For a long time, Malachai said nothing.
The steady rhythm of the horse’s hooves filled the silence between them, the quiet hum of his magic still lacing through her veins as he held her against him. He had no certainty to offer her—no reports, no whispers from the Eyes that spoke of survivors. The Blight consumed without mercy, and Orlais… Orlais had already been teetering on the edge long before the first wave of darkness rolled in. By all accounts, she should not have made it out. The fact that she had was nothing short of a miracle.
But he wasn’t cruel enough to give her the truth. Not now. Not while she trembled in his arms, clinging to the sound of his heartbeat like it was the only thing keeping her from shattering.
It wasn’t a lie. Not really. There was always a chance—however slim—that someone else had survived. And if that fragile thread of hope was the only thing keeping her from breaking completely, he would give it to her without question.
The warmth of her body against him was too light, too fragile, and it pulled at something in him—a cold, unfamiliar ache he didn’t often let himself feel. He wanted her safe. Truly safe. And yet, the moment he’d found her, crumpled and exhausted in the road, a knot of rage had twisted itself tight in his chest. Not at her—but at everything and everyone that had failed her. His spies. The fools who let her slip through their grasp. The gods-damned Blight itself. There would be a reckoning of some sort. Soon.
But not tonight.
A smile would be a small victory.
Her fear of sleep hummed through the blood-link, sharp and raw despite her brave words. Malachai let his magic pulse deeper, weaving a thread of calm through her frayed nerves. His power curled warm and protective around the fragile edges of her mind, reinforcing the promise in his words.
His lips brushed against the crown of her head, a touch that was both reassuring and possessive. She was his to protect now. No one would touch her. No one would take her.
He urged the horse into a quicker pace, the beast’s muscles bunching beneath them as the scent of woodsmoke began to drift on the night air. He kept talking, if only to gauge how she was faring.
When the village lights finally flickered into view, Malachai wasted no time. He brought the horse to a halt just outside the waiting inn, and with the ease of a man who had done this many times before, he slid from the saddle—taking her with him. Adjusting his cloak to wrap her up, shielding her from prying eyes, Mal pressed her face into the now-damp fabric of his shirt. The heat of the ride clung to him, breath hot against the cooler night air and the door to the inn swung open silently. One of his Eyes stood waiting, their posture rigid with respect. No words passed between them; there was no need. Everything had already been carefully arranged.
Malachai crossed the threshold with her still tucked against his chest, sparing only a brief glance to confirm the final orders of the night before the door shut behind them with quiet finality.
The rooms were small but warm—lit by the flicker of firelight, the scent of fresh bread and herbs filling the air. A bath steamed gently in the corner, the water faintly shimmering with the magic Malik had undoubtedly woven into it.
He moved to the couch first, settling her down with a gentleness no one outside of this room would ever suspect him capable of.
His expression softened into a wicked, teasing smile as his eyes swept over her ruined robes.
@Ophelia Jolfy
The steady rhythm of the horse’s hooves filled the silence between them, the quiet hum of his magic still lacing through her veins as he held her against him. He had no certainty to offer her—no reports, no whispers from the Eyes that spoke of survivors. The Blight consumed without mercy, and Orlais… Orlais had already been teetering on the edge long before the first wave of darkness rolled in. By all accounts, she should not have made it out. The fact that she had was nothing short of a miracle.
But he wasn’t cruel enough to give her the truth. Not now. Not while she trembled in his arms, clinging to the sound of his heartbeat like it was the only thing keeping her from shattering.
Nothing is certain,he said finally, his voice low but steady.
Not every variable can be accounted for. The Blight isn’t reasonable, and escape—no matter how well planned—never goes smoothly in such chaos.He tightened his grip on her waist, his thumb brushing softly against her side.
If you made it out, others may have as well.
It wasn’t a lie. Not really. There was always a chance—however slim—that someone else had survived. And if that fragile thread of hope was the only thing keeping her from breaking completely, he would give it to her without question.
The warmth of her body against him was too light, too fragile, and it pulled at something in him—a cold, unfamiliar ache he didn’t often let himself feel. He wanted her safe. Truly safe. And yet, the moment he’d found her, crumpled and exhausted in the road, a knot of rage had twisted itself tight in his chest. Not at her—but at everything and everyone that had failed her. His spies. The fools who let her slip through their grasp. The gods-damned Blight itself. There would be a reckoning of some sort. Soon.
But not tonight.
Yes, well,he murmured, his tone shifting to something lighter, teasing,
I’m not Chancellor of the Psychic—otherwise, I’d have stolen you sooner.
A smile would be a small victory.
Her fear of sleep hummed through the blood-link, sharp and raw despite her brave words. Malachai let his magic pulse deeper, weaving a thread of calm through her frayed nerves. His power curled warm and protective around the fragile edges of her mind, reinforcing the promise in his words.
You will rest tonight,he assured her, pressing his influence just enough to anchor her further.
I’ll make sure of it. It’s not far now. Once we reach the village, I’ll have you better situated. I will tend to you—you’ve had enough adventure for a while. You’re grounded, Little Dove.
His lips brushed against the crown of her head, a touch that was both reassuring and possessive. She was his to protect now. No one would touch her. No one would take her.
He urged the horse into a quicker pace, the beast’s muscles bunching beneath them as the scent of woodsmoke began to drift on the night air. He kept talking, if only to gauge how she was faring.
When the village lights finally flickered into view, Malachai wasted no time. He brought the horse to a halt just outside the waiting inn, and with the ease of a man who had done this many times before, he slid from the saddle—taking her with him. Adjusting his cloak to wrap her up, shielding her from prying eyes, Mal pressed her face into the now-damp fabric of his shirt. The heat of the ride clung to him, breath hot against the cooler night air and the door to the inn swung open silently. One of his Eyes stood waiting, their posture rigid with respect. No words passed between them; there was no need. Everything had already been carefully arranged.
Malachai crossed the threshold with her still tucked against his chest, sparing only a brief glance to confirm the final orders of the night before the door shut behind them with quiet finality.
The rooms were small but warm—lit by the flicker of firelight, the scent of fresh bread and herbs filling the air. A bath steamed gently in the corner, the water faintly shimmering with the magic Malik had undoubtedly woven into it.
He moved to the couch first, settling her down with a gentleness no one outside of this room would ever suspect him capable of.
No one will disturb your rest,he promised, kneeling beside her as he brushed a stray lock of hair from her face.
Not while I’m here.
His expression softened into a wicked, teasing smile as his eyes swept over her ruined robes.
Let’s get you… well, not comfortable, but at least fed and smelling better.
@Ophelia Jolfy
02-27-2025, 03:01 PM
