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14

MALPHAS

Ipace at the edge of the catacombs, my claws scraping along damp limestone as every muscle in my body tenses with restless energy. The gloom down here is thick and suffocating—far deeper and more oppressive than the ruined halls above. Tangles of roots puncture the walls, and rivulets of water slip from cracks overhead. The air reeks of old decay and stagnant pools. If not for the faint arc of magical flame dancing at my fingertips, we’d be lost in absolute darkness.

Valentina stands a short distance away, arms folded across her chest. She traces a half-faded carving in the wall, a sign that once belonged to an ancient priesthood. Her silhouette is lean and weary; the soft illumination from my black flame highlights every bruise on her skin and the haunted gleam in her eyes. I should be the one comforting her, but I don’t know how to mend what is broken between us.

We discovered this network of catacombs beneath the ruined temple by accident. Right when we thought we’d leave that battered structure behind, we stumbled on a hidden flight of stairs leading underground. Now we linger, half-hoping the monarchy’s hunters won’t think to search so deep. But theoppressive hush grinds on my nerves. We’re trapped here as effectively as if we’d been locked in a cage.

My side still aches from the gash I took in the fight days ago, the scabs reopening every time we scramble over debris. Yet it’s not physical pain that gnaws at me most. It’s the knowledge that if Valentina enacts the ritual to free me, she’ll die. That, more than any cut or burn, devours my peace.

I run a hand over the spines of my horns, an old gesture of agitation. The damaged stump near the top twinges, a phantom reminder of every vow that’s chained me to the monarchy. I can’t let her trade her life for mine.

Exhaling sharply, I crouch beside a broken statue that must have crashed down here centuries ago. Algae crawls over its features, turning the stone face into a grim mask. Shadows flick in the periphery of my visio. Usually, I can shape them with precision. Now, they flicker like anxious phantoms, reflecting my ragged emotions.

Valentina’s footsteps echo against the crypt walls. She moves quietly, always scanning for danger. Despite her exhaustion, she remains vigilant. The lines in her face deepen each day, and guilt knots my chest. She was never meant to carry this burden. My contract was mine to bear, my war with the King was personal, yet I pulled her into it and demanded more than I had any right to ask.

We found minimal supplies, a dusty jug that once held water, a moldy scrap of cloth we used to rebind her scratched arms. Not enough for the battles looming. My illusions are in tatters, the monarchy’s arcane wrath scalding me every time I resist their call. If we stay, we risk discovery. If we leave, we’re back in the open, vulnerable to the next ambush.

Darkness weighs on me, a heavy cloak I can’t shed. Each breath draws in the stench of rotting textiles and worm-riddled wood. Even the lesser demons that once followed mehave scattered, leaving no possible reinforcements. I grit my teeth, the vow’s silent punishment wrapping around my heart. The monarchy’s compulsion never truly relents, but it sharpens whenever I dwell on rebellion.

“Malphas?” Valentina’s voice is soft, trembling at the edges. She stands near the statue, her posture rigid. “We should try to find a way out. We can’t stay hidden underground forever.”

I rise, forcing my battered wings to fold tight against my back. “I know,” I say, trying to sound calm. My voice emerges rough, like shattered glass. “But I can’t walk into the open while my illusions are so fragile. If the monarchy spots us, they’ll pounce.”

She nods, stepping closer. Even smeared with dust and half-starved, she moves with a fierce grace. Her eyes, a silver hue, hold complicated emotions like anger, sorrow, and fear. She’s changed so much from the day I first saw her, bound and defiant in the ritual chamber.

A hush stretches between us, charged with an unspoken weight. She glances away, tension in her shoulders. “It’s not just about illusions,” she mutters. “You’re… not yourself lately.”

A laugh escapes my throat, humorless and sharp. “I lost my fortress. I’m branded a traitor. I have an oath that could kill me at any moment. And if you enact the ritual, you’ll die.”

She flinches at the bluntness of my words. My own chest tightens. I don’t want to wound her, but the truth is a blade I can’t sheathe.

She drags a hand through her hair, expression pained. “So we’re at an impasse. If I do nothing, you remain enslaved, forced to endure the monarchy’s punishments until you break or they recapture you. If I proceed with the ritual, I—” Her voice falters. “I can’t do it, Malphas. I’m sorry.”

My heart lurches, hammered by guilt. “I never wanted you to do it,” I say, raw sincerity coloring my tone. “I would never accept your death as my freedom.”

She blinks, tears glistening. “But you risked everything to protect me. Because you needed me alive for the contract’s unraveling, right?”

I swallow, recalling how I told her I wouldn’t let them kill her because it jeopardized my chance at freedom. That was only half-true. Now, the thought of losing her sears me in ways I can’t articulate.

“I said that,” I admit, voice ragged. “But it changed. You changed me.” The confession tastes foreign. “You’re not just my key to survival. You’re… I don’t know. A partner? An ally I can’t bear to lose?”

She inhales sharply, arms hugging herself. “Then why do we feel so hopeless?”

I can’t answer immediately. The tension in the catacombs is as thick as the muck under our boots. A trickle of water drips near my ear, forming a tiny puddle that reflects the glow from my black flame. My illusions swirl—bleak shapes that vanish the moment I focus.

Despair coils in my gut. I see no future except her death or my eternal servitude. I can’t let either happen, but the prophecy offers no third path. “The monarchy is relentless,” I murmur at last, trying to gather my scattered thoughts. “They’ll never stop. We can keep running, but eventually, we’ll slip.”

She crouches, brushing dust from a chunk of carved stone. “The archivist’s text said there might be variations—ways to interpret the prophecy differently.”

A hollow snort leaves my nose. “Most prophecies can be twisted, but that rarely alters the outcome. I’ve scoured ancient tomes for centuries. They all lead back to this notion of ‘blood for blood.’”

She rubs her forehead, strain etched across her features. “So we’re damned either way.”

Silence descends again, a black pit of hopelessness. My mind churns with memories—the fortress’s final stand, the illusions that crumbled around me, the monarchy branding me a traitor for refusing to kill her. For centuries, I obeyed, shaped illusions, crushed rebellions. Now I’m the rebellion. And I’m losing.

“Maybe,” I say, voice hollow. “But I refuse to die in these catacombs. We might fail, but we have to try something. The monarchy can be hurt, or else they wouldn’t send half their forces after us.”