Page 16 of Lich's Bride

Something that might almost be fondness, or pride, or...

No. I shake my head, dismissing the thought before it can fully form.

And yet, as I slip out of the study, my familiar a warm weight on my shoulder, I can't quite shake the feeling that something has shifted between us. Some fundamental understanding, a recognition of kinship that goes deeper than mere magic.

I push the thought aside, my mind already racing ahead to the delights and discoveries that await me. A whole new world has opened up, a realm of possibility and wonder that I am eager to explore.

With my familiar by my side, I feel invincible, unstoppable. Like I could take on the entirety of the Faewild and emerge victorious.

The day passes in a whirl of laughter and marvels, as my familiar and I begin to learn the shape of our bond. I discover that it—she—is a creature of air and shadow, able to slip through the smallest cracks, to blend seamlessly into the darkness. Her eyes see through glamor and illusion, her ears hear whispers in the wind.

She is a trickster, a spy, a silent hunter in the night.

And she is mine, utterly and completely. As I am hers. Two halves of a whole, a matched set forged in the crucible of magic and destiny. Together, we will face whatever trials the future holds, whatever dangers the Faewild sees fit to throw our way.

As the sun sets, painting the sky in shades of fire and blood, I make my way back to my chambers, my familiar—whom I have named Whisper—draped around my neck like a living stole. I am exhausted, my mind spinning with the day's revelations, but beneath the weariness is a deep, abiding sense of rightness. Of coming home to myself, in a way I never knew I needed.

I slip into bed, Whisper curling up on the pillow beside me. As I drift off to sleep, my thoughts turn once more to Malachar. To the strange, unreadable expression on his face as he watched me with my familiar. The flicker of some buried longing, quickly hidden.

What secrets does he harbor, my dark mentor? What wounds, what scars, lurk beneath that icy exterior? And why do I find myself so desperately, foolishly curious to find out?

Sleep claims me before I can pursue the thought further, dragging me down into a dreamscape of shadows and whispers and eyes that glow like molten gold in the dark. But even in the depths of slumber, I can feel the weight of Malachar's gaze, the phantom brush of his presence against the edges of my mind.

Watching. Waiting. For what, I do not know. But as I surrender to the tide of unconsciousness, one thing is certain.

My life, my very existence, will never be the same. Malachar has changed me, down to the roots of my soul.

And I... I am not entirely sure I would have it any other way.

12

MALACHAR

The first pale fingers of dawn are just beginning to claw their way through the narrow arrow slits of my study when I set aside my quill, the parchment before me dense with the spidery script of an ancient incantation.

I have been at my work for hours, poring over crumbling tomes and half-forgotten scrolls, piecing together the fragments of a spell that could, if my translations are correct, allow me to manipulate the very fabric of time itself.

It is delicate work, requiring the utmost precision and focus. A single misplaced syllable, the slightest wavering of intent, could unleash forces capable of rending the very foundations of reality. But I am Malachar, scion of the Blanchmire, master of the dark arts.

I do not make mistakes.

With a gesture, I extinguish the sputtering candles, their light no longer necessary as the wan illumination of morning seeps into the room. I rise from my chair, my limbs stiff from long hours of immobility, and stretch, feeling the satisfying pop and crackle of ancient bones realigning.

I leave my study, my soft-soled boots making no sound on the worn flagstones as I descend the winding stair to the great hall below. The castle is still, silent save for the occasional groan and sigh of settling stone.

My minions know better than to disturb my work unbidden.

On a whim, I turn my steps towards the gardens, the sudden urge to feel the kiss of sunlight, to breathe air untainted by the musty aroma of old books and parchment. The heavy oak door at the end of the hall swings open at my approach, untouched by my hands.

I step out into the pale golden light of early morning. The gardens of the Blanchmire are a strange and wondrous place, a carefully cultivated riot of color and scent that stands in stark contrast to the brooding stone of the castle walls.

Here, under the watchful eye of my verdant minions, grow plants both fair and foul - nightshade and belladonna twining around trellises of shimmering crystal, black roses with petals sharp as knives, luminous fungi that pulse with a sickly inner glow.

I walk among the riotous growth, hands clasped behind my back, observing the small, scurrying figures of my servants as they go about their appointed tasks. Diminutive creatures, these gardeners of mine - the raised dead, golems, kobolds and boggarts, and things that have no name in the tongues of men. But they are diligent in their duties and faithful in their service.

I watch as they trim and prune, pluck weeds, and harvest fruits both succulent and deadly. A boggart, its mottled green skin slick with the morning dew, carefully milks the bulbous sacs of a Weeping Widow plant, collecting the viscous amber fluid in a crystal vial. The distilled tears of the Widow are a potent ingredient in certain necromantic rites, and not easily come by.

I nod my approval, making a mental note to reward the creature for its diligence.

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