Bare feet slap against the cold, red marble of darkened gothic halls. On either side, black walls close in like a trap.
Malachite’s breath heaves as he lunges through the crimson-lit corridor.
He wears only a thin white gown. Bandages wrap tightly around his right shoulder, protecting the wound where Donal shot him back at the palace.
A nurse is hot on his heels. Her long, blonde hair is tied into bouncy pigtails.
She wears a red medical mask, and her long black dress, accented with a blood-red hem, is cinched by a tight, red corset over a white apron.
It is the unmistakable uniform of the Red Converts' infirmary.
Her amber eyes are sharp, dark, and filled with terrifying determination.
The white heels of her long boots tap rapidly against the stone as she gains on him.
“You ain't done with your treatment, Malachite!” she roars with a thick, heavy Brooklyn accent.
Malachite lets out a panicked scream, pushing his legs to their limit.
He is a withered man, stricken with pure distress as he flees from the manic nurse. Sweat makes his black hair stringy, but he rushes forward faster than the wind.
“No more! I'm fine! Really! I just need to find Esma! It's been almost two weeks!”
“I was ordered to heal you by Lord Aire Fenwick himself! And by the gods, I’m gonna fulfill my purpose!” she growls.
Her arms are encased in long white gloves. She reaches into her apron pockets with a practiced flick of her wrists.
“You leave me no choice. I’m sedatin’ ya!”
With a violent swipe of her arm, a barrage of syringes streaks through the hall.
They fan out like a deadly metallic wing, targeting Malachite’s exposed back.
Fwoosh!
Malachite looks over his shoulder and gasps. It’s too late. The needles prick his skin instantly. His vision blurs. His legs turn to lead.
“AGH!”
He staggers, the world spinning in a nauseating whirl. His knees buckle, and he hits the floor.
The last thing he sees is her white apron.
It is printed with a red, gothic sigil: a triple-headed cross. Its central mast is flanked by two needle-thin stiletto points that pull toward the center.
It looks like a trinity of daggers. The star-like flares at every end seem ready to pierce the world itself, offering no solace or mercy.
“Now, let's get you back to the infirmary.”
Her voice echoes into the growing darkness. The rhythmic clack, clack, clack of her laced boots is the last thing he hears before the void takes him.
Time ceases to exist in the darkness. Eventually, a voice starts to bleed back into his consciousness.
“Malachite…”
“Maaalachite. Wake up. You have a guest.”
His eyes flutter open. He squints, trying to pull the world back into focus. High ceiling fixtures beam down, blinding him.
He flinches, turning his head away from the glare.
To his left, the nurse is a blur of black and white.
“He's awake!” she chirps.
Malachite shifts his gaze. Standing there is a tall, silver-haired gentleman.
He is adorned in a distinguished red and gold overcoat, the shoulders embellished with heavy gold tassels.
His skin is unnaturally pale, contrasting with piercing ruby eyes. There is no warmth in those eyes, only a layer of cold, glassy indifference.
Malachite squints, fighting the lingering dizziness of the drugs.
“What…? Who…?”
The nurse huffs, sounding annoyed.
“Come on, the drug should’ve worn off by now. You're just bein’ lazy!”
The man stares down at Malachite. He waits with an eerie, predatory calmness, his gloved hands tucked neatly behind his back.
“I heard you tried to run,” he says. His voice is smooth and precise. It is a voice that could turn a man’s blood to ice. “Care to explain why?”
The color drains from Malachite’s face. His eyes snap wide.
That voice is better than any smelling salt; it jerks him instantly out of his sedated haze. He looks up in a panic.
“LORD AIRE FENWICK!”
He flings himself into a seated position and immediately tries to bow. His forehead hits the bed’s side rail with a loud thud.
The nurse and Aire stare at him. There is a long, heavy silence.
Malachite keeps his head pressed against the cold rail, his face burning with embarrassment and horror.
I’m just digging my own grave deeper!
“Is he broken?” Aire asks, his voice perfectly deadpanned.
“Nah,” the nurse chuckles. “Just comin' off my special tranquilizers.” She shrugs happily and tilts her head toward Aire’s shoulder.
Malachite quickly straightens himself out, though his head throbs. “Sir, please understand!”
“I'm waiting.”
Malachite freezes. The pressure of Aire's deceptive calmness is suffocating. Finally, he sighs in defeat.
“I was not trying to run from you, Fenwick. There is a lot going on. Esma... she was manipulated by a fae. He turned her against me! He made her run back here saying I’ve betrayed everyone. That cretin even took on her form and shot me!”
Aire remains still. His gaze weighs down on Malachite like lead. For a moment, Malachite is certain he is a dead man.
Then, Aire breaks the silence. “That adds up.”
Malachite blinks, his confusion replacing his fear.
“Esma came to me,” Aire continues. “She told me how she met another convert she hadn't seen before. She claimed to have found out your plans to thwart the infiltration.”
Malachite shakes his head vigorously. “No! That's the manipulation!”
“Sounds like someone's just tryin’ to get out of trouble,” the nurse interrupts, folding her gloved arms.
Aire glances at her. It is a warning. “Celeste…”
She hushes instantly, looking down and twiddling her fingers.
“Sorry, My Lord,” she says softly. The harsh Brooklyn bark is gone, replaced by a timid whisper.
Aire looks back to the bed. “This fairy seems to be getting in the way. Shiraz mentioned how he annihilated Halley for giving away her birth name, Sabrina, to this fae instead of using her Convert name.” He tilts his head, pinching his chin in thought.
Malachite’s heart drops.
“H-Halley is… dead?”
“You may call the fallen by their birth names, since they no longer have ties with us,” Aire says coldly. “Yes. Sabrina is dead.”
Celeste shrugs. “She was a brat anyway. Always puttin’ other girls down to try and impress our lord! Good riddance!” She turns her head away and huffs.
Malachite’s mind reels. Aire’s indifference is like being stabbed by an icicle through the heart, cold and numbing.
“I'll let all of this go, if you can do this one thing.” Aire raises a single index finger.
“Yes! Anything to redeem myself! I am loyal to you, Sir!” Malachite scrambles to his knees, clutching the bed rail for support.
Aire’s ruby eyes are unblinking.
“Get me the Iron Veil Guild. The eldest dragon prince has been elevated to the second trial.”
Malachite’s breath hitches. He stared in disbelief.
He survived Hallow's Gallows?! But how?! And why does Lord Aire need the Iron Veil?
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