Three more days passed.
Ezra's recovery crawled forward. She still lay wrapped in linen, but there was a new sharpness to the air around her. On the morning of the third day, she inhaled, paused, and whispered to no one in particular,"…I can feel it again."
The others looked up.
"Mana," she clarified. "Just a trace. Like the first breath before a storm."
It wasn't enough to draw from, not yet, but the mere presence was a sign she was clawing her way back from the emptiness that had nearly killed her. Caleb smiled faintly. Gideon only grunted.
Eliakim was less concerned with Ezra's words than with the boy sitting across the fire.
Malachi had been quiet since their last exchange, tending wounds, boiling herbs, arranging the hut with a kind of ritual neatness. But that morning, something shifted.
While Eliakim adjusted his coat, Malachi spoke without looking up from the small wooden bowl he was grinding."You don't flinch," he said.
Eliakim's hand paused mid-button. "What?"
"Most people with deep wounds… they shy away when you touch near the scar. The body remembers pain even when it's gone. You don't. Your body treats it as if it never happened."
Eliakim forced a smirk. "Maybe I've got a good memory filter."
Malachi's lips twitched — not quite a smile."Or maybe," he said, tone soft but deliberate, "you've been built to survive more than once."
Their eyes met over the fire.
For a moment, the room felt smaller. Not because of what was said, but because of what was not said.
Eliakim leaned back slowly, letting his smirk fade. "You watch people too closely for a healer."
"I watch people too closely," Malachi replied evenly, "because I've learned that the most dangerous ones are usually the ones who don't want to be seen."
It was nothing explicit. No accusation. But it was a move — deliberate, testing.
---
That afternoon, when the others were outside, Malachi set a pot of water to boil. His movements were casual, but his eyes kept flicking to Eliakim, who was cleaning his worn out dagger by the window.
Without warning, Malachi tipped the boiling water toward the floor, letting it splash dangerously close to Eliakim's boots.
Eliakim didn't jump. His body moved in a blur — heel pivot, chair scrape, hand on the knife — ready to strike in less than a heartbeat.
Only then did he notice the pot had been nearly empty. Just steam. Just a performance.
Malachi smiled faintly. "Reflexes confirm the theory."
Eliakim's jaw tightened. "Test me again, and I'll confirm something else."
Malachi didn't answer. But his expression said he'd learned enough for now.
---
Ezra, still lying in the corner, had kept quiet during the exchange — but she had felt it. The spike of killing intent, sharp as a blade in the air. Her mana sense was still weak, but that surge had been impossible to miss.
Malachi's presence didn't feel like a healer's. It pulsed with something colder, heavier, like a shadow pretending to wear light.
She decided not to say anything yet. Not until she was sure.
That evening, Malachi knelt beside her."It's time to check your eyes," he said.
Ezra hesitated. "I… I don't think—"
"Trust me." His voice was even, but his hands were already at the bandages. Slowly, carefully, he unwrapped the layers. The cool air touched her skin.
The last strip fell away.
Ezra blinked.
Nothing.
Only darkness.
Her breath caught, but before she could speak, Malachi's face remained unreadable — neither pity nor surprise.
They realized in that instant that he already knew.
The wind rattled the hut's walls, and outside, the forest whispered.