Bishop and his ink‑black veins. Malach had been a corpse given flesh again by primordial chaos, a vessel full of emptiness and hunger. He had radiated coldness and control, something calculated. Milada had only seen him visit Theron once, and she could not get that coldness out of her veins since then.
These creatures shone with a quiet peace. This place hummed with energy but not malevolence. Milada felt her pulse slow. Ari's breath against her neck rattled and she tightened her grip.
A movement ahead caught her eye. A girl appeared as if from nowhere, stepping out from behind a trunk. She looked no more than thirteen, with skin the colour of dark sapwood and tangled hair pinned up with a bone‑white comb. Her eyes, though, were deep and ancient. They met Milada's with a smile.
"Hello," she said softly. Her voice had the cadence of rustling leaves. "I am Soileen."
"I am El," El answered. Ari shivered against her back. "I need to find your healer," Milada replied, her voice thick with worry. "My brother—" She shifted her weight, indicating the limp man on her back. "He's… sick. I don't… I don't even know what it is."
Soileen's gaze flicked to Ari and back. She didn't flinch at the sight of his fevered skin or the faint gold glow that pulsed under it. Instead, she removed the pin from her hair and held it between thumb and forefinger. It was carved from a long, slender bone, the tip sharpened to a needle point. Without warning she pricked Milada's finger. Milada hissed in surprise as her skin broke. Gold ichor welled up and spilled over the white bone, glistening under the dim light.
Soileen's expression relaxed into a smile. "You bleed like the sun," she murmured. "Good. I can take you."
The girl tucked the pin back into her hair and gestured for Milada to follow. As they moved deeper into the valley of the Vlax Kaeni, the dead fox trotted alongside them like a guardian, the ghost‑stained flowers nodding in some unheard breeze. Milada let her mind quiet, trusting for the first time since she crossed worlds. In this strange, peaceful darkness, with Ari's head pressed against her shoulder and a young girl with old eyes leading the way, she felt — for one beat — hope.
***
Theron's fury rolled out of him in a shockwave that rattled the pillars of Storm Hall. At first it was childish—plates flung, tapestries torn from walls, a table snapped in half. But it grew, devouring his restraint. He strode through the great hall like a storm incarnate, a roiling mass of chaos that warped the air. Marble cracked under his bare feet. Crystal chandeliers shattered above him, raining down prisms that turned to dust before they touched his skin.
Vectra trailed him, silent. She'd seen this rage before, but never this raw, this personal. Each time he unleashed, the fabric of existence trembled a little more.
Theron burst from the palace into the diamond rain. Glittering shards sluiced from the dark sky, sizzling against the protective wards around Millenia. He stood beneath them and lifted his hands, the pulse of primordial chaos in his veins answering his call. The diamonds fell into his palms and bled into molten metal. He flung the liquid chaos outward, and where it landed, something monstrous grew.
They clawed their way out of the diamond mud—hulking figures of glistening stone, misshapen like nightmares. Their skins were facets, reflecting a thousand distorted faces. Their eyes were pits of blackness. They dripped a trail of shards and blood, their bodies a fusion of mineral and flesh. Not orcs, not demons, but soldiers carved from the same chaotic force that birthed Theron.
"Go," he commanded, his voice a peal of thunder that shook the ground. " Go to Kaen. Find my daughter. Cross every sea. Destroy anything that stands in your way. Bring Milada, Areilycus and Zora back to me."
The creatures bowed as one, the scraping of diamond against marble like screeching metal. Without another word, they scattered, disappearing into swirling portals—tiny tears in reality—opening onto other realms.
Vectra kept her face composed, though revulsion curled in her gut at the sight of the creatures. Her god had made something new again, and this time it was uglier than anything she could remember. She waited until the last of the diamond soldiers vanished before speaking.
"What are you going to do?" she asked, unable to keep the edge from her voice.
Theron turned to her, chaos still crackling in his aura. A slow, almost lazy smile softened the ferocity in his features.
"The executions are today. There is a performance to enjoy, and I would not miss it for the world."
***
Malach lay with his cheek pressed to Theron's ribs, feeling the slow drum of chaos beneath jade skin. Covaxani's black rain whispered against the glass. Theron lay on an altar draped with velvet, sweat drying on his skin, silver hair spread out like a fan underneath him. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths.
His heart was already dead. Mal expected his lungs to follow.
He traced idle circles on his bare stomach, ink-stained hand gentle. He traced idle circles on his bare stomach, ink-stained hand gentle.
"Why so soon?" Malach murmured, tilting his head to brush his lips against Theron's throat. "The insects will think something's wrong."
Theron sighed. He kept his eyes closed. "Something is wrong. My daughter fled. Or was kidnapped. I'm not sure."
Malach stilled. He lifted himself on one elbow to look down at Theron's face. There was no surprise in his features, only a flicker of pity. "What can I do?"
Theron's eyes opened then. The red irises were gone, replaced by his natural mismatched green and gray. "Why would she leave? I gave her everything. She had books and gardens and oceans. I loved her. She must have been kidnapped."
Malach's mouth tightened. He cupped Theron's face. "You are a father to seven worlds–"
"Eight."
Mal swallowed dry. "Eight. She lives under your shadow. No one thrives there. Maybe she… wants more."
The bishop's fingers traced the chaos scars on Theron's arm—black lines where he had bled him earlier that morning.
Malach pressed a kiss to the mark.
"And you?" Theron asked, teasing half-smile curling one corner of his mouth. "Do you also want more from me?"
"Always," Mal grinned.
Theron reached up, thumb stroking Malach's cheek. "You have everything I can give," he said softly.
Malach smiled without humor. "I know." He kissed Theron once more, a deep, lingering kiss without an end in sight. Until Theron ended it.
"I want to see you perform," Theron said abruptly.
"I want to watch you," Theron said after a silence, his voice soft, almost conversational. "Tomorrow, when you pass judgment."
Malach stiffened slightly. He turned his face away so that Theron couldn't see his eyes.
"You haven't watched in so long for a reason. The people have come to associate the blood with my hand, not yours. If you stand beside me as I write their sins into their skin, resentment will fester toward you. It's bad enough that they fear us. You want them to hate you, too?"
Theron gave a careless shrug. "Why should it matter? Justice is justice. Sinners shouldn't resent it."
"It matters because they're your people," Malach insisted quietly. "Because you should care if their hope turns to bitterness."
"They are mongrels from Kaen," Theron reminded him. "They should be grateful I rescued them from the abyss of my brother's reign."
Theron regarded him for a long moment, his mismatched eyes unreadable. "Walk with me in the Guomey district after," he offered, as if that could offset the dread spectacle. "There's a new market. I hear they're brewing fig wine again."
Malach's brow arched. "Always a bribe." He sighed. "Fine. After your… festivities."
Theron's grin was boyish. He pushed up to sit on the edge of the altar. "If I'm going to parade about in front of these mortals, I suppose I'll need something to wear."
"Please," Malach muttered. "For once."
Theron rose, naked and unashamed. His body was scarred, beautiful in its imperfection, still and yet overflowing with barely contained lightning. He snapped his fingers, and his flesh melted and reformed like molten glass. In the space of a heartbeat, he was a statuesque man with mahogany skin and braided black hair.
He posed, hands on hips, grinning. "No?"
Malach's eyes slid over the form, appreciative despite himself. "Nice. But no."
Another change—a short, wiry man with a face like carved jade, then a towering giant with golden tattoos swirling across his chest. Each time, Malach shook his head, the corners of his mouth twitching despite his annoyance.
Theron laughed. "You're impossible to please." Then his form rippled once more and resolved into that of a woman. She was tall, with hair the color of burnished copper and eyes like new leaves. Freckles dusted her cheeks like stars. Even in feminine guise, there was an unmistakable arrogance to the tilt of her chin.
"How about this?" he asked, voice higher, playful.
Malach's reaction was immediate and sharp. He recoiled, anger flashing in the blackness of his eyes. "That's not funny."
Theron's expression faltered, surprise flickering. "Jealous?" he teased, but his tone was softer now, apologetic.
"How would you feel if I appeared as my ex-wife?" Malach shot back, reaching for his discarded robe and pulling it over his shoulders.
"Well that would be impossible–you can't shapeshift."
"Screw you, Theron."
A shadow of regret crossed Theron's freckled face. He let the illusion flow away, skin shifting back to familiar silver and pale jade, mismatched eyes reappearing, silver hair falling in loose waves around his shoulders. He dropped to his knees in front of Malach, hands splayed on Malach's knees, head bowed. The movement was almost reverent, but there was a familiar wicked glint in those storm-colored eyes when he looked up.
"My lady of judgment," he murmured theatrically, lips curving. "I humbly beg your forgiveness."
He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the back of Malach's hand. Malach tried to maintain his glare, but the corner of his mouth softened.
"Idiot," he whispered, but his fingers curled to hold Theron's hand in place.
***
Inside Covaxani's holiest hall—a nave carved into the mountain rock and vaulted with diamond veins—rows of pews faced a vast portrait of Theron. The painted eyes followed all who entered; the plaque beneath, etched in obsidian, read in sharp block lettering: As Above, So Below. This was no temple by name, but every kneeler and torch testified to worship. People packed the benches, shoulders pressed together in silence.
Theron slipped in through a side door, hood shadowing his mismatched eyes. He took a place near the back, folding into the crowd. Somewhere to his left, a little girl with huge brown eyes stared. Her small hand lifted, as if to tug on her mother's sleeve, but Theron touched a finger to his lips and winked. The girl nodded solemnly and looked away, clutching her doll tighter.
His gaze drifted up to his own painted likeness. For a breath he saw a different face superimposed over it. Someone effortlessly good, who had insisted that mortals could judge for themselves. He had allowed thieves to keep their hands, let adulterers beg forgiveness from the wronged rather than the law.
"We live in co-existence with them," Kaen had said, swirling water in a basin, gutting cods for 'them'. "I'm not interested in judging anyone. They have their own justice."
Theron had scoffed then. Now, watching Malach prepare his pen, he wondered. Did Kaen believe he could cure evil by ignoring it? It had left their cradle realm bleeding from within. It had left Theron to clean up the mess. He tightened his jaw. Mercy had gotten Kaen removed from the throne.
Down the central aisle of polished stone, five figures knelt on padded cushions. Chains hung loose at their wrists. Behind them, the altar gleamed with polished bones.
Above it, candles flickered around the portrait of the Stormwright, throwing shadows that danced like tongues of flame.
Malach entered from a side passage. The crowd surged forward with a collective inhale. With his hair tied back, the Venerated Bishop looked every inch the saint—save for the vial of shimmering chaos-ink that hung from his neck, glinting like trapped lightning. He stopped before the prisoners and lifted his pen.
"Do you repent?" he asked, tone almost gentle.
Each of the five answered in turn. "Yes," whispered the middle-aged woman with wide hands. "Forgive me," breathed the teenage boy with scuffed boots. Others mumbled through tears, their voices tremulous, their eyes on the floor.
Malach inclined his head. "I forgive you," he said softly.
Then he dipped his pen into the vial. Chaos-ink clung to the nib. He took the woman's chin in his gloved hand, tilted her head back. Across her forehead he wrote in quick, graceful strokes: adulterer. Each letter hissed as it met her skin. For a heartbeat the word glowed white, then the ink sank. Flames flared beneath the letters. Her scream tore through the hall as she convulsed, skin blackening, body crumbling to ash. The scent of charred flesh wafted over the kneelers. A few flinched; no one fled.
Next, Malach grasped the teenage boy's hand. "Thief," he inscribed into the center of the palm. The chaos-ink burrowed. The boy's fingers clenched, then splintered. His arm from wrist to elbow charred away, skin flaking, bone shattering under invisible heat. He collapsed forward, sobbing, the stump of his arm clutched to his chest. He did not die. He remained, maimed, forgiven, weeping.
A liar had his tongue burned clean away. A murderer's chest burst open as the word killer sizzled across his sternum, heart shriveling to coal. A slanderer lost the flesh of her ears, leaving only smooth bone.
When the last scream faded, he stepped back and lifted his hands.
The congregation dropped to their knees. "Our lord's hand of judgment, we love and protect you," they chanted, voices rising in eerie harmony, palms pressed together. The words echoed off the stone, vibrating in Theron's bones.
Theron watched, heart a tight fist. He remembered Kaen laughing as he tossed a bar of gold to a pickpocket and told him to feed his children.
He pulled his hood lower and walked out.
***
Malach's fingers laced easily through Theron's as they left the portico of the judgment hall. The crowds still hummed with post-sentence fervor, but the bishop led him down a quieter lane. Covaxani's streets were narrow and uneven, worn smooth by centuries of feet.
Fireflies hung from every archway and column. They clung to people's hair and garments, sparked in bowls of soup, wove themselves into garlands and jewelry. In the twilight of the pleasure realm, it seemed as if the world itself breathed Theron's light.
Theron let himself be led, shoulders sloping under his cloak. His mood, which had only sharpened in the gallery, coiled inside him. Malach felt it through the warm grip in his palm, in the way Theron's footsteps remained steady even as his mind clearly churned. Still, the Stormwright kept his hood low, leaving only the gleam of mismatched eyes just out of everyone's line of sight.
They stopped in a small courtyard shielded by carved stone. A trickling fountain bubbled to one side, its water glowing faintly blue from the pinpoints of firefly light that drifted through it. Malach leaned against the fountain's edge, drawing Theron close.
"You're thinking of him," he said softly.
"You know I am," Theron replied. His voice was lower than it had been in the hall; anger had given way to something tighter and colder. "What sort of game is Kaen playing? He never was content to leave us in peace." He shook his head, a curl of silver hair slipping free. "I hate that bastard so much, Mal."
"Don't lie," Mal said, tucking the loose strand of Theron's hair behind his ear. "I know you were shocked to learn of his death."
Theron looked up at the fireflies hovering above, seeing not their gentle glow but another time, another world.
"He cannot die," he said. "Kaen is immortal. All who came after, all who crawled out of the ocean, all who stayed behind, come from his imagination. Yet he let himself be felled, just so he could… disappear? And now El is gone. Do you know what that means, Mal?"
"Is it …possible that Kaen did it to protect someone? Who would give up the throne of the cradle realm for no reason? Kaen might be a lazy good-for-nothing, but would he truly yield the throne to his crazy wife of all people?"
Theron all but ignored Mal's line of thinking. "It means this is no accident. It means someone planned it. He planned it. He took her as a bargaining chip."
Malach stroked his thumb over Theron's knuckles. He believed Kaen, for all his wildness, had loved his brother as fiercely as Theron had loved him. But to say that now would be to lay flint to tinder. The only power inside Theron stronger than his ability to grant life was his paranoia.
So he kissed Theron on the mouth instead. Fireflies scattered up around them in a sudden, shimmering cloud, the flutter of their wings generating a soft: As above, so below. As above, so below. As above, so below.
Theron's lips softened beneath his, then hardened again. When they broke apart, Malach pressed their foreheads together. "Trust me," he whispered. "You can always trust me. We will find your daughter."
Theron gave him a long, searching look, and for a moment the storm in his eyes ebbed. He let out a breath that carried the faintest hint of a laugh. "Very well," he murmured, brushing his nose against Malach's. "But after this, you're spending a night in my dungeons."
Malach's grin cracked through the tension. "You promise?"
***
Malach stood on the palace balcony for a long moment after Theron's departure, his hand still curled around the empty pen that had drawn judgment in flesh.
He reached for a bottle of chaos ink. He stared at it for a long time before he put the throat of the bottle to his lips. The ink—the chaos—slithered down his throat in a single smooth swallow. A black cloud unfurled from his mouth, rising and curling over the firefly-lit streets of Covaxani. It clung low, thick and opaque as smoke, smothering the flittering fireflies that dutifully carried secrets to the Baron's spies. In minutes, an entire section of the pleasure district lay swathed in darkness, the cloud settling into a watchful dome that disrupted the network of glowing wings.
They were blind now, unable to see or hear, reduced to the machines they were - hollow, without a soul.
He made his way through the tangled alleyways to the modest house at the far edge of town. Its door was a narrow strip of wood, marked with chalk. As above, so below.
A woman's voice answered his knock, curt as a door slam. "No. Go away, Malach." "Maris," he whispered. He knelt on the cracked stone before her threshold, pressed his forehead to the dirt, and said the words he had thought he would never have to say: "Please forgive me. I did not expect him to watch. I swear by whatever soul I have left, I wouldn't have taken his arm if I had known."
The latch clicked. The door opened a fraction. Maris's face was carved sharp by anger. Lines of sleepless worry framed her eyes. "If you had known?" she echoed. "Would it have mattered?" But she stepped aside, and Malach crawled past her into a one-room home that smelled of herbs and fish and sickness.
The boy, Erdan, lay on a pallet in the corner, his stump swaddled in rags. Sweat slicked his brow; his eyes were glassy with pain. He turned his head when he heard footsteps. "Mal," he breathed, voice ragged. He struggled to sit up with his one remaining arm.
Malach went to his knees again, as if Erdan were a king. "I'm so sorry," he said, reaching out to touch the boy's shoulder. "I didn't mean—"
"I forgive you." The words were barely out before Maris snapped, "You don't have to forgive him. He took your arm." The boy flinched but didn't retract his forgiveness.
Malach's throat tightened. He uncorked one of his vials and poured its shimmering ink over the angry red stub. Chaos leapt from the ink, knitting muscle and nerve and bone. The room filled with the scent of ozone. A hand grew, curling fingers one by one as if learning to move. Erdan stared, then let out a choked sob, throwing his arms—both of them—around Malach's neck.
"Thank you, Mal!"
"Next time when you're hungry, send for me," Mal said, returning the hug.
In silence she led him to the kitchen and began to make tea out of habit. Her hands shook. Malach sat at her table, touching nothing. Dead people did not eat; his body ran on unnatural tides. He watched steam rise from the pot, smelled bitter roots and mint.
"Is he gone? That demon of yours?"
Mal looked at his boots. "For now."
"The cloud won't hide us anymore," Maris said after a while. "That snitch, the Baron –he's idiotic and drunk, but what if one day he sobers up? Will your bribes work then? What of our rebellion?"
"Don't call it a rebellion," Malach said, keeping his voice low. "I'll never be part of anything that harms him."
Maris took her run-down teacup and ordered Mal to drink. "To soothe your throat, Bishop. Drink."
She watched the man gulp it down, pretending not to notice his wincing. "I know you are grateful to him. The gift of life is not an easy one to forget. But your dawdling won't do anymore. Pick a side. Him or us."
"They are not my countrymen," Malach said quietly. "Not all of us are from Kaen." It was true; he had been born on Mullano, made flesh again by chaos, not by ocean. He had never seen the cradle realms except through Theron's eyes.
"Slaves from Kaen keep pouring through the gate. They die here, and their souls can't rest. Our people keep coming to serve in that den of inequities the Baron calls a pleasure house. In life or death, they can't leave. They are doomed. They don't even remember why they should fight."
"I wish you didn't remember, Maris," Mal said, clutching the wood of the cup.
"But I do," she said. "Why do you help us?" Maris demanded, hands closing around the cracked mug she had made out of necessity. "You send the black clouds to blind the fireflies, you bribe that fool the Baron, you lie to Theron's face. If you love nothing but yourself and him, why?"
Malach stared at the table. Peach-blossom eyes, always so full of mischief, went unguarded for a heartbeat, showing raw bewilderment. "I don't know," he whispered. He stood then, the chair legs scraping on the floor. "I don't know."
Maybe because Theron had been made an anomaly, and Mal himself being an anomaly brought comfort to his dead heart. What would happen were he to remain the only anomaly in the world?
He stepped out into the street again. The cloud he had summoned hung above like a protective wing but felt suddenly thin. Maris's small house remained behind him, its door ajar, the scent of tea turning to ash. In the distance, fireflies were beginning to find new paths through the darkness.
***
Inside the innermost chamber of Mal's private dwellings, Vectra stood before the vials of chaos ink, one silver hand cradling a bottle as if she were weighing a soul. The ink swirled, hungry. When Malach came through the archway, his heavy cloak damp with the oily cloud he had loosed over the realm, he saw her fingers poised as if to tip the glass.
"You wouldn't dare," he murmured. His voice was even, amused, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of weariness.
Vectra didn't flinch. "Where have you been?" she asked, setting the vial down with exaggerated care. "You look … singed."
"It's none of your concern," he replied, moving past her. He unlaced his robe, baring the scars and calluses of someone caught between life and death, then retrieved his journal of names—a ledger of all who waited under his pen. He sat at a stone table and opened the book, ready to write.
Vectra watched, eyes following the dark ink stains on his hands. "Enjoying my power, are you?" she said softly. "The pen. The judgment. It's not easy, is it? Sometimes the ink burns too deep. Sometimes the laws feel like strangling vines."
"I'm dead," he reminded her. "Technically, I don't have feelings."
Vectra scoffed. "That is a load of shit."
He flipped a page with more force than necessary, ink glinting on his nails. "Ah, Justitia," he exhaled. Once she was visibly shaken by the audacity, he lifted his gaze. "As much as I appreciate your lectures on theology – I feel that is not the reason you left Tripolis in the middle of a crisis."
She crossed her arms, the dim light accentuating the sharp lines of her jaw. "And what are you doing to mitigate the crisis?"
"What am I supposed to do? My place is here."
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but you have some of Theron inside you at the very moment. With the power of the pen, you could hunt down Theron's daughter and punish the perpetrator."
Mal laughed, the sound hollow. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you are trying to get me killed."
Vectra clutched her invisible pearls. "I would never," she said, face as innocent as morning dew. "Then again, it's not like Theron really loves you. He'd probably forgive me for killing you in a day."
Mal stared down at the vials, each one reflecting a distorted version of their faces. "Why do you hate me so much? It can't be because you miss your pen. You were burdened by it, you asked Theron to relieve you of your duty. So, what is it? Tell me. Because this feud of ours is hurting Theron more than me."
Vectra's expression flickered. "I pity you," she said simply. "And I cannot stand pitiful things."
Mal slid the journal back into his desk.
"Go away, Justitia. Go back to your kitchen. Brewing maliciousness is what you're best at."
Vectra smiled. "Did you know that gods break like glass when cracked just right?"