It had been weeks since the snow monster incident at the academy.
Zaliyah had retreated into a fortress within a fortress. He had spent the last seven days practicing a level of silence that was more deafening than any shout, he was ignoring Xulthas whole existence.
The Commander, for his part, seemed to have finally learned the value of distance. Respecting the icy boundary Zaliyah had drawn, Xulthas stayed out of sight, haunting the training grounds or the strategy rooms.
But even though his presence was gone, his wealth certainly was not. Since the day of the storm, Xulthas had been sending a relentless parade of peace offerings. Every morning, silver trays arrived at Zaliyah's door, carried by trembling servants. They bore unimaginable gifts, rare elfen grimoires that could not be easily found in the demon realm, jewelry carved from Onyx-bone, ornaments that glistened in the dark and ancient scrolls that cost more than some small baronies.
Zaliyah's response was always the same. On a good day, he simply pointed at the door, signaling the servants to take the tray back. On a bad day, the days when his head throbbed and the memory of the carriage argument burned in his mind, he would look at the priceless treasures with utter loathing.
"Burn them," he would command, his voice devoid of emotion. "Burn the silks. Melt the gold. Put the ashes in a jar and send them back to the Commander's study. Tell him I find the soot more pleasing than his company."
The tension trickled down to the youngest member of the household. Zaliyah had issued a stern, non-negotiable warning to Sylaris: she was to stay away from "Xulthas."
The child, being a creature of chaos and curiosity, had tried to revolt. She had pouted, stomped her boots, and even tried to sneak toward the Commander's wing in search of more "magic tricks," but in the end, her dad was her sun and her moon.
Seeing the raw, quiet pain in Zaliyah's eyes was the only thing that could truly tether her. She adhered to his wishes, though she did so with a constant, grumbling heavy-heartedness.
Today, the academy was on holiday.
The Great Winter Festival was approaching, and the halls of the school were closed. Usually, this would mean Sylaris would be running wild in the courtyard, but Zaliyah had her held "hostage" in his bedchambers.
Zaliyah sat on the velvet chaise, the late morning sun hitting his silver hair, making him look like a statue of carved ice. On the floor before him, Sylaris was hunched over a low table, her small face twisted in a mask of intense concentration.
She was practicing her calligraphy, a task she viewed as a form of old people torture.
"The strokes are too heavy, Sylaris," Zaliyah remarked, his eyes not leaving the book in his lap. "A noble's handwriting should flow like water, not look like a beast walked across the parchment with muddy paws."
Sylaris sat up, She puffed out her chest, her white eyelashes fluttering with feigned innocence. "I am a warrior, Dada. Warriors don't write. They use swords to make their marks."
"And yet," Zaliyah replied, turning a page, "this warrior will find herself without a single honeyed cake for tea if the letters continues to look like a crushed worm. If you make one more error, the tray stays in the kitchen."
Sylaris let out a loud, dramatic puff of air, her cheeks inflating. "That is emotional abuse," she muttered under her breath, though she dipped her quill into the inkwell again.
Zaliyah knew her games. He watched out of the corner of his eye as she intentionally dragged the quill, creating a massive, jagged blotch in the center of a perfectly good sentence. She looked up at him, her blue eyes wide, waiting for the reaction.
"I am aware you're doing it on purpose, Sylaris," Zaliyah said, his voice dropping into a warning tone. "If you keep this up, you won't sleep in my bedchambers tonight. You'll be sent to the nursery wing with the maids."
"But Dad—"
"No buts, Sylaris. Focus."
Seeing that her father was truly unmoved, Sylaris decided on a different tactic. She didn't cry. Instead, she simply flopped forward, her face landing directly on the wet parchment, her arms sprawling out like a ragdoll. She went limp, pretending to be dead.
Zaliyah rolled his eyes at the dramatic antics. " Get up."
Silence. The only sound was the crackle of the hearth.
"Sylaris, whenever you decide to wake up from the afterlife, we will continue this lesson until you are perfect. We can stay here until the festival begins in three days."
Sylaris's eye twitched, her giggles threatening to burst out from under her, but she remained "dead."
The deadlock was broken by the sound of the doors swinging open. The rich, scent of honeyed cakes and milk drifted into the room like a divine cloud. Sylaris's nose wiggled. Her eyes snapped open, and she resurrected herself with the speed of a lightning bolt.
Iruna stepped into the room, a silver tray balanced expertly in her hands.
Sylaris let out a scream of pure joy, her "weak" legs suddenly functioning at full capacity. She sprinted across the room and collided with Iruna's knees, hugging her legs with the strength of a small mountain beast.
"Whoa! Careful, little warrior!" Iruna laughed, stumbling back as the tray tilted dangerously. The honey cakes slid to the edge, nearly plummeting to the rug, but Iruna steadied herself just in time.
"Carry me! Carry me, Auntie Iruna!" Sylaris wailed, her voice full of fake exhaustion. "I've worked so hard I can't walk anymore! Dada trapped me in his room like a slave! I've been sitting for so long my legs have turned into stone!" She wobbled her legs dramatically, trying to prove they had indeed lost all muscle function.
Iruna chuckled, setting the tray down on a side table and hoisting the fat child into her arms. "You have had a very difficult life, haven't you?"
Zaliyah looked up from his chaise, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips. "You spoil her too much, Iruna. Between you and Harun I don't know who's worse, she is becoming rotten to the core. She thinks she can negotiate her way out of every responsibility."
Iruna giggled, adjusting the child on her hip. "She's just a curious little child, Your Highness. A little indulgence won't hurt."
Sylaris, sensing her victory, looked over Iruna's shoulder at her father.
She stuck her tongue out and gave him a smug, mocking look, certain she was safe in the arms of her protector.
Zaliyah's eyes narrowed playfully. He didn't move a muscle, but he reached out with his mind, tapping into the celestial core that had been dormant since the storm. With a subtle flick of his will, two silk pillows from the bed suddenly lifted into the air. They zipped across the room with guided precision, slapping Sylaris right in her chubby face.
"Oof!" The impact wasn't hard, but it was enough to knock her fur hat sideways over her eyes.
Iruna burst into laughter as the pillows fell to the floor.
Sylaris, meanwhile, was mid-bite, her mouth stuffed with a honey cake she had managed to snatch. She tried to yell a protest, but all that came out was a muffled, "Mmmm-ppph!" as the crumbs rained down her chin.
Miles away In the Capital the heat was becoming unbearable.
The air was thick with the scent of jasmine.
Inside the royal chambers of the Empress, the atmosphere was even more stifling.
Malachi was dressed in nothing but his outer silk robes and loose trousers, his broadchest bared to the humid air. He sat on a long ivory chaise, looking like a bored predator.
Kizari was draped across him like a golden serpent. She wore only her flowy skirts, her upper body was exposed, her skin glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. Her gold jewelry, necklaces of rubies and rings that covered nearly every finger clattered softly as she moved. Her soft breasts were pressed against Malachi's legs, her head resting on his thighs. Two servants stood to their left and right, moving massive feather fans in a rhythmic, hypnotic motion to keep the Empress cool.
Malachi's hand moved lazily, grabbing a handful of Kizari's long, ink-black hair. He watched the strands slip through his fingers like dark sand.
"It has gotten so long," he remarked, "Why haven't you cut it?"
"The royal hairstylist is on leave," Kizari murmured, her eyes closed.
"I asked why haven't you cut it, not who was on leave, Kizari," Malachi replied, his grip on her hair tightening just enough to be felt.
Kizari giggled, "I just can't let these unworthy wrenches touch my hair, Stick to your books and your war-maps, darling. This is none of your concern."
"You're right," Malachi replied, staring at the Walls.
"I keep thinking about something," Kizari added, her voice turning playful.
"We are not getting any more male sex slaves, Kizari," Malachi interrupted, . "You've tortured the last three into madness. The dungeons are full enough."
Kizari laughed, "Well, no. Not a slave. I was thinking... it would be very interesting if our little 'White Lotus' celebrated the Great Winter Festival with his husband."
The name hit the room like a cold draft. Malachi's posture shifted instantly. His hand, which had been stroking her hair, suddenly clamped down into a fist. He grabbed a handful of her tresses and forcefully yanked her head back, pushing her off his body and onto the floor.
"I SAID WE ARE NOT GETTING ANY MORE SLAVES!" Malachi yelled, his voice echoing off the ceilings.
The maids fanned faster, their hands shivering, their heads bowed so low they could see nothing but the floor.
They knew the King's temper was a lightning strike.
Kizari, however, was far from embarrassed. As she tumbled to the floor, her breasts brushing the warm floor, her cheeks were turning a bright red . A look of genuine, twisted pleasure crossed her face. She slowly sat up, her eyes bright with a manic light.
She crawled back toward Malachi, reaching out to grab his cold palms and pressing them against her own cheeks. She rubbed her face affectionately against his hand, like a dog seeking a stroke from a master who just kicked it.
"But Zaliyah is more noble than a slave, darling," she whispered, her voice honeyed and manipulative. "He is royalty. He is your husband. He is our little lotus."
"He is a slave," Malachi replied, his eyes narrowing.
Kizari smiled, "Yes, yes, darling. He is indeed a slave. But I want him. He must have learned his lesson by now in those frozen wastelands. Even if he hasn't, I am a great tutor. I will teach him over and over again until he fully understands who he belongs to."
She began to press wet kisses onto Malachi's knuckles, her voice rising into a desperate plea. "Darling... please give me Zaliyah. I want to see him. I miss him... he's been gone for so long, and the North must be making him so lonely..."
Malachi sighed in deep frustration. He looked down at the woman at his feet the only person in the three realms who could match his cruelty, yet the only one he couldn't simply discard. He ruffled a hand through his dark wavy hair, his mind drifting to the silver-haired man he had broken and exiled to the northwest years ago.
"I would give it a thought," Malachi finally muttered.
The moment the words left his lips, a terrifying, wide grin spread across Kizari's face. She didn't wait. She lunged upward, grabbing Malachi's hair to tilt his head down. Standing on her tiptoes, she wrapped her arms around his head and pulled him into a deep, aggressive and possessive kiss .
In the Northwest, the air was clean and cold.
For a few hours, the world felt safe. Zaliyah, Iruna, and Sylaris spent the afternoon playing in the snow outside the castle walls. Harun stood guard a few paces away, his hand on his sword, his eyes scanning the ridgeline, but even he allowed himself a small smile as he watched the chaos.
They did the usual winter things: they threw snowballs, most of which Sylaris missed, and they built a snowman. Sylaris was adamant that the snowman had to be "skinny."
"He needs to be a warrior, Dada! Warriors aren't round like balls!" she insisted, poking the snow with a stick. Zaliyah and Iruna tried their best, but making a skinny snowman out of powdery frost was a physical impossibility.
The result was a lumpy, leaning tower of ice that Sylaris eventually decided was "close enough."
As the night took over the sky, the group retreated into the warmth of the castle. The fires were roaring, and the scent of pine needles filled the rooms.
Sylaris was changed into her nightgown, topped with a thick fur coat to keep her from freezing .
Zaliyah was dressed in his usual light silk undergarments.
Sylaris sat on a small wooden stool in front of the bronze mirror, her reflection bright and clear. Behind her, Zaliyah sat on a chair, gently brushing out the tangles in her silver hair. Behind him, Iruna stood, performing the same task for Zaliyah, her brush moving through his long, white tresses.
It was a beautiful domestic imagery.
But as Sylaris looked deep into the reflection, her blue eyes caught something she hadn't seen before. For the first time , Zaliyah hadn't covered his neck with the usual high collars or thick linens. He felt safe here, in the privacy of his room.
Sylaris pointed a chubby finger toward the mirror. "What's that, Dada?"
Zaliyah looked around, confused. "What? The brush?"
"What's wrong, little warrior?" Iruna asked from behind.
Sylaris turned around on the stool, pointing her finger directly at Zaliyah's throat. "That. The white silvery lines."
The room fell into a suffocating silence.
Zaliyah's hand froze mid-stroke. He slowly reached up, his slender fingers caressing the scars on his neck the permanent, horrific marks that remained from the night Malachi had ripped his throat open with his bare claws.
The scars were a map of a murder that hadn't quite finished.
Zaliyah faked a small, brittle smile that didn't reach his eyes. "It is just a birthmark, Sylaris. Nothing more."
Sylaris's eyes lit up with wonder. "A birthmark? It looks like a necklace! I want one, Dada. Can I have a birthmark like yours?"
Zaliyah remained speechless. His throat felt as if it were closing up again, the phantom pain of the claws returnining to haunt him. His eyes grew red, the heat of unshed tears burning behind his lids. He couldn't find the words to tell her that this "birthmark" was the evidence of his survival.
Iruna's voice was a mere whisper from behind him, full of a deep, aching pain. "Your Highness..."
Zaliyah's smile broke for a second, then hardened. "It's okay," he said "Now sit still, Sylaris. Stop talking."
"But I want to know if I'll grow one when I'm big—"
"I SAID STOP TALKING!" Zaliyah yelled. The sound was too loud for the small room.
Sylaris flinched. She looked at her father, her bottom lip trembling. She didn't understand why the "necklace" made him so angry. With a grumble and a pout, she pushed Zaliyah's hand away, jumped off the stool, and ran out of the room, her fur coat trailing behind her.
"SYLARIS! Come back here!" Zaliyah shouted, but she was already gone.
Iruna gave Zaliyah one long, pleading look, a look that said forgive her, she doesn't know before turning to run after the little girl.
Zaliyah was left alone in the silence. He slowly set the hairbrush down on the vanity. His hands were shaking uncontrollably. He looked into the mirror, staring at the white silvery atrophic scar's on his throat. His eyes were bloodshot, the tears finally spilling over and tracking down his pale cheeks.
With a trembling hand , he grabbed a roll of white linen from the table. He began to wrap them around his neck, winding them tighter and tighter, hideously concealing the truth once more until the "birthmark" was buried beneath the cloth.