Page 66 of The Maiden and Her Monster

With Nimrah pressing on top of her, Malka examined the sharp curves of the etching in her forehead: ??? .

Emet . Meaning truth. Meaning life. Three letters the Maharal had carved and shaped with Kefesh, bringing her into this world to defend the Yahad against oppression, against violence.

And like Tzvidi’s prayer to light his candle that went awry, swallowing the library in flames, Nimrah was about to destroy the very person she was meant to protect.

Malka had doubted herself every step of her journey.

Doubted herself when she took those first steps into Mavetéh, when no other woman had survived inside.

She doubted herself when she made a deal with the golem to rescue the Maharal, when she first used Kefesh on the bruised waral fruit.

When she stood in the prison waiting for the guards.

But when she saved Amnon from the bite of the creature, she didn’t doubt herself.

She didn’t have the time. She had to believe in herself, her faith, her connection to Yohev, and the love that grounded her.

She recalled the Maharal’s words in the forest, in the hidden synagogue which held the etrog plant:

The earth does not choose when we are or are not worthy of commanding it. Only we, as humans, doubt our abilities. When we forsake ourselves, that is when true failure happens.

Malka would believe in herself now. Chaia had. Nimrah had. Danya, Hadar, and Imma had. She deserved to believe in herself and the power she possessed.

Malka slowly released one of her hands from Nimrah’s wrist and guided her fingers toward Nimrah’s forehead. One-handed against Nimrah’s strength, she would not last long. But she didn’t need to last long. Only long enough to drag her finger across Nimrah’s stone.

Malka needed to breathe and believe in what she could do. What she could be. What she was.

“What are you doing?” Nimrah asked through gritted teeth.

Malka pressed her thumb to the carving of the first letter on Nimrah’s forehead—the Alef.

“Saving us both.” She closed her eyes and steeled herself, thinking of her faith and how Kefesh had felt pressed between her fingertips. She scratched her nail through the letter as she muttered a prayer.

The power of Kefesh flowed through her, the strength of it in her bones codified as belief. She had missed this feeling, of holiness and power, of shimmering prayer in her blood. She could’ve cried at the strength she felt—not physical, but in her heart, in her mind.

The stone crumbled underneath her fingernail as she commanded the letter to disappear, transforming the word from ??? , emet, truth, into ?? , met, death.

As soon as her prayer was done, Nimrah slumped over, the axe slipping from her grasp and clattering to the stone floor.

Malka trembled. Beside her, Nimrah was lifeless. Her eyes were open, yet no life gilded them. She did not breathe. Did not flinch. As still as those who died in Imma’s workroom.

Malka had not killed her in the way a blade would. She had commanded eternal sleep, until she was woken again. Her religion was made of many interpretations, and she had found one that saved her, one that did not break the rule of killing a creature made from Kefesh.

Shakily, Malka got to her feet, grabbing the axe between her hands.

Sévren stood from his chair, anger simmering his cheeks. “You—”

Malka squinted at the archway to the balcony and hoped she was not too late. “I will tell everyone what you’ve done, Sévren.”

“You think I have no power without her?” Sévren drew on his arm again, and one of the neglected wooden beams on the floor spiraled toward her.

She had just reached the balcony archway when the wood hit her between the knees, tripping her.

It had begun to rain, and freezing droplets pelted her face as her cheek slapped stone.

Still, he held Kefesh wrong. Drawing the commands into himself instead of the objects of the earth. Thinking his blood would pay some invisible cost.

“I am God-chosen, Malka,” he said, joining her on the balcony. More blood flowed from his nose, his eyes, his ears. His burgundy cassock darkened where the blood stained, creating black streaks across his middle, like the scratches from a lion’s claw. “I command your magic.”

“It’s killing you, Sévren.” Malka crawled to her knees. “You’ll be dead before you ever have the chance to rule.”

“Do you think I am afraid of the ultimate sacrifice? I have dedicated my life to this cause. Spending decades at Ev ? en’s side. Do you know how intentional I was to always be there? When tragedy struck, it was me at his side. Not his father. I made sure of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was easy enough to replace the king’s medicine with liquor every night. Until he could not go without. Until only the bottle could aid his pain. Until Ev ? en would have no father to turn to but me!”

He scraped his hand against his skin again. A vine flew through the archway and wrapped around Malka’s neck. She tugged at it with both hands, gasping.

Sévren wheezed. His eyes were bloodshot.

“I spent my life placating that boy to make him a martyr. Years planting the seeds to make the Valonian people understand. And I was rewarded by God for my commitment. The golem appeared again, after five years! Commanding her to kill Ev ? en was a sacrifice I had to make, so there would be no doubt left in their mind who was the true enemy.” He pointed to the square.

“And they have seen,” Malka choked out from the grip of the vine.

Sévren creased his brow. Cautiously, he turned, his face pale as stone when he noticed the crowd. Though Malka could not see them from her spot on the ground, Sévren’s face was confirmation enough.

Maybe if he were well, Sévren would’ve tried to placate the crowd with his charisma. But the Kefesh was killing him, driving him mad with pain. He knew he did not have long.

When he faced Malka again, his eyes blazed with the desire for vengeance.

His distraction had allowed Malka to escape from the vines. But now, Sévren raised his fist, teeth sharp against his thin mouth.

Malka barely dodged the blow, rolling toward the balcony column. Her head hit the stone hard, mind slowing as she readjusted. The archbishop lifted her by the shoulders and pressed her over the railing.

The crowd gasped below. Chaia yelled her name.

She peered down, finally seeing the amassed crowd. Vilém, Chaia, and a few of the magisters were closest, surrounded by the distressed mob who watched the scene above.

She fought against Sévren, but he was much stronger than her and she tilted over the railing.

She shot out her hands, grasping the edge of the balcony. Fear struck her, arms shaking under her dangling dead weight.

Sévren shook as he carved more commands into his arms, pelting sharp rocks toward her. But he was weakening, his magic unstable. The rocks missed her and flooded into the crowd below.

Chaia.

Malka twisted her head, screaming as another rock flew past her, sharp as an arrow and headed straight toward Chaia’s heart. In the space of a breath, Vilém stepped in front of her, the sharp rock sinking into his chest instead.

Malka’s sweaty palms slipped on the railing, fingers straining.

Commotion below her. Sévren above her.

This couldn’t be how it ended. Not after all she had been through.

Was she truly powerful enough to command Kefesh without tracing the words? Malka had taken the life the Maharal had given Nimrah with the etching of her nail. She had commanded vines and stone, had erupted a flame from nothing but the trace of her fingers in tallow.

Malka closed her eyes, letting her belief in herself and her magic flood her body. She thought of Hadar, imagined she was beside her, guiding her hand. It gave her strength, this memory of her sister.

Malka opened her eyes. She let go, falling only an inch before the vines she had commanded sprouted from the wall and wrapped around her hands, pulling her back onto the balcony, in front of the clock.

“No!” Sévren yelled.

He screamed as he charged toward her with his fists, but Malka jumped aside.

Sévren couldn’t stop in time. His weight pushed him forward as he tripped toward the clock, his body breaking through its face and shattering the glass which covered the gears.

He screamed as the gears consumed him, metal crushing his skin piece by piece.

He tried to move but couldn’t free himself from the too-quick pace of the gears, which kept turning despite the obstacle of Sévren’s body as they buried him further and further within its inner workings.

The gears rustled and clanked together as they ate Sévren’s skin and bones, until his screams grew silent, and the clock swallowed him whole.