The hall fell silent once more, save for the distant, muffled voices and the soft scrape of a door opening somewhere further down.
The room revealed itself to be a laundry chamber. Though ‘chamber’ seemed a generous term for what was essentially a glorified closet where House Malachi’s finery came to shed its wine stains and ballroom dust. Baskets of linens towered like pale, fabric mountains, while various articles of noble attire hung from wooden racks, their rich embroidery and fine cuts somehow less impressive in this humble setting. A noble lady’s evening gown drooped sadly next to what appeared to be a footman’s spare breeches.
The space was narrow, forcing them to arrange themselves between the laundry baskets. She found herself wedged against a stack of freshly pressed tablecloths, their crisp corners jabbing into her back. Sydney stood rigid beside her, his new chain shirt quietly protesting against a rack of silk shirts. Riven had crammed himself behind an impressive collection of ceremonial cloaks, while Aelfric crouched behind a basket of what appeared to be the household’s collective undergarments.
Beyond their aromatic sanctuary, footsteps drew closer, the voices growing clearer, their words drifting through the heavy door.
“—told him three times already, but does he listen?”
“He never does. That’s why—”
Their chatter faded into nothingness as the unseen pair rounded the corner. They waited several moments, measuring time by Aelfric’s gently humming torch. When the silence had stretched long enough to feel safe, She eased toward the door. She soundlessly turned the latch but, as she pushed, the door emitted a rebellious squeak that seemed impossibly loud in the hushed corridor. She steadied her breath as she created just enough space to squint through the gap, her eyes scanning the hall where their unwitting visitors had vanished.
All was clear.
They emerged like moths from a particularly pungent chrysalis, none more eager than Aelfric. The young royal’s nose wrinkled as he attempted to brush away both the memory and the lingering essence of his intimate encounter with the household’s more personal attire.
The small desk sat at the far end of the hallway. They approached impetuously, determined to encounter no further delays. Caution gave way to purpose. Each step felt inevitable, the risks taken and obstacles overcome leading to this single moment.
The desk had to hold the key.
Sydney reached it first, his hand settling on the drawer. The air was heavy with expectation as he pulled.
Nothing.
The drawer didn’t move. Not so much as a wiggle.
“Locked,” Sydney hissed, incredulous. His hand lingered on the handle as though he intended to will it to open. “We need a key to get to the key?”
Riven stood behind the group, observing Sydney’s mounting frustration with the detached amusement of a man who had long since learned that the world rarely yielded its treasures easily.
He watched She tilt her head, her lips curving into that infuriating smile that would appear when the world decided to bend to her will. She slipped forward and from somewhere - her bandolier, her sleeve, her very skin, it seemed - she produced a slender metal pick. It caught the moonlight as she held it up, gleaming faintly like a shard of midnight spun into silver.
She crouched by the drawer. The lock was small, intricate, the sort that might have frustrated a lesser hand. Her fingers worked deftly, the pick slipping into the mechanism with barely a graze. Sydney crossed his arms and glanced toward the doorway, his gaze sharp and restless.
The moonlight shifted as a cloud passed, dimming the room for a breathless moment. Then came the faintest click - a sound so soft it might have been mistaken for a trick of the wind.
“There we are,” she said, her voice low and smooth. “No key required.”
The drawer slid open, silent as a sigh, and within lay a small brass key, its polished surface glimmering in the muted light. Sydney leaned forward, his breath hitching as his fingers closed around it.
The architecture left no doubt where the master bedroom lay. At the end of the east wing, not far from the plundered table, stood a pair of doors that commanded reverence. They towered above them, reaching nearly to the ceiling, their dark mahogany surface gleaming with generations of careful polish and pride. Intricate carvings adorned their faces - coiling vines that seemed to shift in the wavering torchlight, while the red adder of House Malachi wound its way through the design like a signature written in living wood.
The handles were fashioned into the shape of striking snakes, their plated bodies forming the grip while their heads curved outward, fangs eternally bared. Between them, the keyhole sat within the mouth of a larger serpent’s head that emerged from the wood itself, its eyes set with small garnets that caught the light like drops of frozen blood.
Even the frame spoke of power and precision - ornately carved columns flanked the doors, their capitals decorated with scenes from House Malachi’s storied history. The marble beneath the doors had been worn slightly by centuries of purposeful steps, each groove a testament to the generations of nobles who had crossed this threshold to sleep, scheme, and rule.
Sydney placed his hand on a scaled door handle. Shockingly, it turned - the door was open. Strange, Sydney thought. Whatever else could be said about Count Malachi, he must have treated his men well.
They would fight hard for him.
The door opened without a sound, as though reluctant to disturb its master’s slumber. The bedchamber breathed opulence and authority. Moonlight streamed through tall windows that opened onto a private balcony, where Count Malachi could stand and witness his domain. From atop the hill where the manor sat, Zaekermalanyx spread before it like a dark tapestry sewn with hundreds of flickering lights.
A massive, canopied bed dominated one wall, its heavy velvet drapes gathered in thick folds and secured with golden cords. The fabric bore the red adder of House Malachi, embroidered in repeating patterns that seemed to writhe in the torchlight. The bed stood like a throne for sleep, suggesting that even in rest, the Count maintained his regal bearing.
The fireplace commanded the opposite wall, its mantle carved from a single piece of black marble shot through with veins of deep red, a fire burning low within. Here, even the flames prostrated themselves.
Above it hung a portrait of a man who was likely the Count’s father - sharp features and proud bearing, though his hair had gone to gray.
Near the fireplace stood the cabinet they sought, its wood matching the darkness of the bedroom doors. Like everything else in the chamber, it bore the serpentine motif of House Malachi, their carved bodies coiled protectively around the lock.
She held her breath as she crept towards the cabinet, timing her footfalls with the exhalations of the sleeping count. In her hand she held the key, its brass skin glinting in the faint glow of the fireplace. Keeping her hand perfectly still, she eased the key into the hole, careful not to allow the slightest scrape. The key slid home, settled into place.
And refused to turn.
Something in her chest contracted, though her face remained perfectly composed. This ending wasn’t written in any story she knew, wasn’t part of how the world worked. She wormed the key with infinite patience, feeling for any hint of movement, any suggestion that the lock might cooperate. But the mechanism remained as unyielding as a noble’s pride.
The others waited at the doorway. Riven with a blank look on his face, Aelfric with a hint of worry, Sydney apprehensively dividing his attention between her efforts and the hallway beyond, as if trying to decide which direction disaster might come from first. Even Aelfric’s torch leaned into the chamber, as though agog in anticipation.
She exhaled sharply through her nose and worked the key back and forth with mounting frustration, each attempt more futile than the last. She cursed under her breath - barely a sound - finally removing the key and setting it on the small table with a faint clink, its rejection carrying more weight than the metal itself.
She reached for her pick. Tried and true, it emerged from its hiding place, dull in the darkness as though still half-asleep. She carefully slipped it into the lock as she had done countless times before. The pick wiggled within like a wand, seeking the magic that would make the cabinet submit.
Sydney shifted in the doorway, his new chain shirt clinking faintly as he glanced over his shoulder again. Aelfric clutched the torch tighter, his knuckles white as the flame wavered. Riven stood further back, his expression inscrutable.
The pick met resistance. She adjusted. It caught. She slowly applied more pressure.
Snap.
The sound was delicate, almost polite, but in the heavy silence, it might as well have been a thunderclap. She froze, staring down at the broken pick in her hand as if it had betrayed her. Aelfric’s sharp intake of breath filled the chamber as the broken fragment rattled free and fell inside the lock.
Thanks for reading, everybody! Next week will be the conclusion of the Malachi Manor arc, along with a battle scene that has received a lot of praise from readers.
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