Malachi's hands were steady as he unwound the last of the linen from Ezra's head.
"Keep your eyes closed," he said, his tone even — almost gentle. "You may feel some sting from the air."
Eliakim watched from across the room, his posture tightening. Gideon stood near the wall, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. Caleb leaned forward, sensing something in Malachi's careful pace.
The final strip came away, and for a moment, the only sound was the soft hiss of the fire.
A thin, pale scar stretched in a clean horizontal line across Ezra's closed eyelids — faintly ridged, the mark of a blade or magical burn. None of them had seen it before. It wasn't just a wound — it was precise.
Gideon's jaw flexed, but he said nothing. Caleb blinked once, too sharply. Eliakim's fists tightened at his sides.
Malachi glanced up, meeting Eliakim's eyes for the briefest second — and in that instant, Eliakim knew he'd already examined the scar long before anyone else had.
"Alright," Malachi said, voice calm, as though nothing had changed. "When you're ready, open them slowly."
Ezra's lashes fluttered — but she kept her expression neutral, unaware of the way every gaze in the room was fixed on her.
The others didn't speak of the scar. Not yet.
---
The rain had not stopped since dawn.
Outside, the forest steamed with the weight of it, each droplet pattering on the hut's roof like a heartbeat too fast to rest. Inside, the air was warm but tense, the scent of boiled roots mixing with damp earth.
Ezra sat propped against a pile of furs, her head turned slightly toward the door. Her eyes were open now, but they saw nothing. Her gaze was fixed on the middle distance — steady, unblinking.
She had smiled when Malachi unwound the last of her bandages earlier, as though trying to reassure the others. But that smile had faltered the instant she realized nothing had changed.
No one spoke of the pale horizontal scar that stretched across her eyelids. No one spoke of how clean and deliberate it looked.
Caleb busied himself with oiling a bowstring — a meaningless task now that his quiver was nearly empty. Gideon leaned against the far wall, sharpening a dagger with long, even strokes, his eyes locked on Malachi.
Eliakim sat on a stool near the fire, arms resting on his knees, watching Ezra without seeming to. She moved as though nothing had changed — reaching for a cup of water at exactly the right moment Caleb placed it nearby, nodding when Gideon's boots scuffed against the floor. But she didn't look at any of them.
Malachi stirred the pot over the fire with the slow, practiced rhythm of someone used to long silences. The faintest hint of a smile touched his lips — not warm, but satisfied.
"Your recovery is… admirable," he said, voice quiet but carrying.
Ezra tilted her head toward him, not quite meeting his eyes. "I had good care."
Gideon's knife stopped mid-stroke. Caleb's hand paused over the bowstring.
Malachi's gaze drifted across the group, his eyes unreadable. "Some wounds," he said, "are not meant to heal the way we think they should."
The fire popped.
Eliakim's grip on his knees tightened. He didn't like the way Malachi was watching her — not with curiosity, but with recognition.
The hut felt smaller than it had a moment ago. The storm outside deepened, the wind rattling the shutters.
No one said the words aloud — but every one of them knew:The scar meant something.And Malachi knew what.