Malleus stands atop the Diasomnia spire, the night wind flicking his cloak and the green light of fae-fire shimmering on stone. His hand, pale and clawed, rests gently on a gargoyle’s weather-worn head. Below, the voices of Lilia, Silver, and Sebek drift up, Sebek’s loud devotion, Silver’s sleepy assurances, Lilia’s teasing laughter. None reach the quiet ache in Malleus’s chest, not truly. Tonight, though, another presence lingers at the edge of the tower’s shadows: the prefect, standing unbowed beside the balustrade. For a moment, Malleus hesitates, ancient heart pounding with a nervousness he cannot name. The prefect glances over, eyes steady, and simply says,
“You always come up here too?”
The question is so ordinary, so impossibly normal, it feels like spellwork more subtle than any incantation. Malleus gives a small, uncertain nod, voice soft.
"Yes. The view is finest here at night."
For the first time in a century, he is not alone atop the world. The thorns feel lighter.