Page 33 of Malicent (Seven Devils #1)

Millicent

I WALK AROUND THE MAGE quarters taking note of their hands on the ward barrier again.

Right, left, half square.

That sequence will give me access to their wing, including the artifacts Nora wants. I let myself smile as the plan Nora’s familiar has relayed to me turns in my head.

Cage will feel my revenge soon.

I don’t linger. I walk the second floor of the castle, enjoying the solitude this hall provides.

The entire right wall is a series of open arches.

There is no glass, just carved stone allowing the lingering heat of the day to escape on the occasional breeze.

Through the gaps, the sounds of the training yard drift upward: clashing steel, shouted commands, and grunts of exertion.

Below, guards and knights move through drills, sharpening their skills. On some days, the mages join them, practicing hand-to-hand combat and swordplay. When the vermin are out of sight, they spar with spells, weaving magic into tense standoffs.

I spent a portion of the morning with Iris, only to come up empty-handed. She still doesn’t know what’s mutating the creatures or how the morbid girl shattered my mental shield with just a touch. Still, I stayed longer than I meant to. I’ve started to enjoy our talks.

I don’t do well sitting still. It gives my mind too much room to wander. The anxious energy inside me fizzes like carbonation with no release, so I pace the castle, waiting for it to pass.

Peering down into the yard below, I see no mages today—only guards running drills beneath the sun.

Kalix leads them through a series of evolutions, his voice booming over the clatter of steel. “Luca, switch sparring partners. Choose someone stronger.”

The boy obeys at once, hurrying to find his new opponent.

Even among the dozens of men, Kalix stands out.

He towers over them all, his shoulders broad enough to dwarf anyone beside him.

Even from here, distance does little to hide the way muscle ripples beneath his tunic.

He moves like someone born to command, but it’s odd how graceful he navigates the space for a man his size.

He is captain of the guard after all; still, something about his strength feels…off, unnatural, too much.

Training has always helped with my anxiety back home. Movement gave my mind something to cling to. Now, with Kalix down there, I hesitate.

Living among vermin hasn’t been as intolerable as I imagined it would be. That alone should terrify me.

There’s a warmth between Iris and Kalix—a closeness I’ve never shared with anyone outside of Arcadia and my mother. How did she manage that…with a human? Are there other witches who’ve softened to mortals the way she has?

Cage’s words echo in my mind; in hindsight, they’re sharper now. I’ve never left the coven or seen what the world holds beyond the twisted woods of home. If there are witches out there who’ve fallen for mortals, I wouldn’t know.

Arcadia always returned with fun trinkets and wild stories. She was happy when she told them. She was happy.

The thought claws at my chest, burrowing deep and hollowing me out, just like the trees we’d find, eaten from the inside by termites. I rub the center of my sternum, trying to summon warmth to press away the ache.

Disgust follows quickly. I curl my fingers into a fist.

This is weakness. My sisters would say I’m going mad. Nora would agree.

I yearn for comfort and the fondness of humans. I’m entertaining thoughts I can’t even name. It’s the newness of it all, a novelty that will fade. I will settle.

I know who I am, what I am. And I am not weak.

I invite the numbness back. I let it harden in my chest like stone—let it quiet the noise.

Iris's sweet voice breaks through my thoughts like a bird’s song.

“Gawking at the guards?” she teases, her cheeks round with amusement.

I laugh dryly. “Absolutely not. I think being cooped up in that lab of yours is making you see things.”

I turn to look at her. Her hair is a mess, frazzled and damp from hours of work. One strap of her overalls hangs loose against her ribs, the other barely clinging to her shoulder.

“Sooo,” she drawls, sliding up beside me, “the clenched fists aren’t from some desperate yearning for a man's flesh?”

She leans over the sand-colored ledge, resting her forearms on the warm stone.

I join her, mirroring the pose; my eyes drift to the sparring guards below. Repulsion balls up low in my throat at the suggestion I yearn for their flesh in any fashion outside of consuming them.

“How do you do it?” I ask, barely above a whisper. “How can you be around them so easily—sleep with them…for pleasure?”

“I can create life. I can bring things back, even if they’re not quite the same as before. That might be hard for you to understand, but to me, they’re just like us. When I revive them, their heart beats the same as yours. As mine.”

“Your father was human. So was mine. That makes us more alike than you think.”

I frown. “I never knew my father. I imagine he’s dead. My mother was a kind, soft woman. Sometimes I wonder if she killed him…or did as you do.”

Iris smiles faintly. “I’ve met witches in love with humans. I found it beautiful. I believe all life has worth. Our differences make us interesting—make the world vibrant.”

She glances at me, her voice gentle. “May I ask…why do you call them vermin? What did your coven teach you?”

I hesitate. I don’t mention that the word came from the Nightmother herself, the first time she ever spoke to me. She doesn't like being spoken of to outsiders. Only her chosen—her children—can carry her name.

Instead, I offer a different truth.

“The rumors say we lure humans back to the coven to be slaughtered. We did perform those rites but only outside the coven grounds. Even those have mostly died out.” The unnoticed tightness in my chest loosens as I sidestep any mention of the Nightmother.

I pause, chewing the inside of my cheek. The words catch in my throat. “We discovered our own blood works better in rituals.”

My thumb finds the ring I always spin when such memories resurface; I need to ground myself. I twist it hard, chasing comfort while visions rise: the sting of a blade, the loss of strength, and the way my sisters had to carry me, limp and bleeding, back to my room.

“That sounds awful,” Iris says softly. “But I’m not surprised. Power always demands a price, and most are willing to pay anything.”

Her tone is carefully controlled—understanding—but held back. It’s as if she’s resisting the pull of her own memories.

What has she given up for power?

“I would apologize for prying,” I begin.

She cuts in with a smile. “Apologizing doesn’t seem like your style.”

“It’s not exactly something my sisters and I do,” I admit, lips twitching. “What I was going to say is…I would apologize for prying, but you’re nosey.”

The joke lands, but her smile falters when I ask, “What have you paid?”

She hesitates. Her finger traces the rough edge of the stone ledge.

“My sister,” she says finally, “she took the other half of my soul. I haven’t gotten it back.

She exhales. “My coven took my sanity too. Necromancers…when we’re practicing, we feel like gods. I was a god. Nothing, and no one, could stop me. I was the strongest of the younger witches. Except for her.”

Her voice drops. “I lost sight of what life meant. I turned it into a circus; whatever I wanted, I took. My hands are soaked in blood, and the worst part is, I never felt remorse. Not then.”

“The high of creation—of pulling life back from death—was too sweet. It dulled everything else. I was untouchable—superior.”

She stares into the yard below. Her eyes settle on Kalix, as if anchoring herself.

“When I stopped…” Her voice trembles, “it was like coming off the finest drug I’d ever injected straight into my veins.”

“What made you stop?” I lower my gaze to the yard below, giving her space.

“My sister,” she says. “Eden was kind—kinder than me, even. Then the elders started holding special sessions with her. She changed and started hearing voices. She became violent…paranoid. I had to get us out.”

She rubs her hands together, still staring at Kalix. He seems to anchor her—to hold her here.

“I was too late,” she says, voice breaking.

I don’t think. I just reach out and take her hand, squeezing it in mine.

“Regret and guilt have a permanent residence in my mind,” I say. It’s meant to comfort her, though I suspect our definitions of guilt are vastly different.

I don’t regret the lives I’ve taken or the rituals I’ve carried out.

My guilt lives somewhere else: on the battlefield between emotion and duty. It’s born from weakness and failure—in moments when I couldn’t save my sisters, my mother.

She squeezes back. “I hope you can fill other homes in your lovely head with better emotions to balance it out.”

She exhales slowly. Kalix glances up and catches sight of us. His gaze lingers on her.

He grins, raising his voice. “Enjoying the show, Rainbow?”

Her sadness vanishes beneath a wide smile.

She lets go of my hand, cupping her mouth, and shouts, “Take your pants off next!”

Kalix smirks, keeping eye contact as he reaches for his belt.

Her laughter erupts, chasing away the last of the shadows from her face.

My shadows remain, and in this moment, the difference between us is so clear.

There is nothing that can chase away the dark that draws my very features, stirs in my very blood.

For I am it.

Like Arcadia, Iris is light, with shadows of loss cast upon her. The difference is that she can step into the light and vanquish them.

How do I vanquish what connects the very particles of my being?

“Kalix!” she scolds, still laughing wildly and unrestrained.

Kalix clasps his belt again with a flourish and bows before turning back to the training yard.

One nearby guard earns a slap to the back of the head when Kalix catches him staring up at us.

“Eyes on your opponent!” he barks, grabbing the boy by the collar and shoving him back into the ring.