Chapter 371: The Friendly Foe 3
Grayson planted himself in front of Mailah, his posture shifting into that of a man guarding a treasure against the entire world. He didn’t look back; he didn’t need to. His entire focus was a physical weight, fixed like a spear point on the figure that moved across the gray stone with a haunting, liquid grace.
The intruder wore robes that seemed woven from the very fabric of moving darkness, the fabric folding and refolding upon itself in a way that swallowed the strange, flickering violet light of this desolate landscape. It carried no weapon—no blade, no staff, no charm. It made no sound at all. Even its footsteps, which should have clicked against the barren plain, failed to stir the air or send a single vibration through the ground.
Mailah had faced terrors before—the cold, calculating cruelty of Valerius, the brute force of Theron, the haunting, hollow stare of the exiles. Yet, as she watched the shadow approach, a new and sharper dread settled into the pit of her stomach.
It was Grayson.
He was standing entirely still. He wasn’t charging. He wasn’t weaving the complex defensive patterns she had come to expect. He wasn’t even calculating the distance between his blade and the enemy’s throat. He was hesitating, his movements stilled by a sudden, profound confusion. That hesitation, so alien to the man she had married, frightened her more than the creature itself.
His fingers flexed, and the air around his hands began to scream. Blue, infernal fire bloomed over his skin, licking upward like hungry tongues before condensing into a blade forged from pure, living heat.
Behind them, the old woman merely sighed, a sound that carried the weariness of a thousand years. "So impatient."
"I warned you," Grayson said, his voice flat, devoid of its usual demonic resonance. "I will not repeat myself."
The shadow figure continued its advance. One step. Then another. Its movement was steady, unhurried, and possessed a rhythm that was almost—disturbingly—respectful.
Grayson’s jaw tightened, the muscles bunching under the tension. "You have crossed the wrong threshold."
The blue flames around his sword erupted, roaring with a sudden, violent intensity that forced Mailah to shield her face from the blistering heat. Then, Grayson moved. It wasn’t a sprint; it was a rupture in space. One heartbeat he was standing before her, the next he had traversed the distance, his blade carving a brilliant, lethal arc through the air.
It was a strike that should have cleft the very stone of the plain. Instead—nothing.
There was no clash of metal, no explosion of sparks, no resistance at all. The sword simply passed through empty, cool air as if the figure had never occupied the space to begin with. Grayson landed several yards away, his boots skidding across the gray rock as he spun around to face his opponent. His eyes were narrowed, tracking the movement. Mailah had seen him countered, deflected, and even parried, but she had never seen him ignored.
The figure didn’t even acknowledge the strike. It simply kept walking. Step. Step. Step.
Grayson attacked again, his frustration flaring into a tempest. A rain of blue fire burst from both hands, a torrent of hellfire that engulfed the entire stretch of ground. The inferno swallowed the figure completely, turning the air into a shimmering wall of heat. Mailah stumbled backward, her skin prickling as the temperature spiked.
Then, the flames vanished. Not extinguished by a gust or a ward—simply gone. The air looked exactly as it had before: untouched, clean, and unnervingly pristine. No scorch marks blackened the stone, and not a trace of smoke drifted in the air.
The figure emerged from the center of the vanished fire without so much as a wrinkle in its heavy, dark robes. For the first time since she had known him, Grayson looked uncertain. He wasn’t afraid—the Prince of the Seventh Circle didn’t know how to fear—but he was profoundly, dangerously unsettled.
Behind them, the old woman clicked her tongue. "Finished?"
Grayson didn’t answer. The muscles in his shoulders remained rigid, coiled like wire.
"I asked," the woman repeated, her voice mild and patient. "Are you finished proving that violence is the only language you’ve bothered to learn?"
He ignored her, his gaze locked onto the shadow. "What are you?"
The figure stopped several feet away, the silence stretching between them until the air felt heavy enough to choke on. Mailah barely dared to breathe, her fingers digging into the fabric of Grayson’s coat.
Then, to her complete astonishment, the figure slowly lowered itself onto one knee. It bowed its head, but not toward Grayson, and not toward the old woman. It bowed to her.
Mailah stared, her voice failing her. "...What?"
The figure’s voice followed, sounding unlike anything she had ever heard—a chorus of many voices speaking from an impossible distance, echoing in the marrow of her bones. "The Bride has arrived."
Grayson reacted instantly. His arm swept backward, a blur of motion that placed Mailah firmly behind the shield of his body. "No," he said, the word dropping like a slab of iron. "You do not address her."
The figure remained kneeling, motionless and profoundly respectful.
"There it is," the old woman chuckled, a soft, dry sound.
Grayson didn’t look away from the threat. "There is what?"
"The part where everyone insists on giving people titles before asking their names," the woman replied.
No one answered. Even the wind seemed to hesitate, holding its breath. Then, the kneeling figure slowly raised one empty hand. Mailah braced herself for another attack, but nothing happened. The figure simply opened its palm. Resting there was a tiny, pristine white flower. It was identical to the blossoms around their cottage—fresh, unblemished, and utterly, impossibly out of place in this cold wasteland.
The figure set the flower upon the stone and bowed its head once more. "I have fulfilled my instruction."
The words faded, and the dark robes collapsed inward, dissolving like ash caught in a sudden breeze. Within seconds, there was nothing left but the small, silent flower sitting on the barren gray stone.
Mailah blinked, her head spinning. "...That’s it?"
Grayson didn’t move. He stared at the flower, his hand still glowing with dying embers of flame, refusing to approach the offering. The old woman walked forward instead, bending with considerable effort to pick it up. She tucked it into her sleeve with the casual air of someone gardening in her own backyard.
"As expected," she murmured.
Mailah frowned, stepping out from behind Grayson. "What does that mean?"
"It means someone still remembers manners," the woman said.
Grayson finally spoke, his voice dangerously low. "Who sent it?"
The old woman offered a faint, cryptic smile. "I didn’t say."
"You know."
"I know many things."
"Answer me," he demanded, the air around him beginning to crackle with static.
She regarded him for a long moment, her milky eyes searching his face, before she unexpectedly asked, "Are you happier now?"
The question caught them both off guard, shattering the tension with its sheer domesticity. Grayson frowned, his brow furrowing in confusion. "...Irrelevant."
"It wasn’t," the woman countered.
"I asked who sent the messenger," Grayson snapped.
"And I asked whether you’ve finally noticed you’re smiling more."
Mailah glanced sideways at him. He had been. It wasn’t constant, but it was there—a softness in the set of his jaw, a lightness in his stride. She had started to expect it. She realized, with a jolt, that James had noticed it too, and Mrs. Baker had been smiling more often whenever Grayson wandered into the kitchen. The realization seemed to genuinely irritate him.
"My emotional condition is unrelated to this intrusion," he growled.
"No," the woman said, looking directly at Mailah. "It is entirely related."
Before either of them could respond, the gray landscape shivered. It wasn’t a violent motion; it was a gentle, unfolding shift, like someone turning the page of a heavy book. The horizon blurred into watercolor, the obsidian mountains dissolved into mist, and the sky folded inward like origami.
Mailah instinctively grabbed Grayson’s arm, and his hand immediately found hers—firm, steady, and grounding.
The stone beneath their feet softened, grain by grain, until it was weathered wooden floorboards. The smell of the salt-heavy air was replaced by the familiar scent of rain, rosemary, and the dying embers of their hearth. Mailah blinked, finding herself standing exactly where she had been before the battle. The teacups remained on the table, steam still curling into the air. The fire burned peacefully, and even the chair she had pushed aside sat exactly where she had left it.
Nothing appeared different, except for one thing: Grayson’s hand was empty.
The infernal blade had vanished. His eyes hardened instantly, scanning the room. "Where is it?"
The old woman wandered casually toward one of the cupboards lining the kitchen wall. She opened the third door without a moment’s hesitation, reached inside, and withdrew his sword as though she were merely retrieving an umbrella. She held it out to him, hilt-first.
"You dropped something," she said.
Grayson didn’t take it immediately. He simply stared at the weapon, then at her. "...How?"
"I opened the cupboard."
"That isn’t where it was."
"It is now," she replied simply.
Mailah looked from one to the other. The old woman’s expression remained completely serene—no triumph, no smugness, just a quiet, unshakeable certainty. Finally, Grayson accepted the weapon. The instant his fingers closed around the hilt, the blue fire surged back to life. He inspected the blade carefully, looking for a fracture, a curse, or a hidden enchantment. It was exactly as it had been before, which somehow seemed to unsettle him more than if it had been broken.
The old woman returned to her tea as if nothing had occurred. "You should hold onto that one."
Grayson watched her with narrowed eyes. "I could have sworn... you could have destroyed it."
"I could have," she agreed, taking a slow sip.
"But you didn’t."
"No."
Silence settled over the kitchen, thick and heavy. Mailah realized then that for all the impossible, reality-bending things the woman had done, she had never actually harmed them. Not once. Yet, every primal instinct Mailah possessed whispered a warning: Don’t trust her.
The feeling lingered even as the old woman calmly poured another cup of tea, acting as though she had invited two newlyweds over for an ordinary afternoon instead of effortlessly dismantling everything Grayson believed he understood about his own power. And somehow, that peaceful normalcy unsettled Mailah far more than the shadow and the void ever could.