“Enter,” the Cardinal’s voice echoed through the wood.
Twisting the knob in the center of the door, Cirian entered the space first, followed quickly by Malachi.
I hovered in the entrance.
The Cardinal, Sancha, sat behind her polished wooden desk, neat stacks of paper piled in the corners. She looked up from the parchment in front of her, a pen in her hand as she finished the stroke, then set it aside in the inkwell.
“Cirian,” she greeted her Acolyte. “I take it last night’s unsanctioned mission was a success?”
“Indeed,” Cirian agreed. “Though not in the ways we’d originally intended.”
Malachi stood stark still a few feet behind Cirian, his gaze trained forward on the Cardinal with a focused intensity that I thought he’d stare a hole straight through her.
The Cardinal’s gaze shifted to me for a moment, lingering in the doorway.
“Come in,” she said, waving me forward. “Whether or not your little outing carried my approval, I would have the full report.”
I took a step forward, the door closing on its own accord behind me.
“With Malachi’s help, we were able to gain access to one of the Converts’ gatherings,” Cirian started, moving to sink into one of the chairs opposite the Cardinal’s desk. “Much like the others, it was held in a neutral space underneath a café over on the mortal row?—”
In a blur of motion, Malachi leaped atop the desk, scattering papers to the floor. From within his garments, he produced a silver-handled blade the length of his forearm, and with the same frightening speed, he lunged, aiming directly for the Cardinal’s heart.
“Sancha!”
The Cardinal’s hands clapped around the weapon, her palms on either side of the blade as she held the tip at bay just before it found the flesh of her chest. Her chair skidded back from the force of the blow as Malachi landed on his feet, bearing all of his weight into the weapon, his lips curled back in a snarl.
Shock rooted me in place, but Cirian was out of his chair in a flash, skidding around the desk and loosing a bolt of cerulean lightning that struck Malachi in the side, propelling him across the room where he collided with the stone wall.
Sancha was on her feet in a blink, turning to face her assailant with cold focus. Malachi had barely recovered his footing when Sancha raised her now-bloodied hand, the air in the room suddenly growing heavy with the weight of her magic as she brought it to bear against the man.
With a crackle of energy, Malachi rose from the ground, his body pressed against the wall with such force that the air was squeezed from his lungs with a wheeze.
“Explain yourself,” the Cardinal ordered, her voice calm and commanding.
“I’ve been shown the truth,” Malachi managed through gritted teeth.
“What truth do you speak?”
Malachi struggled against the force of Sancha’s magic, veins bulging under the immense strain. “The lies of the light. The lies of the Church.”
“Let them be heard,” Sancha pressed.
“This world was never meant for the light. Darkness is the true form, and to darkness it must return.”
“And how will that be accomplished?” questioned the Cardinal, stepping closer to the man even as her outstretched hand dripped blood in a trail along the floor. Cracks formed in the stone wall behind Malachi from the pressure, but he remained silent.
“Speak,” Sancha ordered. “Now is your last opportunity to do so.”
Malachi groaned as a cracking sound filled the room, a trickle of blood pouring over his lips. But then something broken bubbled up from within him, and it took me a moment to realize he was laughing. Harsh, short huffs of air that wheezed through his gritted teeth.
“I failed, but there are more. More than you can imagine. You can’t stop it. Can’t outrun it. Darkness comes for us all. And with the embrace of the Umbral, we shall finally know peace.”
I jolted at the name, my limbs coaxed into motion. A second mention of the Umbral.
“Enough of this blasphemy,” said Sancha, her expression hardening.
“Wait!” I shouted, arms outstretched. But it was too late.
