Malachai listened intently, his expression softening as Lyric took charge of the hot chocolate preparations. Her enthusiasm was contagious, and he found himself grinning despite the heavy topics that loomed over their conversation. He couldn't help but appreciate her ability to brighten the mood, even while discussing such dire matters. Oh I like this one, Tibs he’d chuckle. With a teasing nod, he acknowledged her strict instructions, lifting his hands in a gesture of surrender.
Understood, my dear. I wouldn’t dare risk your disappointment. His voice held a lightness, but his gaze flicked back to Tiberius, serious and calculating.
As Tiberius unravelled more of his time in Orlais, Malachai’s brow furrowed. He carefully selected one of the tarts from the platter, but his appetite was half-hearted, his mind preoccupied. No use for unmagicked septuagenarians, he echoed, voice soft but edged with a bite. That’s a sentiment I can understand, albeit one that speaks to the darker side of familial ties. They don’t matter, and if they do turn up, do let me know. He flashed Lyric a grin soaked with sinister intent but then shook his head, his tone trailing off, the meaning was clear.
He met Tiberius's gaze directly, his tone sharpening. But, Tibby, you’re smarter than that. You had to know something wasn’t right before the princess tried to entrap you. Dancing with eligible bachelorettes only distracts so much. The corner of his mouth twitched into a smirk, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. You may have forgotten to make useful friends, but you still learned plenty.
He paused, letting the words hang in the air for a moment. The information about the court’s instability wasn't valuable, but Malachai was more interested in why Tiberius seemed reluctant to share it. It was almost as if he wanted to distance himself from the mess, keep Orlais’s problems at arm's length.
Sounds like their wards aren’t the only things cracking, he said, voice dropping to a murmur, his eyes thoughtful. You’re right, of course. The laypeople don’t understand the intricacies of what keeps them safe. They never do, not until it all comes crashing down around them. But that’s the thing about empires, isn’t it? They always look so solid until they don’t.
He reached for another tart, but this time he didn’t eat it, merely holding it between his fingers, studying it as if it could offer him answers. I’ll be honest, Tiberius. It’s not just about pleasing the ‘Lord Chancellor,’ he said, the title carrying a hint of irony. I’m trying to understand how far this rot goes. If Orlais is on the verge of imploding, the Imperium needs to be prepared, and we need to decide if we’re in a position to exploit that—or if it’s best to steer clear until the dust settles.
Turning his attention to Lyric, he nodded, acknowledging her input about the Free Marches. So, Antiva tried making moves, and the Free Marches are too fractured to resist. Prince Sebastian was the glue holding it all together, and without him, it's chaos. Not a surprise, but not exactly reassuring, either. His lips pressed into a thin line. It's a pattern, then. Orlais, the Marches… instability on all sides, and opportunists waiting to pounce.
He set the uneaten tart back on the platter, fingers drumming softly on the table as he thought. Do either of you think there's anyone left in the Marches with enough influence to rally them? Even a semblance of unity might be enough to slow the decay, but if there's no one... He trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid. They all knew what it meant: more instability, more chaos, and more opportunities for those willing to take advantage of it.
Malachai straightened, letting out a sigh that sounded more resigned than weary. It’s a lot to process, and I doubt it’ll be solved over hot chocolate. Decisions will need to be made though. I’m not expecting you to write out a full account of every last contact you made in Orlais, Tibby. He allowed himself a small, crooked smile. But if there are alliances we can leverage, or weaknesses we can exploit, I’d appreciate knowing sooner rather than later. Even if it means digging through some of those odious details you’d rather leave buried.
Tiberius’ attention shifted slowly from Malachai to Lyric, blinking slowly. She was trying to help, he realized. Something like a distraction – but of course, she did not know Valentius. He’d absorb whatever information she offered him like a sponge, store it away in the steel trap of his memory … And then circle back to the original point in short order with no reprieve.
Which was, more or less, exactly what happened. He’d swear he could see it falling into place like tumblers in a lock, in the way his friend eyed that tart. Why did his irritation at being attacked and interrogated in the middle of the night in his home have to mean there were secrets left?
There were, of course. But not any that had any bearing on the fate of nations.
“I didn’t play any stupid games with their nobles, Malachai. I know even less about Antiva than I know about the Marches.” Tiberius stood and rounded the table, leaning into Mal’s face as if he meant to kiss him. He brought his hand to the center of Mal’s chest, over his heart.
“You want to know what I did in Orlais? I studied. I mastered my demon – and others.” Mal’s demon was there, visible to Tiberius as a cluster of half-perceived violet light. At the moment, it was quiescent at the core of his friend’s body. Reaching for it was as simple as putting his hand to the cold side of the pillow.
Years ago, it was thought that you could do nothing to cure an Abomination – and as far as Tiberius knew, that was still true. But he had learned a number of tricks while locked in his rented room in Val Royeaux. Tiberius reached out with his will and a cold eruption of mana, levering Pride toward ascendence by force. It was not clean and elegant like a proper binding, rather more the reverse.
A shower of violent sparks rose contact burns upon his hand and forearm, filling the kitchen with the smell of burning hair and ozone.
Lyric’s eyes widened as a burst of violent sparks erupted between Tiberius and Malachai, the acrid scent of burning hair filling the air. For a split second, she just *stared*, processing—then she gasped, clasping her hands together.
Oh dear, that’s *definitely* not how you make hot chocolate.
She sniffed the air, nose wrinkling.
Unless we’ve decided on an exciting new *charcoal-infused* recipe? Very bold choice. Very…smoky.
Her usual brightness faltered, giving way to something softer, more searching. Lyric stepped forward, reaching carefully toward Tiberius's arm, eyes flicking to the burns creeping up his skin.
Tibbs… what *are* you doing?
There was no scolding in her voice, only quiet concern—because whatever this was, it *wasn't* just a parlour trick, and she wasn’t sure if he was entirely in control of it. Her gaze darted to Malachai, gauging his reaction, then back to Tiberius.
You know, if you wanted to hold hands, there are *far* less dramatic ways to go about it.
She smiled, small but sincere, hoping to break through the tension just enough to remind them both that she was here, that she *saw* them.
Malachai stood perfectly still as Tiberius leaned in, his expression unreadable. The weight of his friend’s hand against his chest was unexpected—too deliberate to be a bluff, too intimate to be mere theatrics. His mind worked quickly, filing away the details with quiet precision: the deliberate way Tiberius shifted toward him, the proximity that teetered on the edge of threat and familiarity. And beneath it all, Malachai caught the faint flicker of something else—concern. Not for himself. For her.
A useful observation. And not one he would forget.
But when the magic came, Malachai’s composure slipped. It was foreign—wrong—a cold, invasive pressure coiling through him. He knew the feel of his demon well, the ever-present weight of Pride settled deep within him like a coiled serpent. Yet this—this was different. Tiberius wasn’t simply probing—he was pulling.
His breath hitched sharply as the demon stirred, unwillingly dragged closer to the surface. For a heartbeat, his control wavered. Rage—hot and sudden—flared through him, burning away his usual calculated demeanor. His fist moved before he fully processed the decision.
The crack of bone echoed through the kitchen as Malachai punched Tiberius square across the face. The force snapped his friend’s head back, and blood immediately welled from his broken nose, staining his mouth and chin.
For a moment, everything was still—thick with tension.
Malachai blinked in confused anger, flexing his fingers as if testing the sharp ache spreading through his knuckles. The taste of that foreign magic still lingered, crawling under his skin like an itch he couldn’t scratch. His voice, when it came, was smooth—but colder than usual, every syllable honed to a knife’s edge.
…I’ll remind you that I had ordered this house not to be searched, he said quietly, brushing the smell of ozone from his senses. And that… you refrain from ever doing that again to me.
He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders back as if shedding the last of that strange, unwelcome sensation. Whatever Tiberius had learned in Orlais, it was more than cheap parlor tricks—but Malachai would press for those details later. For now, a boundary had been set.
Then, just as quickly as his anger had flared, it dissipated. His usual lightness slipped back into place like a favored coat. With a sudden inhale, his lips curled into a faintly amused smile as he turned his gaze to Lyric.
Quite the difference, my dear. Tevinter is all about the drama, he drawled, the warmth returning to his tone, as though nothing at all had happened. We’re terrible gossips in these parts.
His eyes—bright and too sharp—lingered on Lyric’s careful reach toward Tiberius, catching the flicker of worry that softened her teasing words. Another thing to file away. For all Tiberius’s bluster and control, there were still buttons to push.
And Malachai did love to push.
You do know how to liven up a kitchen, Tibby, he added lightly, lifting his brow. Though I dare say, this isn’t the kind of heat I was quite expecting. Always full of tricks you.
