He takes and he takes and I can feel myself unraveling and I’m so hungry, but the power he gives in return is worth the hunger. The ability to bypass every law of magic made by the gods is worth every piece of flesh he takes.
—Passage from the journal entry of an anonymous worshipper of Chyrnog
When Żywia’s thread snapped, a hundred thousand memories threatened to bury Malachiasz underneath their weight.
A scared young girl, crying, curled up next to him in the Salt Mines. Her name had been ripped from her, and when they went to give it back, it was gone. He had his name, but she couldn’t find hers.
“Am I going to be a monster forever?” she’d whispered.
“No,” he’d said while wrapping his shredded knee, trying to decide what wound to deal with after. “Choose your own name. Keep it for yourself and they can never take it away.”
The girl who had stayed with him when the order deemed him useless.
The only one he’d trusted when he realized he was going to take down Łucja. That he was going to take the mantle and change everything.
She hadn’t tried to convince him not to. She’d tilted her head, her black curls falling to one side as she regarded him with her dark blue eyes, before shrugging. “It’s your head she’ll take, not mine.”
The Vultures liked to tease—torment them—because in another life they could have been mistaken for siblings, and for Malachiasz, that’s what Żywia was.
What did Malachiasz have left?
Nothing and nothing and nothing.
He slammed into the wreckage, into the road where her body fell, knocking someone away. She was still breathing, shallow, pained, almost gone.
He knew the taste of power that seeped from the wound in her back and he was going to burn down this world until every relic that could do this to his Vultures was destroyed.
“Żyw,” he whispered, barely managing to pull himself back enough to talk. He cradled her head, stroking the bloody hair away from her face.
Her eyes opened at the sound of his voice, hazy and confused. “Malachiasz? Fuck. You’re a little late.”
He touched her cheek where something wet had splashed. Oh, it was him, he was crying. Everything he’d ever had was being taken, piece by piece.
Someone reached out across from him, and he lashed out. He barely had control, and no one was going to touch Żywia.
Undeterred, a small hand, the skin stained and claws curling from the nail beds, lightly touched the bloodstained spot on Żywia’s chest. Malachiasz frowned, looking up, and his world was shattered and remade in the same painful breath.
She was dead. He knew what he’d felt.
Her pale hair was stained to rust, and there was mud and more blood smeared across her face. He’d thought he would never see those warm brown eyes again. This couldn’t be happening. This was Chyrnog. All of this was Chyrnog and he would wake up and be in that damned forest. None of this was real.
Żywia’s breaths grew more labored. He couldn’t lose her, not her too.
“Malachiasz,” Nadya said. “I don’t know if you can hear me … if you’re you. Malachiasz, how do you kill a Vulture, truly?”
He couldn’t tell Nadya that. Nadya was a cleric. The enemy.
“Cut off their head,” he said, so quietly that she probably wouldn’t hear him.
He heard a thoughtful sound, felt magic in the small space between them. Like a fire in the heart of a blizzard. An ocean of roiling, churning, dark water. Narrowing down, focusing to a singular point, one open wound.
Żywia stopped breathing.
“Wait,” he said, strangled, gathering her in his arms. “Wait, Żyw—”
“Let her go.” Not aloud. Through the bond of magic created when she’d stolen his power. “I make no promises. But…”
He met Nadya’s gaze. He couldn’t find his way out of the chaos.
He was alive. He’d almost ripped out Nadya’s throat before and now the only friend Malachiasz had ever had for so long was probably gone and his eyes were dark and so much of him swirled with chaos. If he lashed out again, she didn’t know that she could fight it.
He’d killed her goddess.
But she’d killed a god, too.
And she didn’t know what the feeling in her chest was. She thought her heart was going to beat so fast it might explode. Nadya couldn’t tell if he recognized her. Recognized his name. If he had regressed so far back, there was no saving him.
Chyrnog had him. If she had any doubts, they were gone with a glance. Shivering chaos he could not control, entropic decay picking at his edges in the strangest way. It wasn’t there when you looked straight at him, but Nadya could see it out the corner of her eye. There was a strange, jittery twitch to him. Eyes and eyes and mouths at his skin. His lower lip was shredded from his too-sharp teeth.
He tensed, prepared to strike, and froze. A spear point rested at the base of her neck. They were surrounded. Ever so slowly, his eyes began to clear, until they were pale blue, and swimming with tears.
“Dozleyena, Malachiasz,” she whispered.
“Nadya.” There was so much in his voice that she did not understand. What had happened to him?
She had to fight to keep her hands still. She wanted to touch him. He was so close, and it had been so long, and she was so angry with him, but he was alive, and he was here and—
He was in Komyazalov.
They were going to die.
His gaze flicked over her shoulder, eyes narrowing.
“Well.” Nadya didn’t know that voice. An odd, puzzled expression flitted across Malachiasz’s face. “No one informed me our kovoishka was in the city.”
Nadya slowly leaned back on her heels, the spear point giving just enough to not impale her. Malachiasz reached toward her, fingers brushing her jaw. He winced as one of the spear points made its home in his flesh.
The spot he’d touched was on fire. She didn’t move. Katya stood nearby, disappointment on her face.
“I can’t protect you when it comes to him,” the tsarevna had warned her.
She hadn’t thought it would really be an issue, frankly.
“Someone knows what happened here.” The Matriarch. Magdalena. It had to be. “Though some of it is fairly obvious. Dozleyena, Vashny Koroshvik.”
Serefin was still here. Shit.
“But the rest, I’m not sure about.” Magdalena moved closer, tipping the blade of a sword under Malachiasz’s chin. “I have heard much of you, Chelvyanik Sterevyani.”
Nadya expected the curtain of the Black Vulture to fall over Malachiasz’s expression, but it remained broken and vulnerable.
Magdalena eyed him before turning her attention to Nadya. “And what are you, truly? The cleric to save us, they all said, but I knew the truth. Your mother burned like the witch she was, and my only regret was I didn’t kill her when we were children.”
Wait.
What?
Malachiasz inched his hand forward until it was covering hers, fingers twining into the spaces. She couldn’t—she didn’t—this wasn’t—
Nadya swallowed hard. For an instant, she regretted turning away from the power Cvjetko had left for her to take. She regretted clinging to her mortality. She didn’t want to hear about the mother she had never known.
She bowed her head, the spear point digging into her skin. Gods, wouldn’t it be easy. Take out the damned cleric and the Black Vulture in one fell swoop. Nadya held back the tears threatening to overtake her. She clutched Malachiasz’s hand.
Magdalena made a disgusted sound. She started to bark out an order, but someone cleared their throat.
“Mother Fedoseyeva, please,” Katya said, softer than normal. “Let me.” She stepped closer to Malachiasz, shoving her fingers into his hair and wrenching his head back, ignoring the spear point that dug into his spine and his whimper of pain. “I’ve been waiting for the chance to pry his teeth out myself.”
There was silence as the Matriarch deliberated. “Your father will return after hearing what has happened. You may keep them in your prisons until then.” She considered further. “Take those Tranavians and the king as well. I don’t want them causing any more trouble.”
Distantly, Nadya heard Serefin’s exasperated huff. She went cold as Malachiasz was torn away. Her eyes fluttered closed. Too much magic had swirled through her. He was alive and she was going to lose him again and there was nothing she could do.