​Aire’s gaze dropped, his fingers rubbing together with a slow, meticulous rhythm. 

“While the trial proceeds as a distraction, the Iron Veil Guild will be my hounds.”

​“Hounds?” Malachite asked.

​“We got ourselves a snake. A real blast from the past,” Celeste rumbled, her voice a thick Brooklyn rasp as she clung to Aire’s arm.

​Aire’s expression remained a wall of ice. 

“His name is Mossiah. He was an original member of the Pentacle Circle. He is known as The Inverted Triangle.”

​Malachite shook his head, the names spinning. 

“What is the Pentacle Circle? And what’s an ‘Inverted Triangle’?”

​Celeste clapped her hands, a sharp, playful sound. 

“Oooh! Put me in, coach!” She shot a look at Aire, hunting for a green light. 

He closed his eyes and let out a weary sigh.

​“The Inverted Triangle is the symbol for water,” she began, leaning in close enough for Malachite to smell her perfume. “The Pentacle Circle is made up of lesser fae who are wizards—”

​“Witches,” Aire corrected sharply. "Witches are born, wizards are chosen. They are witches."

​“Anyway,” Celeste continued, her tone rolling into a casual drawl. “There’s five of ‘em. The earthly elements: Water, Earth, Air, Fire, and, non-earthly, the fifth: Spirit. Or Aether. Don't matter. That magic only kicks in after you kick the bucket. See, the Spirit witch was supposed to be a conduit of the God Plane, the Ninth Realm.”

​“The job of the others,” Aire cut in, his voice cutting through the air like a blade, “was to raise him and grant a peaceful end to that conduit. A ritual of release. But they failed a millennium ago. The Fifth died in a state of pure rage. Instead of a gate to God, he became a portal to the Eternal Night's Eighth Realm, forever stuck in transition.”

​Malachite’s blood ran cold. 

“The Death Realm?! It has a ruler now?! Is he Planetary?!”

​“No one knows, and that's what makes Mossiah's crime of living on worse. The protective circle around the Spirit witch's star fell. The pentacle around his soul inverted, becoming a pentagram. His Spirit magic was corrupted into Spirit Hex magic, a curse that endagers the soul rather than blesses it.” 

Aire leaned forward. 

“Mossiah thought he could hide in my shadow. The trial is the perfect smoke screen; it will keep his eyes on the public while the Iron Veil erases him. His existence is a stain. By law, he must die for creating a conduit of Hell.”

​“But Esma—”

​“Was punished,” Aire interrupted. He tapped the ruby pendant on his chest. “You all wonder why you haven't had your conversion ceremony, yet you guys pull stunts like this. You people don’t even use your amulets for something as simple as discernment. You all mock the Eternal Flame with your ignorance.”

​Malachite looked away at his pendant on the dresser beside him. It's true, it was a tool he had treated like a trinket.

​“I won’t reveal the full plan to you, Malachite. Bring me the Iron Veil while the trial occupies the crowd. If you fail...” Aire’s shadow seemed to lengthen, looming over the bed. 

“I will ensure your meeting with Shiraz is brief.”

​The threat was formal, dark, and absolute. Malachite nodded quickly, desperate for the door. 

“Yes, Sir. I’ll get them.”

​Suddenly, Aire reached out. He laid a hand on Malachite’s head. Malachite froze. 

It wasn't the heavy grip of a captor; it was a gentle, almost fatherly touch. The paralyzing fear seemed to melt away, replaced by a strange, sudden clarity.

​“You did a fine job, regardless,” Aire said softly. “You captured the Dragon Prince, and you also snared a Star Ranger who happens to be an Angel Number.”

​Malachite gasped. 

An Angel Number?

​Images flashed behind his eyes with jarring intensity. He remembered Cinco dropping his guns and the two teens standing by Cinco’s side, Khor and Zorn. 

What kind of kids would casually travel beside an angel like that?

The realization hit him like a shock to his bloodstream.

Those weren't just kids.

"Star Curses," he whispered to himself.

​I was played like a total fool.

​He gritted his teeth, resolving to keep that humiliating thought buried deep. 

If Aire knew he'd been outmaneuvered by teenagers, the punishment would be far worse than a lecture.

​Aire pulled his hand away and turned, his steps light and rhythmic as he headed for the door.

“You have until the end of the trial.”

​“Hey! Where’s my praise?” Celeste huffed, scurrying after him. “I’m the one who dragged him back after he tried to bolt!”

​Outside in the red-lit gothic corridor, Aire leaned against the black wall. Celeste was beaming, leaning into the head pat she finally received.

​Aire’s expression, however, remained blank. 

He looked at his palm, the one that had touched Malachite, as if he could still see the flickering memories of the Angel Number and the two Star Curses.

​“I was played like a total fool,” Aire murmured.

​He repeated the words with Malachite’s exact cadence, a hollow imitation of the man's internal shame. 

He looked down the hall, his eyes narrowing as he cataloged the two new faces he’d harvested from Malachite's mind.

​“Interesting,” he whispered to the empty air.