10. Malachar

10

MALACHAR

I stand in the shadows of the Great Hall, watching as Kira moves through her daily rituals. She has adapted to life in Blanchmire with a swiftness that borders on uncanny, her initial fears and hesitations sloughing away like an ill-fitting skin.

Now she navigates the twisted corridors and eldritch chambers as if born to them. And yet, for all her growing ease in my domain, she remains utterly, fascinatingly alien. A creature of warmth and light, of pulsing blood and writhing emotion, trapped in the still cold heart of my necromantic sanctum.

I find myself endlessly intrigued by the small, mundane quirks of her existence, the little rituals and routines she clings to like talismans against the dark.

Take now, for instance. She sits at the great oaken table, a steaming mug cradled in her hands, savoring the aromatic brew with eyes half-lidded in pleasure. Such a simple thing, to derive enjoyment from flavored water steeped with crushed leaves.

And yet, watching her, I feel a strange twinge behind my breastbone, a fleeting pang of... something. Envy, perhaps? Curiosity? I can no longer recall the taste of tea, the satisfaction of thirst slaked. Such mortal pleasures have long since been a mystery to me.

She drains the mug and rises, carrying it to the great stone sink to rinse it with fastidious care. Another oddity, this preoccupation with cleanliness, with order. In the chaos-haunted realms beyond the manor's walls, such concerns are laughable.

The inhabitants of the greatwild revel in filth, in the fecund riot of decay and disorder. The wildfolk are little better, creatures of instinct and appetite, unburdened by higher thought. But Kira clings to her routines of tidiness and hygiene like a talisman, an invocation of the human world she left behind.

And yet, for all the alienness of her ways, I find myself increasingly drawn to her. She is a puzzle, a contradiction, a knot of complexities that begs to be unraveled. One moment she is all brave defiance, her chin set and her eyes flashing as she masters some new facet of the Art. The next, she is soft and vulnerable, her aura shimmering with a poignant mix of homesickness and yearning.

I watch her now as she tidies away the detritus of her breakfast, humming softly under her breath. A useless expenditure of energy, to make music for no ears but her own.

And yet, the sound tugs at something within me, a cobwebbed corner of my psyche long resigned to silence.

Abruptly, unwilling to continue this line of thought, I step from the shadows, announcing my presence with a soft clearing of my throat. Kira starts, the mug slipping from her fingers to shatter on the flagstones.

For a fleeting instant, her aura flares with raw panic, the primal terror of prey before predator. But then she masters herself, schooling her features into a mask of composure.

"Malachar," she greets me, dipping into a quick curtsy. "Forgive me, I didn't see you there."

"Evidently," I drawl, gesturing to the shards of crockery littering the floor. "I trust you have recovered from yesterday's exertions?"

She flushes, a tide of blood staining her cheeks. The failure of the familiar summoning clearly still rankles. "I... yes. I am ready to continue my studies."

"Good." I turn, beckoning for her to follow. "We have much to cover, and time grows short. The aetheric tides will soon be at their peak, and we must be ready to harness their power."

I lead her through the labyrinthine halls out into the Feywild to find her familiar, feeling her presence at my back like a living flame, warm and bright against the chill of my aura. We have fallen into a strange sort of rhythm, the black magician and his apprentice, the undead lord and his mortal ward. A part of me, the part that calcified over long centuries of solitude, resents this disruption to my austere existence.

But another part, a part I thought long atrophied, relishes her company, the novelty and challenge she represents.

As we walk, my thoughts drift unbidden to the previous night, to the scene in Kira's bed chamber. The memory of her huddled beneath the sheets, wracked with sobs of despair, sends a strange frisson through my desiccated form.

At that moment, watching her wrestle with her perceived inadequacies, I felt an unfamiliar stirring in the dusty catacomb of my heart. An urge to comfort, to console. To gather her trembling form into my arms and anchor her against the undertow of her own doubts.

Ridiculous. I am Lord of Blanchmire, an avatar of death and shadow.

I do not coddle mewling maidens or salve wounded egos.

And yet… the impulse remains, an itch beneath the husk of my skin.

We reach the lesser summoning circle, a circular clearing in the wood ringed with twisting columns carved to resemble coiling serpents. I gesture for Kira to take her place in the central sigil, a weaving of arcane geometry limned in silver fire. She does so, her movements graceful and precise, a far cry from the stumbling neophyte of a few short weeks ago.

"Begin your intonations," I instruct, moving to the edge of the circle. "Focus your will, your very essence, into the words. Offer up your secret self to the etheric currents and beseech them for an answer."

She nods, her eyes already sliding half-closed in concentration. She begins to chant, her voice low and melodic, the elder syllables rolling off her tongue with growing confidence.

I watch, silent and immobile as the statue I resemble, as the power builds around her, a swirling miasma of indigo light. Her aura flares and pulses, a coruscating corona of sorcerous energy. She is magnificent, a dark star ascending, and I feel a fierce swell of pride and possessiveness at the sight.

But then, just as the energies crest towards climax, she falters. Her brow furrows, her voice hitching on a vowel. The power gutters and fades, dissipating back into the null space between worlds. Kira sags, her shoulders slumping, her head bowing in defeat.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, her voice thick with unshed tears. "I'm trying, I swear I am. But every time I reach for that final surrender, that utter sublimation of self... something holds me back. Some weakness in me..."

"Enough."

The word comes out harsher than I intended, laced with an unfamiliar undercurrent of frustration. Kira flinches, her eyes flying to mine, wide and wounded in her ashen face.

I modulate my tone with an effort, gentling my voice as one would with a spooked horse. "You judge yourself too harshly, apprentice. The summoning of a familiar is no simple feat, even for an adept thrice your age and experience. That you have come so close, so quickly, is a testament to your innate gifts."

Kira blinks rapidly, taken aback by this uncharacteristic praise. I am loath to admit it, but something in her crestfallen mien, the dejected slump of her slight form, tugs at what could construe as my own heartstrings. The urge to offer comfort, to soothe and succor, rises anew, insistent and unignorable.

Almost before I register my own intent, I am moving, gliding across the sigil with preternatural grace to enfold her in my arms. She goes rigid at my touch, a startled gasp escaping her lips. For a single, eternal instant we stand thus, the sorcerer and his apprentice, locked in a macabre embrace at the heart of a circle of power.

Then, miracle of miracles, she melts against me. Her hands come up to fist in the ebon velvet of my robes, her face pressing into the hollow of my throat. I feel the pounding of her mortal heart, the searing heat of her breath on my chilled skin. It is... indescribable. Like cradling a living flame to my breast, feeling it thaw the long winter of my existence.

"You are more than the sum of your failures, Kira Noor," I rasp, my voice emerging rough and strange to my own ears. "You are a creature of infinite potential, a cipher of power and possibility. I chose you for a reason, plucked you from the chaff of humanity to stand at my side, to share in my dark work. Never doubt your worth, or my regard."

She shudders against me, a broken sound emerging from her throat that could be a sob or a laugh. "But the familiar..."

"Will come," I promise, my hand rising to stroke the silk of her hair, an unconscious gesture of comfort. "When you are ready, when you have divested yourself of the last of your mortal baggage, your soul-companion will emerge. This I swear, by the blood in my veins and the shadows in my soul."

She subsides, a deep, shaky breath gusting against my collar. We linger thus a moment longer, suspended in this strange new space of intimacy and understanding. Then, reluctantly, I set her back from me, holding her at arm's length.

"Enough revelry," I declare, my tone brisk and businesslike once more. "There is much still to be done, and the hour grows late. Return to your chambers, apprentice. Meditate on what has passed here, and marshal your energies to further your studies."

Kira nods, visibly pulling herself together. She sketches a quick bow, her eyes meeting mine in a wordless communication of gratitude and determination, then turns and pads in front of me. I watch walk, my gaze lingering on the sway of her hips, the play of witchlight over the raven sheen of her hair.

What is this mortal girl doing to me? What madness has she awakened in the arid hinterlands of my soul? I have walked this world for centuries untold, my heart a dead and withered thing, my existence a bleak exercise in the acquisition of power.

And yet, in a few short months, Kira Noor has kindled something within me, an ember of forgotten humanity long thought quenched. She makes me... feel. Emotions I can scarcely put names to, sensations that have no place in the cold, immutable edifice of my being.

The warm weight of the cinnamon-and-honey scent of her hair on my pillow. It should repulse me, this base cohabitation, this crude commingling of the living and the dead.

And yet... and yet.

I shake my head, dispelling these errant musings. Folly, to allow myself to be so distracted, so thrown off balance by a mere slip of a girl. I am Malachar, the Nightlord, dread scion of the eldritch dark. I have not endured the ages, mastered the black arts, to be undone by a pair of soulful eyes and a tousled mane of hair.

I must remember my purpose, my grand design. Kira is but a means to an end, a tool to be honed and wielded in the pursuit of my dark ascension. I cannot afford to...

To what? Cherish her? Desire her? Lo...

No. Such thoughts are madness, the first fissures in the edifice of my sanity. I must excise them, root and stem, before they blossom into true corruption. I must remember what I am, what I have always been.

Alone. Untouchable. Eternal.

And if some small, secret part of me aches at the thought? If some long-atrophied scrap of my soul yearns for the warmth and light of my mortal apprentice?

Well.

None need ever know. Not even her.

Especially not her.