Chapter Twenty Four - Loyalty’s Edge

Malick’s POV

The corridors were quieter than usual, shadows pooling beneath the ancient stone arches like spilled ink. The air felt heavier, charged, as if the school itself were holding its breath. Every footstep Malick took echoed, steady but tense, across the cold stone floors. He had a sense of anticipation prickling along his spine, a whispering warning that the calm was deceptive.

He approached the Headmistress’s office, the door ajar, a sliver of warm lamplight cutting through the gloom. Inside, the Headmistress sat behind her desk, fingers laced, posture perfect, her eyes sharp and calculating as they met his.

“You wanted to see me,” she said, voice like silk stretched over steel, carrying a weight he could almost feel.

“It’s about Sierra,” he said immediately. No hesitation. No preamble.

Her gaze sharpened. “I suppose I shouldn’t tell you much… but she’s not ordinary. You’ve been caring for her these past months, yes? Watching her… guiding her, even?”

“Yes,” Malick admitted, though the word felt too small for the fear clawing at his chest. “But what is she becoming? What’s happening to her?”

The Headmistress’s fingers moved beneath the desk. She drew up a single feather—dark, but older than any crow-black he had ever seen. Brittle at the edges, faintly stained with dried blood, it pulsed with an ancient energy even through her hand.

“This,” she said softly, voice low, deliberate, “is a remnant of something far older than your Crows. Something tied to what Sierra carries inside her. And it’s strong… terrifyingly strong.”

A cold pulse ran down Malick’s spine. He’d felt it too—the tremor beneath her control, the subtle shift in the shadows, the way the world seemed to bend around her without her even realizing it. Then, as if breaking through some veil between thought and reality, he heard it:

A voice. Not spoken aloud, but clear, burning into his mind.

Malick…

He froze.

It was hers. Sierra’s. Not words, but raw emotion. Fear. Desperation. A plea, sharp and urgent, threading into the deepest part of him.

The realization hit him like a thunderclap. She was reaching out. And he was the only one listening.

Another pulse, sharper, a whisper of sound echoing down the corridor: a cracking, snapping vibration that made the air hum. The Headmistress’s voice faltered mid-sentence, but Malick was already moving.

No… please…

Inside his head. Sierra.

His pulse kicked into overdrive, his legs catching up only after his instincts had already propelled him forward. He ran through the corridors, following the thread of her voice weaving through his mind like smoke. Every turn felt older, thicker, more alive. The castle itself seemed to lean closer, breathing magic, scenting the fear that had marked her path.

He found her near the eastern practice hall. She was cornered against the wall, shadows coiling around her ankles, wrists, flickering over the marks on her skin that glowed faintly. She looked smaller than she was, consumed by a storm she hadn’t meant to summon.

And then he saw them. Not students, though their forms suggested it—faces obscured by illusion, postures too still, too deliberate. Shadows bent around them like obedient servants. Malick’s teeth clenched instinctively.

Sierra’s powers surged in response to their presence, darkness bucking and writhing, curling in ways she was struggling to contain. A single thought in his head: Malick…

That was all it took.

He moved before they even realized he’d arrived. His hand cut through the air in a spell that cracked like lightning, striking one figure back into the wall, the other staggering in disbelief, hissing in a tongue that chilled his blood: Wither-Tongue.

“You need to go,” he commanded, the words heavy, infused with the authority of someone who would not be denied. The illusions faltered. Metallic gleams flickered in their hands. Then, with a ripple, they vanished—distorted, broken, leaving nothing behind but echoes.

Silence fell, broken only by Sierra’s uneven breathing.

He turned to her. “You okay?”

Her eyes were wide, pupils blown, fixed on him as if he were the only real thing in the room.

“You heard me,” she whispered.

He stepped closer, wanting desperately to steady her, to hold her against the storm threatening to unravel her. “Yeah. I did. And next time… I’m coming faster.”

Something shifted in her gaze, the raw fear melting into fragile trust. But beneath that, a deeper pulse of magic thrummed. Her earlier thoughts—unsaid but sharp—echoed in his mind: They know what I am.

He brushed her hand with his, careful, grounding. She didn’t pull away. The shadows around her clung like stubborn vines, quivering but obedient, responding to his steady presence.

Got it! So we’ll keep it subtle—Malick knows the name Gloria said is dangerous and tied to Sierra, but he doesn’t know it’s her true identity yet. He senses something important has been revealed, and it spikes the tension, but the full truth hasn’t landed for him.

…Then, faintly, behind them, a voice.

“Well… Malick Kael,” Gloria purred from the archway, one shoulder pressed to the cold stone. “Didn’t know you made a habit of rescuing princesses.”

Malick stiffened. Her gaze wasn’t on him—it was on Sierra, watching her like a puzzle she had already solved.

Sierra’s head snapped toward her. “Shut up,” she hissed.

Gloria smirked, tilting her head deliberately. “Or should I say… Vaelira?”

The name landed like ice against Malick’s spine. His eyes widened, and Sierra froze. The shadows at her feet shivered and recoiled slightly, as if recognizing the name itself.

Malick glanced at her, confusion flaring. The word resonated with danger, with weight, but he didn’t know what it meant. Vaelira… Who—or what—is that?

Sierra’s jaw worked, but no sound came. And in his mind, faintly, came her own thought Not here…

He realized immediately that Gloria wasn’t just taunting—they had crossed a line, revealing something that mattered deeply to Sierra. But the truth of it—the significance, her true identity—remained opaque. All he knew was that the name had shaken her, and the shadows responded as if they knew something he didn’t.

Malick’s focus snapped back to Sierra. Her hands trembled slightly. The shadows at her feet twitched with suppressed energy. Whatever Vaelira was, it was dangerous—and now, for reasons he didn’t yet understand, it was tied to her.

He stepped closer, calm but alert, letting his presence anchor her. “Whatever this is,” he said quietly, “we’ll handle it.”

Sierra’s gaze flicked to him, fragile and raw. She didn’t respond, but the faintest nod betrayed a spark of trust.

Gloria’s smirk lingered in the hall, teasing, dangerous. Malick ignored it, eyes locked on Sierra, feeling the tension of something far larger than either of them, yet unresolved—something Gloria was clearly enjoying watching unfold.