The storm had dulled to a steady drizzle by nightfall. The air inside the hut was heavy with smoke and the faint tang of boiled herbs. Ezra had drifted into a shallow sleep, her breathing light and even, the pale scar across her eyes barely visible in the flicker of the dying fire.
Eliakim waited until Caleb and Gideon were outside tending the perimeter before moving. He rose from his stool, silent as a shadow, and crossed the room to where Malachi was crouched, repacking his worn satchel with medical tools and strips of linen.
"Walk with me," Eliakim said quietly. It wasn't a request.
Malachi looked up, studied him for a moment, and then followed him out into the rain-dark woods. The sound of water rushing nearby filled the silence between them as they moved just far enough from the hut to be sure they wouldn't be overheard.
Eliakim stopped beneath the gnarled roots of an old tree, his back to the hut, and spoke without turning around."That scar… wasn't from the battle before the river."
Malachi didn't answer immediately. Instead, he adjusted the strap of his satchel and let the quiet stretch until it almost broke. "No," he said finally, voice low. "It wasn't."
Eliakim turned now, eyes narrowed. "Then say it. You've been holding the truth since the moment you took those bandages off. Why?"
Malachi's expression was unreadable, the kind priests wear when delivering bad news. "Because truth without timing is cruelty. And she… has enough to carry."
Eliakim stepped closer, the faint red in his eyes catching the torchlight. "You've been measuring me since the day I woke up. Testing me. But this—" he jabbed a finger toward the hut "—this isn't about timing. It's about control."
For a moment, Malachi almost smiled. "You think we're playing the same game, Eliakim. But you're only seeing half the board."
The rain dripped from the trees above, landing in sharp ticks on the leaves.
Finally, Malachi's gaze shifted toward the dark ribbon of river beyond the treeline. "That current you woke up from… it's not just water. It runs deep into the wildlands, through a gorge where the storm feeds the old things."
Eliakim said nothing, waiting.
Malachi's voice grew quieter, like the words themselves might stir something listening. "When the storms come, their bodies change. The spikes on their backs grow long and hard — like a crown of thorns, each as strong as steel. They ride the flood. Anything caught in the current with them…" He trailed off, his hand flexing once at his side. "Ezra was already unconscious from mana depletion. She never saw the one that passed beneath her. One spine… through the eye."
Eliakim's jaw tightened, the image landing like a blade. "That's how we woke up half-dead. That's why she—"
"Yes," Malachi cut in softly. "That's why."
The priest turned then, already walking back toward the hut. "You wanted the truth. Now you have it. But remember—truth changes nothing… unless you survive long enough to use it."
Eliakim stayed beneath the tree, the rain dripping down his hair, watching the man disappear into the shadows. For the first time since waking, the bandages on his own arms felt heavier.